BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’m tired of school. I’m tired of sitting in class. The chairs hurt my back and I can never pay much attention to the lecturer. My mind wanders and my attitude towards the curriculum is rotten; the content is
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA We have weekly chapel meetings in school. Every Tuesday and Thursday. The campus administration says it’s compulsory, they say you will not graduate if your attendance record is below par. They send warning emails at the end of every semester. “Your chapel attendance is wanting,” the emails
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA By and by, I’m beginning to notice the tinge of yearning I get whenever I see someone on a motorbike. I remain aware of the desire I have to own a bike. And I’m not talking about those ubiquitous beat-up looking boda bodas you see running around
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Back in high school, you simply didn’t live until you went for an inter-school competition. A funky, they called it. Most of these funkys were sports-oriented, and I wasn’t into sports. Whenever I tell my friends that I never went to any funky
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Growing up, we had a small red Fiat. It fit perfectly in our stonewalled compound, and whenever I wasn’t watching cartoons I would be found inside the car, with my tiny hands outstretched to hold both sides of the wheel and my short legs failing to reach
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I have a rug in my room. It’s a dusty old thing that makes me sneeze every time I walk in but it goes well with the color of my walls. It has shades of yellow and walnut, this dusty rug, and if you know where to
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