Morning, we have big plans today, but the balls insist we have to begin with another hour of sleep. These ‘pair of tongs’ will lull me to destitution.
Tag Archives: writing
What if Babies Came with a Return Policy
If children came with a return policy, most of you couldn’t have lived long enough to spell your names. Parents could have been too empowered to raise any wayward, ill-mannered kid.
You break a glass, return.
You hurt another kid, return.
You steal sugar, return!
I’m doubting if we’d be having new parents in 2020. This whole generation couldn’t have lived. It makes me laugh because most of you couldn’t have known Corona.
Nor read about these balls.
Now, think. Could you have lived?
Or you’re a factory defect?
Middays are nostalgic
I love middays. Just when the clock strikes noon sharp. Sauchiel meant every mother was in the kitchen preparing something for us, kids.
You’d hear a mother asking a pupil;
‘Omondi, iduogo chon nadi, en sauchiel koso oriembi?’
And Omondi would answer with a starved voice, chocking on his anger because he knows his mother depends on this woman for time. Omondi’s parents didn’t have a radio. It meant his mother wasn’t even back from the shamba.
Midday splits your day in half.
When I was a serious man with a serious job, it was the time to take stock of the day; what I had accomplished, and what more to do before the day ended.
Today, midday finds me too stoned to take stock of anything, but when I miraculously do, it will be about the pleasures of wasting oneself. It’s a mixed thing you know; on one side you want to take stock of the pleasures you’ve got and how you can’t sacrifice them for anything, but on the other, is a biting conscience that you had so much potential but smoked it all away! Still, midday is midday.
Of balls and a Nairobi woman
It’s sometimes a huge burden to have these balls. I try to love them, and most times, I do. But these marbles can cause stinging pain and misery.
It gets worse when they’re starved. Yesternight, this left one began howling like a lost hyena in the middle of the night. Then the right one joined. The cause of all this mayhem?
A Nairobi woman.
There’s this girl that’s been my friend for a long time. That’s all I wanted from her–friendship. I’ve confided in her so many truths. She knows a ton of stuff about me than none of the ghels I’ve served juice knows.
Damn! This girl has called me in the middle of the night asking if I had taken my midnight snack when she knows I’m the type that eats the meal, the snack, the pudding, and the nyokonyoko yote in one full swoop.
This girl is extremely attractive, but never had I noticed she has a sexual appeal until ’em balls began haranguing me over my blindness tor her beauty.
Now the balls want me to betray our friendship an ask for the osweges. That isn’t the hard part.
The problem is, the balls have now corrupted my thoughts. Everything she does now seems suggestive. Now I don’t only see the friend, I see the woman; nubile and appetizing. I’ve tried to restore my sight to friendship settings, but I see all the things I shouldn’t be seeing.
Walimwes, should I retain the friendship or do as the balls say and ask for her juice?
It’s a busy morning here, but the balls are too excited to sit still. I don’t why.
Isn’t The Lord Good?
When I talk about my balls, it’s not an advertisement. It’s a testimony. The Lord has worked overtime protecting these marbles.
You gotta celebrate that.
You have to celebrate something.
We all should❤️
I overheard my neighbour asking Jesus to come now. People are here trying to kill the son of God twice.
The biggest blunder in life is to look for open doors with a closed mind
Hunger bites
Hunger bites
My empty-bellied wallet stares at me
My eyes hello back with deeper hollowness
Phones are dead
My uncle says,
Not today
I pick my journal
235 dollars in receivables
But no one has a dime
A friend says
You’ll get through it
Faith without action?
Find me in the morgue!
What’s in the kitchen cabinet?
Floor, sugar, ketchup, and salt
Can’t I make tea?
No, no tea leaves!
But hunger still bites
I call someone
She says I’m a spendthrift!
So I boil water
And take a warm bath
I’m clean in my hunger
Childhood Indulgence
The place we used to hide in is no longer a secret, they have discovered it and known the secrets it kept. Our beautiful moments flew when adulterous wives brought their men in; the charcoal notes stood the test of time—to tell tales of our childhood indulgence.
Sliver of Darkness 