Like A Thief In The Night…


It’s highly unlikely you will live to see 90. In fact, you will be lucky to see 63. You will die from heart diseases. Or hypertension. Or diabetes. Or cancer. Or HIV/AIDS. At this rate it’s also possible you will die in your beloved Subaru. Crushed in there, like a can of soda, music still playing as you breath your last through you bloodied mouth. If you don’t die from any of the above mentioned, you will still die. So will I. And everybody else I know. You will die whether you have 50 or 45,000 followers on Twitter because, ultimately, death has the most followers. When your heart has stopped beating, your Facebook account will have droves of “friends” professing your high virtue on your wall. Folk will tag you on pictures you took together while you were a mortal.

Death’s certainty is as indiscriminate as it is absolute. You will die whether you take a latte at Art Café or a chai masala at Kwa Njuguna’s in Dagoretti. It doesn’t even matter that you can spell “croissant”. You will die. We imagine that when we live, we are stalked by the insecurities of modern living when all along we are stalked by the prince of Death. The dark knight, always waiting. Always glancing at his watch.

My grandpa has one foot in his grave. He’s 90. God has given him 20 more years over the 70yrs he has accorded us to live. But sometimes, at that age, life seems like a punishment, not a privilege.

Last weekend I went to shags to see him because he’s been asking, for ages, for us to go. He had three wives, grandpa. Two have since been reaped by death. He has been on the record for saying polygamy was one of the hardest – and most regretful- things in his life. He lives alone in his – now departed – first wife’s house. I – together with my small brother – got there at noon.

When we walk we find him slumped in this chair that looks older than anyone who goes to The Mingle. All around him the room frantically clings onto history. The chairs are old and well worn. Those very old chairs that had sisal stuffing and springs underneath them. They are dutifully covered with vitambaas. On the wall hang framed black and white photos. Also old. Photos from the 60’s and 70’s and early 80’s, when he was a strapping young man; good looking, bolstered with life, shaven studiously complete with a cut running across his hair. The essence of 60’s cool. There are pictures of him and his first wife, before the devil of polygamy asked him for dinner. There is a picture of the entire Kenyatta’s government; Tom Mboya grins back. There is an old saggy bookshelf with old yellowed books. The window is open, bringing in light and the sound of chicken rummaging outside. By his side coughs an old Phillips radio. A cat takes a nap on one of the chairs.

I can’t see a Bible anywhere, that’s because he’s half blind.

When we walk in he doesn’t show any indication that he has registered that entrance. He sits there, half asleep, half awake. My grandma announces us by shouting that we are home. He arouses slowly. He’s also half deaf. So she has to shout our names about 200 times.

“Jaduong, Biko gi Jim ose chopo!” [Biko and Jim are here].

“Ehhh?” he growls.

“Biko gi Jim osechopo!” She shouts louder.

“Ehh…ngawa?” [Who?]

“Biko gi Jim!” She’s now shouting an inch from his right ear. His good ear, apparently. Poor guy, I think. My kid bro, insensitively, finds this slightly amusing. So do I. Unfortunately.

“Biko?” He asks, like he has never heard of me. But he’s only tying to register the name in his dated 90-year-old CPU.

“Ehh, en gi Jim!” My grandma shouts, still haunched over his left ear.

“Ohhh, Biko gi Jim?” Bingo! The coin has finally dropped.

He smiles. Then without a word, he reaches for his cane by his side, painfully struggles to his feet then says “walem.” Then he prays; haunched over and leaning and clutching at this wooden cane so tightly the veins at the back of his scrawny hands pop out. But he casts a very defiant pose, like he is telling old age, “F***k you!” Although his body is a shell, his voice remains uncannily strong, deep and commanding and he uses these colourful analogies to praise God in that way that old folk in shags do in prayer. Prayer, in shags is a poetic narrative, where words are danced and twirled to give prayer this high-art narrative that even God has to take notice of no matter how distracted he might be with Syria. In shags a prayer is a serenade of words. It’s sculpture of words.

He’s always been taller than me, grandpa, but old age shrinks your bones. Now he’s shorter than my kid bro. It’s almost as if age is constantly pulling you back to the ground as your grow older. Back to soil. Back home.

