She Had A Ring


There is this story spinning in my head. I have tried to write it down but the words have simply refused to trickle down to my fingers. It’s frustrating because — in my head — it’s a good story which will be even better on paper. For the past one week, I have written around 16 intros to this story and then folded the papers into balls and dust-binned them. Yet it’s a beautiful story. A story with an adorable face. A story with sensual eyes, forever with a sting of tears in them. It speaks to me, this story. Its voice is as soft as a falling leaf. Naturally, this story is a woman. A woman who will make you toss in bed the whole night imagining every erotic scenario she and you can be in, even when you know she is out of your reach… just like Amara.


The two doors of the elevator swung open. Standing right at the corner of the elevator, dressed in a long-sleeved white top, a black tight and swanky black heels, was this glowing woman. Her black handbag dangled from her curled elbow. And her powerful perfume stood right next to her. She threw me a quick glance, wanted to smile (I could tell) but she instead looked away like she hadn’t noticed my cute beard.

The Hooker In A Green Dress


I am seated on a high stool in Samba Club. Moi Avenue. Before me is an untouched bottle of cold Tusker, which I contemplate for a second, wondering whether I was turning into an alcoholic (Just coming from Heritage Club). Right ahead of me, on the wall, is a flat screen TV showing Liverpool Vs Tottenham Hotspurs, and I am kinda pissed that Liverpool players are playing like they have Weetabix for breakfast (Not sure I am making sense though because I hear Rugby players have Weetabix for breakfast).

On the table beside mine, a few centimetres away, seats this awfully collected woman, drinking Tusker Malt from a glass. Two bottles of Tusker Malt, one unopened and the other half empty, seats beside the glass. She has on a short green dress which folds early, leaving a great portion of her thighs exposed. She is light skinned. Two cute dimples dig on her cheeks when she smiles after reading something on her phone. Her left hand, elbow on the table, rises to hold her neck, gently running her fingers through it. So I can see her thin golden wrist watch. It is cute.

The Widows & Widowers of High School & Valentine’s Day



My high school girlfriend is now a primary school teacher. Which means her head and weave are now tight buddies. And that everyone, from her pupils to her village mates call her madam (She is in Luhya land so make that matam). But I am sure no pupil shakes in terror when they fail her assignments because they way I remember her, she couldn’t even lift a finger to hurt a fly. Neither does she punish those pupils who will see her walking through the gate, a heavy handbag dangling and threatening to break her fragile elbow, and not run to help her carry it.