They shot Boniface Mwangi’s breast with a teargas canister. I can’t imagine anyone shooting my breast with anything, let alone a teargas canister. It must be mad painful. Anyway, he called me and said,
The van stopped at The Great Rift Valley Viewpoint along Nakuru-Nairobi highway. They bundled out to gape at the view and take selfies and update their social media feeds – planting the seeds of Likes and shares,
She’s got small shoulders. Small because they can’t carry the weight of the world yet. The weight she carries is her own weight. The weight of innocuous things like whether her best friend is loyal to only her or is loyal to the other girls.
Somewhere down a damp, patchy-grassed, walled corridor separating two blocks of houses in a South B estate, a man bangs on a metallic gate in the shadows cast by the early morning sun. It’s 7:25am,
It’s not you, it’s us. Apparently some of you are not receiving your alerts when we post. I’m getting
emails from people who ask, “Biko, was I removed from the mailing list? Is this romance over?”
In a small room with 3 way mirrors at Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, three bulky and unsmiling American immigration officials stood over Solomon Wangwe’s open suitcases. This was after they had pulled him off the queue and scanned his bags and shoes and jacket,