After this crispy prayer he sits back down and shakes our hands. He hangs onto our hands for long, grinning wildly. I can feel his hand shake a bit. His eyes, now covered by white cataract, are wide and searching trying to focus on images. Old age cuts deep valleys into his face. He coughs once in a while, a long drawn cough that makes you feel like coughing too. He is thrilled we are home. He asks about the rest of my siblings who are on their way. He asks about “nyar Okuyu” (he seemed slightly chaffed that she hasn’t left me. So am I) and then asks about Tamms, who he calls “Tamsh.” He suffixes “h” on all his “s”, so it’s “Nyashaye”, not “Nyasaye”. It’s “sherisoushly” not, “seriously.” If he were living in Kile he would carry some Shiroc-Vodka to Blanketsh and Wine.


It’s the most laboured conversation, ours, because we take turns to talk to him, and you have to sit right next to him, to his left, and lean into his good ear and shout your ass out. It’s exhausting because no matter how hard you shout, he doesn’t get what you are saying in the first shout, so you have to say it twice or thrice. Sometimes he doesn’t get it at all, and it makes you sad. Sad for him, yes, but also sad for yourself because you know that’s your fate should you live as long as he has.

And he hears words differently, for instance he asks what I’m doing now and I tell him I write. Which in Luo is “ndiko.” But he doesn’t hear ndiko; he hears “ochiko,” which means “nine.” Sherisoushly? But you shout again, and again until you he finally gets it and you can’t help smiling with affection. But my smile is short lived because he asks what I write about and you can imagine how long an explanation that is, half of which is lost on re-shouts. When it’s my brother’s turn to take the hot seat, I happily wander out and go look at the graves in the shamba, and even from there I can hear my brother shouting, explaining to him why he isn’t married. I smile.

My grandpa doesn’t do anything whole day but sit, listen to his radio, eat a meal and nap. Day in, day out. He’s waiting for death. But sometimes death keeps you waiting for long because death is a politician. And the waiting is appalling because you sit and every function of your body degenerates into gross malfunction. Like an old car, all your parts fall off with time.

After Westgate, I have been thinking a lot about death and the process of dying. You must think about how those people died, and what thoughts they harboured when they knew they were dying. How they – with a gun in their faces – prayed and asked for God’s intervention and how that never came. You have to think about God and question him. You can question God, right? He won’t mind and smite you, will he?

Still, I don’t want to die scared. Or too old to chew. Or in my sleep either. Or, worse, in an electric chair. I don’t want to die drunk. Or while drinking. I don’t want it to painful or sad, or laughable, like dying while laughing at a joke and you choke on a steak. I certainly don’t want to die after my daughter.

But before then, before we all depart, we live life. We eat and drink and curse and Instagram and eat fruits and forget to watch the sunset. Someone once said “life does not cease to be funny when people die any more that it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” That person is dead.

But if there ever is something to smile about today, right this moment- 7th Oct 2013- is that it’s Toni Braxton’s birthday.

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  1. Hi Biko,

    Please let everybody learn to recite the shahada loud in the assembely today…it might make us all survive the next Westgate and live till 90..

    ‘ La ilaha illallah Muhammad Rasulullah’

    You just never know

    1. That is not the shahada and reciting the shahada will not save you from death. If your time is up, you cannot escape death.

    2. Although each one of us is personally different from the other person, by their habits, thinking and different tastes, we all have two things in common, first, we were all delivered from our mothers womb (birth) and second, each one of us shall taste death.

    3. That’s a lie. I wasn’t delivered from no womb. I escaped by the skin of my teeth. I didn’t even get a chance to put on some clothes. And I ain’t never dining with death. He chews with his mouth open. Friggin’ disgusting habit if you ask me!

  2. We all….die. At some point. Biko, wanna write on the walking dead? Those whose conscience died long ago, but they walk straight yet slumped over.

  3. …..death keeps you waiting, coz death is a politician…Wow…solemn yet gripping, makes me reminisce on my 86year old grandpa….awesom read Biko.

