I once wrote about a former gangster turned teacher here. We stayed in touch and chatted once in a while. The other day he told me that he was carjacked. I said, “Who jacks Soprano?” [That’s how I …
Kids. What an unending paradox. My son, 6, can never sit still. He constantly wants to challenge time. He wants to leave the room. Now. His legs jerk under tables. He paces around while we wait; standing on tiptoes …
What’s the weight of shame and embarrassment? Does it, say, weigh more than joy and pride? Does it weigh more than a new-born baby’s head? Or sirloin? Would you use shame and embarrassment as an anchor to prevent a …
This is not another Kibera story. Nobody needs another Kibera story. Not another bleeding-heart story of desperation and hopelessness in a wasteland that seems like faraway land, a mysterious place where the sun meets the land. Does anybody need …
Sometimes he looks at his wife lying on the other sofa, legs stretched out, a cup of tea at the foot of the sofa, watching a silly video from her phone with a frozen smile on her face, the …
I once dated this girl who smoked. Dunhills. She always smelled of cigarettes and perfume. She lived in a house that had a tree branch that peeked into the balcony. I found it distracting and I offered to cut …
