This is how Adam’s noise killed Cupid

Adam sent my Valentine away with his noise. I should have known better. Every one says three’s a crowd. As soon as I picked up my pen, I woke the muse up. He wasn’t happy that I was thinking of someone else. Continue reading

Are you looking at me?

“Are you looking at me”

I start violently. The kettle tips and spills hot tea on my cousin’s foot. She shrieks and glares at me.

Am I the only one hearing grandpa’s booming voice?

We’re in his bedroom, or more accurately,  what used to be his bedroom. You see, we’re at his wake. His corpse lies in the front room, in a home-made wooden coffin, atop three stools placed in a neat row. Continue reading

That thing that was in your room last night

Sometimes you wake up feeling exhausted. Your limbs ache, you’re feverish with indistinct memories of a nightmare.

If you examine your skin carefully enough, what you thought were mosquito bites turn out to be light puncture wounds. The truth dawns on you.

The thing that flitted past your kitchen veranda last night was not a shadow. When you thought you heard your dog growl and then whine in fear, you heard right. The single tree outside your window, whose leaves were rustling in the wind, well that was not the wind. Something was in the room with you last night.

Does running rhyme with writing?

The great outdoors isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s chilly. It’s windy. It’s dark. I’ve been round a sharp bend, across the railway tracks, down one lonely road and up another. I’m fed up.

I remember the evenings I spent running in Kisumu, with the view of the sprawling hills of Kanyakwar in the distance and the warm evening breeze caressing my face. It used to be fun. Not anymore.

Today my lungs are aflame, my heart in overdrive. I stop in my tracks, retrace my steps and decide that writing is  a better use of my time.

Aspiring writer? Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night

I’d known her all my life and I knew that she couldn’t write to save her own life. Not if someone held a gun to her head. Mind you, it wasn’t for lack of words. Nelly simply had too much nervous energy to let two words fuse into a phrase. She even talked with a stutter. Continue reading

Otto is dead. Long live Otto!

Otto is dead. I figure he was male because of the way he dominated my space.

I first spotted him a month ago behind the couch by my bedroom window. He was so large I thought he was a rat. I sprinted out of the room in alarm, and didn’t see him again for two days.

I was nervous and jumpy until I saw him peeking out from under the dressing table. A spider, not a rat. Small comfort, but definitely better than a rat.

Otto was sensitive to sudden movements – a trait that helped him escape the projectiles I threw at him. He would always came back. I got used to seeing him hanging out on the wall above the television, under the kitchen sink, on the book shelf…

Today I found four of his hairy legs under the magazine rack. I hadn’t seen him for one week. I think I might have killed him. I swept up the legs and threw them away. I couldn’t find the body.

Later, as I was making myself a sandwich, something crawled out of the fruit basket. A smaller version of Otto.

Otto Junior is now hiding behind my fridge.