  4. “But he casts a very defiant pose, like he is telling old age, “F***k you!” My grandma died at 102. She had a stroke a month before her death and even when the doctors said no need for physio she defiantly did it and regained control of her right hand. Strong woman, defiant to the end.

  5. Biko,
    Thanks for the stories. Very hilarious. I use some in teaching Form 2 class- especially on “Descriptive writing.

  6. “Nyar Okuyu” lol. This read just reminded me of my old Granny, beautiful Old lady who can barely see now. but the stories…..

  7. Biko

    Umenichekesha aje.

    I had to narrate this tale to my mum. Coming from central, it is way funnier imitating Luo words out loud, twas hilarious. In another lifetime, I bet you would be a stand up comedian.

    In other news, did you say your kid bro ain’t married? If he has half a mind like yours, hook a girl up, with his approval of course.

    I mean hey, you can’t hurt a girl for trying-:).

    Beautiful piece as usual

  8. This reminds me of my great grandfather, he’s too old we just put him outside to get some sun, the sad part is when everyone gets caught in their busy lives that he ends up being rained on. It’s too painful that he doesn’t remember anything much but somehow he remembers his childhood, we had to explain to him who our grandma is when she died.

    …..sure death is a politician….

  9. As real as death is…I could not help the laughter, I had one of those shouting episode over the weekend, nice piece as always.

  10. I want to die in my sleep. If not that then let it be a quick painless death because as much as I am not afraid of death, I am afraid of pain. I laughed and I saw your grandfather. I saw your brother searching for words to explain his state. Now if only I was a little bit older and snatch your brother. Oh well, such is life.

  11. I want to die in my sleep. Or on a bench watching the sunset in Tuscany. Any death really as long as its painless and quick. I loved this piece and now im wishing I was old enough to marry your brother. Sigh.
    Ps: Just meet Toni already so we can live in peace.

  12. Timely post. I lost my gran(RIP) and my friend (RIP) this past week. On very opposite sides of the scale, an octogenarian and a young 20-something. And all week(end), morbid thoughts have been on my mind. Thanks Biko for this post. It lays out most of my thoughts. Cleansing in some sense.

  13. I think Toni derailed the post, was looking forward to more. You are hilarious and wonderful!

    I look forward to your articles. Pls keep “ndiko-ing”

    1. Biko, I think you should have teacher Christine have some lessons on your behalf! Have you read her stuff!

      Christine for deputy headmistress

  14. I loved this post big time.Death is the one thing that makes people equal,it does not matter if you toilet paper is dollar rolls,it doesnr really utakufa tu!

  15. LOVELY. Reminded me of shags, and the prayers bit… Oh yes haha. Sweet to listen and watch them pray kwanza in dholuo

  16. Certainly, You Love Toni,
    Sad since she got no clue,
    Sadder since she will die before she knows of your “undying” love…
    But even then, life will still go on, and so will death…

  17. This cuts deeply. Been thinking about mortality too, ever since Westgate.

    Btw, I thought we don’t censor Fuck you in high school?

  18. GrandPa; itiyo tich mane Narobi?
    Biko; andiko
    GrandPa; indiko ang’o?
    Biko; ?!?!!? Like sherioushly grandPa!!!

  19. Reminds me vividly of my dad. He died in 2008 at 89. He was still going strong save for the ravaging cancer of the bone marrow. How I miss him. Great piece.

  20. Poignant.
    I did stay with my granpa after school for a while and I feel like this is me narrating the story.
    I loved the old man. He died at the ripe old age of 93. He loved Mandela and radio – BBC, VOA, Deutsche Welle etc and could give you a lesson on global warming in crisp Kiswahili.

    Thanks Biko for helping me relive those memories.

  21. This is one of those very rare pieces that portray death truthfully; Morbid and real. It is very well writen, the kind that goes up on my wall of fame undefeated. My hat remains tipped to you Biko.

