I went for this swanky cocktail shindig last week. The type where folk pick on their biting with toothpicks. The highbrow type with low lingering jazz music in the background and where people don’t laugh out loud but chuckle like aristocrats.
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,
A man at the end of the bar lights a cigarette then shakes the fire off the burning matchstick. We are at Tatiz Bar, restaurant, barber and car wash, seated outside on the curved verandah overlooking Muthangari Drive.
What do men do when darkness beckons? When winter closes in on them? When their unhappiness starts making their fingernails grow slower and their pillows get harder? When their wedding rings become hollow metaphors,