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THE POWER OF MAN

The wells ran dry. High in the sky, the sun raged on, signifying the passage of day with its angry glare that just got angrier as the day swelled. Over the towering Eucalyptus, the hawks glided, patiently waiting for a lapse in which to poach a meal from an unsuspecting predator. There was nothing assuring about the bleak sight beneath those bulked and stalwart trunks.  There were fallen trees, some wider than three boa constrictors standing fully stretched in a circle, tail to tail. Some were freshly fallen, a half chopped fig here, a de-branched pine over there, with some rotting away in a choke of fungi, their length and girth sprayed with whitish powdery moss and some brownish mushroom with white stems, making the usually brown or rosy trunks take a completely different hue. Beside them were their stumps, jagged in accordance to how well the chainsaw ripped through. A groggy squirrel jumped timidly onto one of those stumps, sniffed about before sinking into a nearby drained scrub
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Young-ish and Hopeless

The Precarious State of being a young person in Kenya today The embodiment of a hopeless generation A few weeks ago, in my usual Twitter scrolling habits, I came across a video that had been shared by media personality Anita Nderu, on her Twitter handle. In it, was a female host, out on the streets, asking a young man who looked no older than twenty-five, on what his plans were for the future (My recall for the actual question is hazy, but it was in that line I believe). The man pursed his lips, then after a while, shook his head and in one poignant statement, summed up the state of being a young person in Kenya. Again, his exact words desert me, for reasons I will outline presently, but I remember feeling this lump form in my throat and bring tears to my eyes as he expressly stated that he had no plans for the future. In him, I saw me, but at that point, I was comfortable. I had just started a new freelance writing job and was high on adrenaline, so while the man’s
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An Ode to My Hood

STAGE TWENTY THREE, THE WAIYAKI WAY At the Odeon, that’s where it starts. The KMO matatus calling for those heading there;                Kangemi juu ya daraja thate,               Kangemi juu ya daraja thate… Sit through the close to twenty minutes ride and arrive at the crowded fly-over that doubles up as a market place and a conveyor into the inner chambers of Kangemi. First thing you will notice is the red Kangemi Petrol Station. Essentially, it is a petrol station (of course, it says so) but in reality, it is a matatu stage in disguise. Just wait until night fall, when the whole station gets turned into a loading zone, flashing lights and lots of hooting everywhere. Stretching just beyond this petrol station is the famous Kangemi market. Now be careful how you walk on these grounds. Littered with fruit and vegetable peels, then covered with the water used in washing of these fruits and vegetables which are then displayed out there in the open and gather dust again so that you
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The Hunt: Bloodlines

Chapter 1 Falling           It was in the waning hours of the day that spelt an end to a battle that had raged on for days on end. He staggered up a small hill, as the sounds of brutalised men sounded behind his back, and looked over the Kingdom of Shigu Siuna. For days, he had led his men against the plucky little villagers of the Tamers in a fierce confrontation against those numerous, unskilled but incredibly spirited warriors and was losing his legions, and indeed himself, to their unyielding endurance. His men had been reduced to a handful of soldiers cowering behind rocks and and on trees, spears sticking out of them like a malicious growth, arrows tearing through their hearts like love gone sour. It was not a lost battle of course, but it looked no closer to victory, and with the spear burning a hole through his heart and throwing out blood in violent fits and jets, defeat needed not to be the death of those Tamers.           Now, as the sun set, Kemaa stood against a tree an
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Black Rose synopsis

In a childhood rife with adversity, I figured that things couldn't possibly get any worse.  Indeed, my teenage years, despite their unique offer of misfortune, were the best years of my life to this day , and I felt that they were a clairvoyance of what I was to expect from life.  Fast forward to university and life frowned upon me like I had taken away its toy. Caught between conflicting philosophies, disappointing realities, and unfulfilled, and indeed unfulfilling fantasies, I took a pause...or rather,  life forced me to take a pause and recalibrate. I would soon realise that, it was hard - very hard in fact, almost impossible tbh - to pursue one's dream, and that the only guarantee in life is death, because even with taxes, you can evade... Book cover design concept by Joy Alunga
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Strings of the Attached Heart

"I should have been more sympathetic to you. I should have stood by you. I have been by your side for a while now, I have learnt the history, seen the people and experienced the world through your eyes. It made me realise that, as a white person, I'm at home pretty much anywhere. While you have to justify your existence even in your own country. I will never know what it's like to walk in your shoes, but I promise, I will be more empathetic to you and every other black person. I will do my best to be there and to speak up. That's my biggest regret - that I was not empathetic to you at your most vulnerable. I'm sorry, Protus. " "Thank you for this." I said, taking her hands into mine and squeezing them gently, "I know it was hard for you to come to terms with that failure, but we learn, and grow. And I am glad and proud to have watched you grow." "Growing is the least I can do." She said with a nervous smile. "It's
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My Becoming

My Becoming I sit in my silent muse Wondering just what it would take To let go of memories of me and you Of what we were, and used to do I torture through the redolence shelves Like pushing against a firm mountain Swimming in an ocean without a shore Or getting caught in an unending storm If roses grow from memories, I have a vibrant orchid Of white and red, a bed of you and me The joy that you bring The talk of youth and being I then, pray, that time on my memory puts a blemish As you have on the good I still cherish That as I lay my head upon a battered pillow Find myself lost in a new sun-bathed meadow No more thoughts of you and me Just me, myself and my being My comings, my goings and my becoming .
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Poetic muse

My continued occupance of this same spot for years is a damning inditement to my desires for a better life. From a ferocious, violent want for a better life,  now I trundle along like a rudderless ship, my desire for more, now nothing but calm waters lapping gently on the shores. If it indeed gets better, well and good, if it doesn't, how sweet is death? I've seen them come and go, the good and bad times,  and the hopes and despair, and hope cloaked as despair, despair disguised as daunting deliriums How I wish I could turn back the clock, go back to being naïve and full of blind hope, with a keen eye for reality,  but still a bit obtuse But I guess I face reality, a reality too bleak to stare into, shining with rays of a thousand, five hundred suns, biting deeper than a burning pain from a knifing heartbreak, like the burning sensations from a broken bone... Or should I take some time off, a short break from life, from obligations, from work, from hobbies, from dreaming,
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