    Many thanks for being a relatable silver lining along this streets. Thank you for carving your influence on many a good hearts, albeit unknowingly. Granted we will all die, eventually. I can only hope I’ll be fortunate enough to meet you someday… and get to shake your hand. A hand that has somewhat been very instrumental in drafting lifelong chronicles of HOPE. I salute you…

  22. The thing with God’s books when a death happens, is that they still balance :).

    Some of the best advice about preparing for death that i know is in Psalm 90:12 – teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.

  23. Death. Our one common end.

    I could be no writer. No photographer. No politician. No great orator. No funny guy. Not a married. Not dating. Not buff. Not rich. Not successful….and not have more than 200 followers on twitter and instagram…but you know what….I’m going to die. And so are you! we are common.

    Moving Biko. Quite so very.

  24. “I don’t want to die drunk. Or while drinking. I don’t want it to painful or sad, or laughable” Those words have hit home …great piece

  25. I also smiled when my 45 year old uncle who stays in India was explaining to my grandfather why he is not married.

    Great article Biko.

  26. Now that we are talking about matters mortality, here is my take on the same. Death brings out the humanity in us; the hate, the love, the anger, the depression, the confusion, the hypocrisy, the shedding of copious amounts of tears (followed a month later by the neglect of the grave- which is why I’d rather be cremated and continue living in the minds of loved ones.) As a ‘witnesser’ to several funereal occasions, here is my story.

    Death Comes A Calling
    Father is dead. He died as he was being rushed to hospital. Kidney failure. He died on a Wednesday morning some minutes past nine. They will say he was a loving husband and father.

    She hides behind a veil of dignified mourning: black dressing, politely receiving visitors and their condolences, calling up relatives, and generally looking into everyone’s welfare. In most of these, she is helped out by a horde of women surrounding her. These are tenants, relatives, neighbours and Women’s Guild members. Some want to curry favours from her, others want it to be said that they were there she needed them most.
    Is she sad or indifferent? It is hard to discern. She has composed herself well, though, in moments of solitude, there is a far-away look in her eyes. Memories. The good, the bad and the ugly. How she met and married Father. Father’s philandering ways. The battering when Father used to be a drunkard. Promises kept and promises broken.
    She has prepared herself adequately. She has the services of a brilliant lawyer and his family acknowledge her as the official wife. A church wedding and a marriage certificate strengthens her case. The clincher: she has created rapport with mother- and sisters-in-law. If push comes to shove, she is set to inherit everything.

    First Son
    Abruptly finding himself as the head of the family, he is doing a commendable job. Recording minutes for the funeral committee; receiving and keeping monies contributed towards the hospital’s bill and the funeral; ensuring a steady supply of consumables for the mourners and being the family’s spokesperson.
    It is not strange that he has taken all this into his stride, for he was always being groomed. Being the firstborn, much was expected and much was demanded from him. He had to serve as a good example to the others. He was a school captain too.
    The first son is a friendly and likable fellow, very electable. He has a disposition for authority as well as accommodating dissenting viewpoints. One day, he is going to run for high office and maintain the status quo.
    The first son was close to Father; a closeness bordering on reverence. Father being the teacher, son being a respectful and obedient student. He was closer to Mother, still. In all fairness, though, he refused to take sides, playing quite a conciliatory role. He likes peace and order.

    Second Son
    He is the black sheep of the family. An anti-authority figure, he is full trouble. Always being suspended from school, truancy, a bit of drug abuse, briefly embracing a new religion- of the many shames the family had endured on his behalf, this was the worst. Followed in rank by him ditching civil engineering for a musical career.
    Is he sad at Father’s demise? Can’t tell. Today, he is gloomy, tomorrow- bright as a bird. He has always had bouts of depression; nobody understands him and all that. Normally, the depression peaks during the cold season.
    He has had great disagreements with both Father and Mother; with Father refusing to talk to him for days and once, disowning him. This was during the religion fiasco, though Father did recant afterwards. Meanwhile, Mother had come to accept him as he is, albeit grudgingly, for he had caused many a behind-her-back whispers at the Women’s Guild.
    He comes out as a strong personality. Holds strong convictions and actively voices the same, alienating people in the process. Among the family, he is the most travelled, courtesy of his music and other unexplainable pursuits. He has two children with three different women; which makes it kind of hard to explain. He is not married.

