BY MIKE MUTHAKA By the tap The water tank sat right next to a steaming sufuria. The path was rough and narrow. Three men queued up on the tank – taking turns to wash their hands by the tiny tap. The smell of nyama choma was alive, and the butcher-men
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA A tow truck sits on the side of the road. Cars circle the roundabout and go without noticing the truck. Some pass through Oilibya; they refuel and get back onto the road, giving the truck little thought. The truck is unoccupied. The windows are wound up. It’s
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I can’t remember the last time I took communion. It must have been back in primary school – around the same time I stopped going for confession. My first ever confession was in a closet, shut away from the priest with a partition. I was 11 years
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “What are you giving up for Lent?” “Ati?” “Wait. Are you Catholic?” I look up to see how the girl would respond. I’m eavesdropping. I’m seated in a booth by the window, they’re seated at the next table. I fancy they’re on a date; it’s Valentine’s Day
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’m distracted. I’m standing next to a glass cabinet, staring in amazement at the contents. The door of the cabinet is locked. It has a golden keyhole and it opens up to rows of
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA My first real kiss came from the girl next door. Tongue and all. She was a year older than I and their fence was a brick wall. Her mom’s plants climbed that wall, clasping on the way –its twigs and tendons like sinewy old arms. Her saliva
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