BY MIKE MUTHAKA The curse of the black leather jacket The muscly wide-nosed bouncer at Milan wants to see my ID before letting me into the club. I’m with my office mates, and today we’re celebrating the departure of a colleague. Everyone’s a bit sad she’s leaving, not least because
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “No one understands the magnitude of fuckery that goes on when your mind is like, ‘Peace bitch, we’re not here anymore, you deal with your shit, ‘cause it’s too much, you’re too sad, you’re too anxious, us we’re leaving.’” One night in September 2018, Victoria Maina –
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BY BETT KINYATTI I’ve been having a running tummy. It began Monday evening, in the digs. I’m writing this on Thursday, which makes it three days since – and counting. I’ve found myself in a
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Mike Laria was out clubbing last night. He has a searing pain in his calf. He climbs the stairs leading up to Afrah Restaurant with difficulty. He clenches his jaw and grabs onto the railing, lifting his leg like an anchored mass. “Ugh, hii ndio ubaya ya
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA February 2, 2014. On this Wednesday, Miriam (not her real name) was 17, a regular tiny-limbed form two student at MFA Lanet. They usually had club meetings at 4:30 p.m. She refuses to tell me what club she was in. Half an hour into the meeting, she
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BY BETT KINYATTI I don’t know how to say this gently so I’ll come right out and say it – I’m balding. Smack in the middle of my head, right here are the top of it, a few inches down from my hairline, the spot where the sunshine or a
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