    First Daughter
    On her first job as an apprentice at a law firm. Much like the first son. Good at gossip, slander and other nefarious activities. Will go to great lengths to protect the family name. Mother’s confidant.

    Third Son
    He is back from Australia for the burial. Arrived just as the burial date neared. An opportunistic fellow, he does not like inconveniences of any kind- Father’s death being no exception. He was always playing Mother against Father and vice versa. One thing though, he learnt to hustle at a tender age. Being self-centred, he acts out emotions, for he lacks the same. He is flying out the day after the burial.

    Second Daughter
    She was Father’s darling and pet. She is still in denial that he really is gone. She has hardly touched anything for the past one week, instead, crying her heart out. Probably, she will need extensive counselling. Recently, she was telling him all about her new boyfriend.
    When he wanted a smoke, she was his favourite send to the shop. In the process, pampering herself like the princess she is with the change. New clothes, new shoes, new hairstyles, a trip to the Maasai Mara- he doted on her.
    Many thoughts run amok on her mind. Why Father? Why did you have to die too soon? She is mad at him. You could have waited until I was through with high school; through with college too. Until I was to wed and you walked me to the altar. Until you could have seen my beautiful grandchildren. Until you could have seen my handsome son who would look just like you and be named after you.
    She is mad at God too. Why did you have to take him so soon? Why could you not give him a few more years? Why did you not save him sooner so that he could stop drinking? Then, his kidneys would be ok and he would still be alive. I hate you God, I hate you! I hate you with a passion and I will never go to church again! As the last born, she will not be consoled.

    Newspaper Seller
    He professed to be saddened by Father’s death as he delivered the newspaper the morning after. Yet, he has not attended matanga -the funeral wake- on any of the days. Neither will he be attending the burial. He has made no contribution of whatever nature either. He has many other customers and no time to waste. Life goes on.

    Obituary Reader
    He is one of the many other customers served by the newspaper seller. He buys his daily through the car’s window as he rushes to the City Centre, to his workplace. He works there. Today, things are slow at the office and that is why he finds himself scanning the obituaries.
    Now, he is reading Father’s. He observes that Father’s kin are either working for prestigious organisations or schooling in prestigious institutions. Those that live abroad have both names listed in the obituary. Near the end of the obituary, he spots the family’s contacts, in case of any correspondence from folks who are acquainted with the dear departed. As he turns the page, a thought strikes him. That this might be important information to his wife who sells insurance.

    The Burial Programme
    The Senior Pastor is the one presiding at Father’s burial mass. He could have sent one of his two assistants, but no. Father roofed the church and was generous in his contributions towards other church activities and projects. He will surely be missed. He extolls on Father’s innumerable virtues- he needs the family’s continued support for his evangelical ministry.

    He is here to stand with the family at this trying time. Father was generous in supporting him by way of campaign funding. He also conveys the area’s MP condolences and contributions towards the funeral kitty. What he forgets to mention is the fact that the MP is rejoicing that his greatest rival has just dropped out of the next general elections.

    Family’s Reactions
    At the burial stage. Ash to ash and dust to dust. The third son is weeping uncontrollably; probably for show. The first daughter, laughing at a shared joke, abruptly cuts the mirth. She recalls it to be a sombre occasion and instantly adopts a suitable countenance. The second daughter is overcome with emotions- she was the one who gave her sister black looks and caused the change in countenance. Mercifully, she blacks out. Mother is sobbing on a friend’s bosom while the first and second sons closely monitor the proceedings. All, except the second daughter, throw handfuls of soil into the grave. Fare thee well, Father.

