The bed lamp is flung to the ground. On impact, it bursts; darkness seizes the room immediately, the plug violently pulled out from the plug by the TV. She screams to the deaf ears of the night, how fucking selfish of it. A yellow, warm tinge light from the street lights across the street brushes on her mother’s curtains. The curtains, still packed in the upper compartment went missing one night, from her mother’s wardrobe.
It is just a coincident, her naïve mother would scream at her unloving husband who during that night was in the very same room she stood in, fucking a prostitute.
She jumps off the bed, untangling herself from a blanket that hung her tightly. She switches the rooms light on, at once, kicking the warm street light to the gutter. The fucking light is too bright, she thought, the bed lamp hid her sins in darkness. Her clients would demand the light to be on, she would insist on it being off, promising to suck them a bit longer. She never saw herself being the lady of the night, only a dim skinny image of a girl flagging customers down the dark corner in her street. Big bellied horny bastards whose lonely wives are soaking wet from overly emotional romantic books, but not tonight he was working late, so he said.
Resorting to irreverence
In a bid to remain relevant
They have our ears, they have our hearts
And they whisper…
Into our minds through tubes –
Call it thought transfusion –
Tales of murder, lies and crime
Bugattis on rims
Stacks on deck
Hoes in the back
And choppers in the trunk…
They exaggerate their lifestyle
It seems like these ‘leaders’
Have a monopoly
On all the stealing that’s going on…
Every chance they get
The dip their hands
Into the community chest
Wink at some bankers
And get a title deed
Slipped to them under the table.
I wasn’t supposed to write this, but for some reason I felt compelled to. I felt you needed to know the truth so I gathered enough courage and decide to write. The truth is I wasn’t really writing for you, but for me. I needed to write this more than you needed to read it, though reading it will give you more peace than writing it did me.
There is a noise, faint and continuous, coming from the wall. It sounds like a metronome, marking the time to life’s heartbeat, slowly, like it will soon stop. So I write faster, to you, but for me.
Hope you can read my writing. I tried to change it, but his hand is strong on mine, and every few words remind me of him. Of course you know I’m talking about Mark; and no I will not call him by any other name. A man should earn his title, and mark was never a father, at least not to me. So my life has been about being as different from him as possible, but all I have learnt is in life we become what we run to and what we run from. So I’m sorry if my writing reminds you of him, and if I remind you of him.
I should write him, but I won’t. Peace is given those who deserve it.
The writing space in Kenya has seen a bit of growth in recent years with the introduction of new writers . There has also been renewed interest by Kenyan readers in Kenyan literature. This has led to conversation on literature powered by book clubs, commentary in newspapers and blogs, and writing competitions geared towards discovery of new writers.
In the spirit of this new interest in literature, a group of writers have put together a joint book signing event dubbed the ‘Authors’ Buffet’. The event is scheduled to be held on Saturday 18th May at the Junction from 11am to 4pm.
The aim of the event is to give readers a chance to meet some of their the favourite authors. It also aims to create an opportunity for authors to share experiences and best practices especially with up and coming writers.
Sunset found Harriet all crouched up next to one of the bins in the recreational park that had become her new abode. It was her way of calling dibs on whatever was in the bin and she was waiting for nightfall so that she could ransack without getting embarrassed. She hoped that she would never have to make the streets her home but every sunset that found her homeless reminded her that maybe it was time to let go. Even when she was almost certain that the situation would not improve, she was not able to reconcile the unsightliness of street life and the house she called home for most of her life. She was yet to take in the drastic change of livelihood and though she refrained from cogitating about it, she knew that she would not run for too long.
It had only been a fortnight since Harriet’s family got kicked out of their house and it was arguably the worst time of her life. She was only 10 but being the eldest child of a sickly mother and an inebriated father, she was expected to fend for her younger brother and sister who were 6 and 3 respectively. She had been lucky enough to get plenty of food remains to take to her family who were camping on the balcony of a building under construction on the first Continue reading
I am king
Fearless Selfless Ruler
I carry 51% of the vote
In my world of no rote
And it must be stated
Democracy is manipulated
Freedom is manufactured
Rights are what I consent to
My citizens imagine I am held to
There has been a concerted push for local content by the Kenyan government, through the I.C.T. Board, for a couple of years. They have even offered grants to companies to further the local content cause. You would imagine that by now we’d already have 40% of the content on our TVs locally made. This reality has been difficult to realize despite the goodwill of the government and presence of talented Kenyan creatives.
Scroll through the local TV stations at any time during the day and you will find them flooded with foreign content especially in the form of Nigerian movies and Mexican soaps. From a business perspective,makes some sense. It’s cheaper to buy this foreign content than to commission a local production. However, this is myopic as it will not lead to a sustainable TV and film industry. There have been cases where local producers have been offered similar amounts of money to produce their productions by broadcasters, that these broadcasters use to buy foreign content. This makes no sense, as in the former the content is already made and I highly doubt they had Kenya in mind when they were in production, and the latter is yet to be produced and hence requires adequate funds. There have also been claims made by filmmakers that broadcasters are not interested in high quality productions or certain story lines as they feel it will be ‘too much’ for Kenyans. Are we referring to the same Kenyans who watch ‘more advanced’ foreign content and understand it just fine?
Different people are known to react differently during their moments of weakness. For some, crying is the utmost sign of falling apart while for others, locking out the world is what helps them get above their weaknesses. Truth be told, failure is never easy on most of us especially when it involves things that we have worked so hard to achieve. It could be an interview that we had focused so much on or a task that determines if we keep our jobs or not. Sometimes we fail so many times yet we usually have worked harder each time and giving up seems like the most plausible choice after each loss.
Failure can mean performing below our expectations yet the performance is generally above par, or it could mean performing below par as a whole. The definition of failure is different for every individual and even when we fail as a group, some people are affected more than others. Group fails are usually harder to take in especially for the people who put in most effort. Some people view failure as synonymous to defeat and it they are sore losers then they have a hard time dealing with failure. Others associate failure with lack of mental or physical ability and
Shirley looked away when she saw him approach her bed. She closed her eyes and mumbled a short prayer hoping that he was not the nurse on duty that night. Sandy crossed her fingers too, and if she could, she would cross her toes. In fact, she’d cross her arms at her elbows and do anything that would save them the agony of having to be fed by him that night. It was not to be, however, because Bernard walked in with a trolley of food.
They called him ‘Bee’ for brutal although he thought that it was short for Bernard. He was callous and unkind. He did not seem to care that each of the girls were suffering from a life threatening disease. The girls feared him like a plague. They wished that they would at least get nurses who would be gentle with them and make them smile for the few months they had left but each new nurse was worse. Bernard had been there for about three months but they were yet to Continue reading