BY MIKE MUTHAKA I can’t remember the last time I took communion. It must have been back in primary school – around the same time I stopped going for confession. My first ever confession was in a closet, shut away from the priest with a partition. I was 11 years
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “What are you giving up for Lent?” “Ati?” “Wait. Are you Catholic?” I look up to see how the girl would respond. I’m eavesdropping. I’m seated in a booth by the window, they’re seated at the next table. I fancy they’re on a date; it’s Valentine’s Day
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA My first real kiss came from the girl next door. Tongue and all. She was a year older than I and their fence was a brick wall. Her mom’s plants climbed that wall, clasping on the way –its twigs and tendons like sinewy old arms. Her saliva
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA The request hit Cathy’s Bureau at eleven thirty on a Wednesday morning. The phone in her office rung thrice before she picked up: “Cathy’s Househelps, how may I help you?” Cathy had been running the bureau for three years now, and answering the calls still gave her
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA You wake with a snap of the head, nauseated and sweaty. It’s 2AM. You feel feverish. Your head hurts. You forgot to close the windows when you staggered into the room. A
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I want to try out celibacy this year. Wait, masturbation doesn’t count as celibacy, does it? I watched the sun come up on that first day of the year. I was in my boxers, in the back yard, barefoot and bare-chested. I was listening to
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