    Grandma is being helped all over the place. During the actual burial, she was fast asleep under an avocado tree. She had borne fourteen children. Now, only eight are surviving.
    The concubine, a member of the Women’s Guild, has wandering thoughts. She is wondering how she will clear school fees arrears for her child, settle next month’s rent, and so on. Perhaps, she should declare herself the second wife and contest for a share of her husband’s property. Thoughts quickly banished from her mind. She happens to be Mother’s best friend.
    The tenant is wondering how life will be. Father was a fair landlord, unlike his malicious wife. Perhaps, she should look for another house elsewhere.
    The other tenant, a young man, is elated. Now, since Mother is the one who will be collecting rent, he need not pay. They have a clandestine affair that has been going on for the last one year. Mother has needs too, you know.
    A debtor is rejoicing. No need to pay back. With the substantial amount he owed Father, he can put down a deposit for a second-hand pick-up truck. ‘Ask for Transport’ is a sign coming near you.
    A creditor is surly. Now, he is bankrupt. All his finances tied to that plot of land he was going to purchase from Father. He can’t ask the rest of the family for his money back, for Father was doing it behind their backs.

    He is enjoying himself watching the unfolding drama as he enjoys another of his many creations: sunshine. The mechanism he has put in place to ensure continuity and a perpetual systematic world and universe are going according to plans in his holy manual.

    They are talking about nature. How death is essential to avoid overpopulating the earth. They are attending a conference in a five star hotel and using pompous sounding jargon. Sci-speak. That is why they are being paid astronomical sitting allowances.

  27. very poignant piece. i dare say you are the next chinua achebe with your mastery of the written word.oh, and the wise sayings?just brilliant. nigerians say “proverbs are the palm wine with which words are swallowed”. you have inspired me to start writing prose since circa high school

  28. Lol clearly someone is not a fan of mingling heheeh!! —->> When we walk we find him slumped in this chair that looks older than anyone who goes to The Mingle

    Totally love this,but that’s what i say for all your pieces!!

  29. Thought to add this…As soon as you die your identity becomes a ‘body’ People use phrases like : Bring the body , take the body to the graveyard, lower the body into the grave, they don’t even call you by name…Live a life to impress the Creator not the creation,..Take chances,Spend money on the things you love, laugh till your stomach hurts, dance even if you are too bad at it…pose stupidly for photos, be child-like..MORAL death is not the greatest loss in life! Loss is when life dies in while you are still alive…unknown

  30. My grandma is over 90 and has ‘lost network’ and hardly recognizes anyone including my mother her only daughter, but she did recognize me and asked me to unhung a dress from a clothe line ‘so that she can see whether I have grown tall’. I am a staggering 4’7 pot bellied man. She is also waiting for death and this article has brought lots of foreboding thoughts.

  31. Great piece–It reminds me of my grandma who died at 102, she was before death behaving like a child and for her to hear anything, you would shout till the neighbors could hear you.

    Love your posts.

  32. I wish you could be writing thrice a week,you leave as orphans of literature but when you come back you appease us with a nice piece.I die to see your next fable.I salute you

  33. …Maybe @Anne should learn to spell ‘Sista’ before she can be ‘helped’ on how to write about her life. No? Is it just me? these things simply make me want to stick a carrot where the Sun doesn’t shine!!!

  34. Biko – Refreshing. Arresting and Witty
    Ondike gi rieko mathoth be mor ngeny e iye!
    Do not forget to extend an invite to attend msee’s going away party,donge?

  35. Happy belated birthday Toni Braxton! In serious news, I.dont want to die young, I haven’t given out my passwords for all my accounts to be closed, I havent given instructions on publication of my blog, I havent seen my husband and babies…. *sigh* Can I die happy in my sleep on my 127th birthday?

  36. Your post causes me to feel guilty, i have not seen my grandparents aged 90+ for a while. This makes me want to go to tea room and head to Chogoria.

    Last couple of weeks have been really trying with death on my mind constantly, your post really got me thinking about my priorities.

  37. This has made me finally cry. I’m in that space of Hezekiahing (read Hezekiah 19). I’m not sure I’m interpreting the signs well but I’m praying for a miracle. Mos na Jim. #weareone in that area 🙂

  38. Hehehe, wondering what the missus says about the obsession with Toni.I’m curious about her thoughts on life, you, your career and the little things that define life. Sometimes wished you had some dialogues, stories on her, even if on a general platform. I would love pieces on or touching on the wife-husband dichotomy.

    Oh…and by the way,when you have more space than a balcony to keep a dog, hehe, you can get in touch…, only that the ones I have are long coat German Shepherds.

