Fresh Paint

The smell of fresh paint reminds me of a fresh coffin. I cannot stand it. It hits my nose and I step back from the door, slapped by the vicious hand of a painful memory. My face clouds and my eyes water slightly.

Powerful stuff, this, from Faith Oneya. 

Death by Dominoes

When the assassins come they kill everyone. That is what you must understand. Death is coming. It's at the door. Though uttered weeks earlier, on a different cellblock, I still recall leaning forward in concentration, struggling to hear the words, striving to discern the meaning, if any, conveyed by Wannamaker's frog-like voice.

The old man didn't speak his words so much as he breathed them out, in a guttural rasp, as weak as a politician's promise, like a man talking reluctantly through a mouthful of marbles. Weeks later, perched on an overturned mop bucket wedged in the open doorway of my single-man cell, Wannamaker's enigmatic words were still gnawing along the margins of my mind. Those whispered words...How was I to know they'd be so prescient?

Fascinating short story. Read on.

Death by Dominoes

When the assassins come they kill everyone. That is what you must understand. Death is coming. It's at the door. Though uttered weeks earlier, on a different cellblock, I still recall leaning forward in concentration, struggling to hear the words, striving to discern the meaning, if any, conveyed by Wannamaker's frog-like voice.

The old man didn't speak his words so much as he breathed them out, in a guttural rasp, as weak as a politician's promise, like a man talking reluctantly through a mouthful of marbles. Weeks later, perched on an overturned mop bucket wedged in the open doorway of my single-man cell, Wannamaker's enigmatic words were still gnawing along the margins of my mind. Those whispered words...How was I to know they'd be so prescient?

Gifts for Mama

This woman's daughters' misfortunes know no bounds. Sandra Mushi is back on our pages with a story about a woman who's daughters come back home, first with gifts, and then to stay. And they are not alone.

More.

Stillborn: a very Kenyan story

In these times, when corruption is every news headline, we forget, its easy to, just how ugly life is all around, or that the political class are not the only heartless ones in our midst.We extend our pointing fingers. Them.

I got a phone call this morning from a girlfriend of mine in Kenya, she could not go to the cemetery she said, so she had to come to the hospital to console the mother.

More?

Jasmine

She couldn't keep her eyes open, she felt drowsy.  Maybe from the herbal concoction he had made her drink. This one seemed to be much stronger than the ones she had been drinking before. Her ears pricked to the sound of mountain wolves.  She had heard that a wolf or two had been spotted around the mountains.  Hugging her cold frame, she prayed they wouldn't come, that they would not smell her, that the strong smell of the jasmine would mask her human blood scent.  Her eyes bulged with fright and watered from the cold she felt.

Keep reading. 

Spring was coming, spring is coming?

Insect bites/mosquito stings on bare skin, butterflies crawling out of their cocoons, birds chirping. Sun shining, blue skies. Clear nights. The scent of mowed lawns, wet earth after a short bout of rain. The scent of manure (eeew); the smell of spring – achoo! Hay fever.

Spring was coming, spring is coming.

Read more here.

My Eulogy!

Caleb Otieno on how his much has not amounted to much. He would rather, however, write his own eulogy, than have them tell lies about a life he never lived.

"I wasn't a model student (how could I be? With my Dad's ugly face and the ungraceful ness' of my drunken mother, no way I could've been a model anything.)"

Read the rest here.