BY MIKE MUTHAKA “Never talk to my son again!” Those words knocked the stupor out of me. How dare I fill her boy’s head with such tales of debauchery? It’s like I was out to erase all her careful parenting with the stroke of my immoral brush. I was painting
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Beards are meant to be stroked. They’re meant to be touched and played with. They’re for quiet contemplation. They’re for having something to do with your hands as you stand outside your gate, looking at the busy highway, staring at a little boy riding a black mamba
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’ve been toying with the idea of learning Spanish. I don’t say it out loud though, I don’t want my ancestors getting hot under the collar over such drivel. “The boy has lost his head,” they’ll say, “twarũĩire wĩathi nĩguo waragie Spanish?”
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I can’t imagine sharing a roof with my cock. I wouldn’t be able to stand the racket my cock makes, especially in the morning. Two cocks can’t stay in the same house. My cock is black. Its neck is so thin sometimes I worry it’ll snap any
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA You know what really bugged me about being a kid? Not being able to reach the grab rail in a matatu. Everyone else seemed tall enough to reach. They didn’t have to support themselves by the seats. They didn’t look all short and silly. Sometimes in a
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA She never told me her last name, she just told me she was Kate. Kate was my first. It happened on Christmas Eve. I was 18, she was 23. We were neighbors but the idea that I could sleep with her had never occurred to me. Around
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