    Keep up with the good work,yes?

  39. @Viking Totally concur. I appreciate that it’s private but it’s like an obscene/intrusive curiosity i share; would like to read about her

  40. Now I cant wait for the net post…your writing is addictive to read. I wonder what you finally told your grandpa you write about. I really love my grandpa now that h knows how to use a phone, he calls me weekly.

  41. Then he prays; hunched over and leaning and clutching at this wooden cane so tightly the veins at the back of his scrawny hands pop out. But he casts a very defiant pose, like he is telling old age, “F***k you!”

  42. The piece was just hilarious. I guess it’s it all grand parents who are senile. When we visit my grandmother you will tell her your name coz she can’t see then after a few minutes you have to introduce yourself again. It makes me love her more. Mark your piece was intriguing do you have a blog?

    1. @Jacky. Not yet, though I hope to have one in the foreseeable future. That aside, I operate an online youth magazine ( that inspires the youth to dream big and actualise the dreams with practical advice. It also has a take on fashion, money, career development among others. You can have a peek at it and get back to me on the same. Any feedback is highly welcome and appreciated. You can reach me at [email protected]. Thanks for your inspiration.

    2. my grand pa too, you have to keep introducing yourself coz he has become soo forgetful n his sight is also gone….its as funny as is sad

  43. I think death is beautiful in a majestic and terrifying manner.or majestic and terrifying in a beautiful way. This article captured my sentiments….and that last part…hilarious. I envy Toni Braxton.

  44. ‘When it’s my brother’s turn to take the hot seat, I happily wander out and go look at the graves in the shamba, and even from there I can hear my brother shouting, explaining to him why he isn’t married. I smile.’- Dude, you make me crack.

    You are such an inspiring writer. Keep it up bro.

  45. you have made me laugh today…wish you could write more often. reminds me of my grand pa who is soo old now, has lost some of his memory n you have to keep repeating your name n reminding him who you are…n his sight is gone too

  46. Biko, your writing speaks to me. You have a wIcked sense of humour. This piece had me Lmao…I wIll contInue to read your blog, till death do us part 🙂

  47. I am reading this kind of late…but your narrative style hooked me immediately. Your powerful prose made me feel like I have met your Grandpa. now I am rooting for the old guy to outlive your wildest expectations. Your writing is nothing but pure magic. You have painted a lasting picture in my mind’s eye and for that I am truly grateful

  48. Just like one of those perfumes you’re not sure you like; yet you keep going back to buy the same scent. Death topic is a revered topic and yet I kept hitting the down cursor because the intrigue of dark and great writing kept pulling me. Awesome piece.

  49. You ought to actually think about wnikorg on developing this weblog into a major authority on this market. You evidently have a grasp handle of the topics everyone is looking for on this website anyhow and you could actually even earn a buck or two off of some advertisements. I’d discover following recent subjects and elevating the quantity of write ups you set up and I assure you’d begin seeing some amazing targeted visitors in the close to future. Just a thought, good luck in whatever you do!

  50. This piece reminds me of a poem by sam mbure that i read as a kid while in primary school. It goes something like:

    I find i often had to shout
    For granny to hear
    What am talking about.
    Her seemingly bright eyes at night
    Can neither see nor stare at the light

    And she complains
    And complains and complains;
    Toothache, backache, headache,
    Joint pains.

    The cup she’s holding in her hand,
    Is the same one she’s looking for
    Under the bed.

    And as for the insects that bites
    Her motto is: bite and bite.
    It’s both pity and laughter,
    When she puts salt in tea
    Instead of sugar.

    There was a time she washed
    Her face with a liter of milk!
    Our amazing granny.

    Biko the man. As a newbie, i look upto u for literary expertise. Hope one day i’ll write just as beaitifully as u do. This piece awakened in mi the pride I have in our tribe n lingo, luo. Unfortunately, i dont have any elderly grandparents whom I can liven those moments with but but am too familiar with the dala exprience, esp when city folks visits. Otherwise wach nyar okuyu no to ok omora kata matin. Nkt. Why always them?