Short stories

White Collar


I sleep with him. This man. Most days. I also eat with him, on occasion. He eats using his left hand while he writes notes and opens doors with his right. Ambidextrous. He’s a quiet man with a spongy

The Art of Giving a F*k


My class five teacher was called Weje. As the name might suggest she wasn’t really a teacher who smiled. You know the phrase, “to put fear of the Lord”? It was meant to be “to put the fear of …

An Old Conversation


When I get to City Market I don’t know where stall number one is. I linger at the entrance facing Muindi Mbingu street like a pickpocket. It smells of fresh roses and Maasai carvings, bibelot and curious, touristic paraphernalia. …

Would You Buy Your Past?


We now have bluetooth and microwaves we can control using our phones yet we continue to crane our necks looking back at the past. The allure of the past seems to seduce us, keeping us enticed. We listen to …

Purple Drank


Picture The Boy – no older than 20- rolling a blunt on a wooden coffee table. He’s in a bedsit in Roysambu; small windows, cheap curtains, wooden door. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, the official body armour for …