At 17, my daughter brought her boyfriend to the office – a lanky lad with scruffy hair, a tattoo peeping out of his tee’s sleeve and an air of delinquent adventure. He looked like a series of heartbreaks waiting to be activated.

His tea arrived before the water Naomi had gone to fetch me, but he was distracted by the bulldozers my drivers were parking outside the window.

“Do you like them?”

“I love them… Sir.” He replied.

I strode closer and sighed heavily.

“Imagine what one of those could do to the home of a young man who hurt your daughter.”

He stared on silently till his girlfriend came back 15 minutes later. Then they left – his tea still steaming untouched.

‘Pictory’ – A picture and a story speaking of and from each other.

Photography – Kimani Wandaka

Story – Ngartia

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Mother’s Love

No woman loves like a mother

The only woman to whom you can never be a bother

The only woman you can only have one, even Casanovas can’t have two

She knows the cord is cut to free and not to detach

And so she stays, she saves, she prays that you may never lack

You may forget her when greens knock your door but she’ll not hesitate to carry you through the desert

Her love is like a flowing river, it never changes course

Her love is like wind you may stray but it will find you

You can’t lie to her, her look into your eyes pierces through your soul

She knows when to speak and when to just sigh

She knows when you’re honest and when you lie

She knows when your full and when you’re famished

By default she needs your respect

Let’s raise a toast to our mothers