I get an idea for a story.  The idea is sparked from something I saw or (over-) heard. I drop everything I am doing – even the baby into the bath water – and rush to a blank page to spew it out. Its words ooze out. It takes shape

the fake bourgeois That fake. It started at Uchumi supermarket, the one off Lang’ata Road. At the liquor store to be precise. I met a handful of them as we stood in the queue at this liquor store that seemed to get smaller the louder they spoke and the more

I was published last Saturday. The Saturday Nation. Page 22. Following last week’s post, it was as if the magic and miracle of attraction had worked in my favor, revealing itself to me in a way I had hitherto taken with a pinch of salt. A small win, it is

It has been a little over two months since I got into writing full-time and none of my stories have been published yet. I realize now that writing is only a slice of the trouble.  The other many and unforeseen troubles unfold in stages. Before we get into it, do

I was an auditor. With one of the Big Four audit firms in Nairobi, KE. Assurance Line of Service, I prided in those words. Straight from the Nairobi University’s Chiromo Campus, with a wardrobe leaner than my bank balance, fresh-faced and eager to grind in this great machinery that was

It is telling the pea that lies in Chimamanda’s mattresses. Plainly so. The pea is about girls and women in Nigeria and in America. It is about Igbo, ke kwanu? It is about cassava rice and papaya wine. It is about lost femininity and the forgotten woman. I am ten