BY MIKE MUTHAKA The cloud-stitched sky was loosening and the Sun sliding into view. Bright light struck the earth as the traffic crawled by, the sound of drilling pierced the air. Slow down, men at work. A roller truck
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I saw her three times. The first, I was standing under the shade of a kiosk sipping from a bottle of Keringet water. It was a hot day and I was looking at a fruit vendor
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA I’m tired of school. I’m tired of sitting in class. The chairs hurt my back and I can never pay much attention to the lecturer. My mind wanders and my attitude towards the curriculum is rotten; the content is
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA We have weekly chapel meetings in school. Every Tuesday and Thursday. The campus administration says it’s compulsory, they say you will not graduate if your attendance record is below par. They send warning emails at the end of every semester. “Your chapel attendance is wanting,” the emails
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA By and by, I’m beginning to notice the tinge of yearning I get whenever I see someone on a motorbike. I remain aware of the desire I have to own a bike. And I’m not talking about those ubiquitous beat-up looking boda bodas you see running around
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Back in high school, you simply didn’t live until you went for an inter-school competition. A funky, they called it. Most of these funkys were sports-oriented, and I wasn’t into sports. Whenever I tell my friends that I never went to any funky
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