BY MIKE MUTHAKA I turned 23 in July. That afternoon, Chronixx was set to perform at KICC. I didn’t go to the concert. Instead I took a road trip with some friends, up to a little sleepy town called Kumpa, and we listened to the ‘Chronology’ album on the radio.
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I step out of the shower without a towel. I don’t need a towel. I’m home alone. Water drips from my scalp, down my back. It feels like someone has emptied a bowl of spaghetti on my head. My shoulders tremble. The stained glass window distills weak
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA There’s a rat in my room. Nights I hear it clamoring behind the wardrobe. The other day I found my red boxers had been chewed proper. The ass area had a crater. Even my farts don’t do that level of damage. And my farts can kill. My
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I finally got a newsboy hat. Google it. It’s a cool hat, aye? For some reason I’ve always thought it’s called a godpapa, which might explain the weird looks I got each time I mentioned my sudden desire for a hat. A godpapa is more like a
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’m surrounded by nomads. One of them is in the living room, hanging above my favorite couch. Ol’ Man got him for 2K at some beach-side hotel in Mombasa. It’s a cool painting, really, an abstract; a herder, standing on one leg. He’s watching a herd of
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Beethoven is exhausted. He has pouches under his eyes. He can’t wait to finish the damn song and go home, sit in the tub with a pint of vodka. He’s been playing the piano all his life. In fact he dropped out of school – at 10
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