Our heroine Abby, now half naked, lies on a white bed with her long legs open. She has an old copy of True Love face down on her bosom. She was reading the Last Word, some rushed article …
I was supposed to have written this yesterday, instead I’m writing this on a Sunday morning. It’s a still morning. No ripple. The sky the colour of colic. There is the droning sound of a plane passing somewhere 25,000 …
There was this time I was down in South coast doing a story about the birds of the Arabuko Sokoke Forest. Yes, a story about freaking birds! I know zip about birds, and I do not particularly care for …
There are days I can’t write. Days when words turn into powder that a gust of wind suddenly comes and blows into someone’s soup at the next table. Those are the days my deadline stands over me brandishing a …
In the eulogized and buried light of the late evening, the only element left with the Harlequin task of illuminating the night is Carol Odero’s flaming red braids. You know Carol, right? Trained lawyer turned journalist. Editor, Drum magazine. …
