I’m fascinated by the stories of people who studied in India. It always sounded like they went to war and we didn’t. They are always so texturized with debauchery, with woes, hopes and deaths, and failures and triumphs. Such …
I remember my first bachelor hole; a bed-sit. A two-seater couch. Baby Meko. A “fridgerette” that didn’t go above my knees. A bed. A small Samsung TV set. A worn doormat. Outside the window, maize plants craned their necks …
The guy I’m looking for didn’t oil his elbows this morning. What kind of a man oils his elbows anyways? He sprayed some deo on, slapped some lotion on his face, slipped into jeans, canvas shoes and a t-shirt …
The soundtrack of my relationship with my father has always been silence. It filled every crack and cranny, sipped in and cemented our interaction like melted cheese. He was always there without being there. We saw him. Felt him. …
