He munches on the stick of cassava held together with a splice of tomato:
“But this year the elections will be fair…”
They laugh, they cackle; was it a joke? maybe, maybe..
“Wacha! Let them waste their time, Mzee is already ready for them–“
Watching her sing, Memories crop up with in him, Partly in mind, and partly in heart; Memories of her whom he would soon forget. Of times past when their feet … Continue reading
It makes sense now, the laugh she had fought with earlier. It’s an iPhone six plus, coolest phone on the block for the ultra-cool with the money and will to spend it. You are not so cool anymore; You feel like a shit.. You feel like a turd and, as first as a hand that slaps you disappears from your face you hide your phone that is not even a quarter the size of hers both in size and worth. You know you cannot win this one, even combined with your katochi from the key and button age in your left side pocket, you know you can never meet a quarter the cost of hers. You are beaten, you have lost
Originally posted on One Poem, One Week:
Sitting evenings, where memories come out to tan Retro music, let memories come out to dance. Ghetto super stars or Bagco super sacks:…
Every day I see her, looking, waving, smiling, and I am thinking I really like her. But then I look away, and I am thinking I really couldn’t I can’t, … Continue reading
With time, he thought she meant it emotionally; growing up taught him otherwise. She did not feel a thing when he woke her up after his late nights at his desk. When they lay together as man and woman, and he rode her like a sex fiend resurrect from hell eyes lids clenched together, living a pseudo reality wherein he fucked one of those wenches she had seen in the folds the stupid pornographic magazines he loved so, then going limp, and, collapsing off of her, breathing hard and sleeping off. It was just another chore.