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 Turn, by the Wombats. I can’t get this song out of my head. I first heard it on X FM, and I thought, Heavens! I must have this song. I simply must. I couldn’t trust the presenter to say the title afterwards. The song might end then
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “We look like we’re on a bad date, Mike,” Bett says. She’s seated across from me at Java, Kimathi Street. She’s tapping some things on her phone and I’ve resigned to checking my Twitter. She’s awfully busy, she says, and she has to apologize each time her
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Two things that make school unpleasant for me: Exams, and class presentations. One can make you retake the whole unit. The other could make you want to quit school altogether. If you screw up the exams you get a
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’ve always been aware of the whole preparing-for-school business, since my first day of school at Twin Birds Academy. Getting ready for school has forever been a torturous endeavor. It has always been this slow and dreadful operation, spaced out by varying degrees of idleness and waist-line
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