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 I wonder how it felt to be on the stands of the last Kabeberi Sevens tournament. That Saturday, when the rugby tourney was slated to begin, I overslept and skipped my Saturday morning routine. My Saturday mornings are usually for ‘Top Gear’, though not the Matt-Le-Blanc variety.
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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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BY MIKE MUTHAKA The gavel bangs. Six months in the slammer for five souls convicted of illegal mining. All rise. His lordship is departing. The court marshal leads the convicts down to the cells, where they’re to wait for a rickety van that’ll deposit them in prison. They look pale
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “Never talk to my son again!” Those words knocked the stupor out of me. How dare I fill her boy’s head with such tales of debauchery? It’s like I was out to erase all her careful parenting with the stroke of my immoral brush. I was painting
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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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