• Raise a glass to St. Patrick’s Day

    In a scale of crawl (1) to sprint (5), my comprehension of most holidays listed in my diary is a drag. A mere two. There are two plausible holidays in the calendar; New Year and Independence day. The rest are pretty much stringed up to some religious or political conundrum that require years of ‘GH-CRE’.

    But the world revolves on an even keel. Thus, for the fucker (sue me) that came up with 5 weekdays and 2 days for the weekend, Kenyans, welcome St Patrick’s Day. The unleaded pencil I call imagination tells me it stems from a ‘Kasalany area guy’ of the pre-medieval times that witnessed Jesus turning water to wine. Going by the name Patrick, he recounted the events of the Galilean festival with consummate euphoria. I witnessed, ni kama ndrama..

  • Que sera sera

    The ethos of my times demand that I go to the country side during these festive times. I had been a little homesick in the weeks preceding Christmas and I yearned to be in the country side. So now, I am in a small town in western France called Niort. Niort is my ace in the hole, like Embu. Not the Embu in South America, the Embu in East Africa. Calm, graceful, old and pretty. Like a good pair of sunglasses.

  • I am falling for Paris

    I love words and music that strike a chord. Music whose grandeur cups the side of my face with its smooth palm. Because, this is how I like to be touched.
    Letters that dance and form words.

    Words that rhyme.

    Words that make disfranchisement sound like sun.

    And now Paris is doing the same. Paris is male. He is a man who can get it.

  • Read her lips.


    I have heard seriously wrong assumptions that men have about women. I don’t blame them really. A man’s life in my eyes is pretty straightforward. His way of thinking is too. He is born, one hand in his pants, the other on a gadget of his preference. Could be a computer, a phone, or a ball (not intended). Then he grows older and taller. He might feel sad at one point, call a friend and drink whiskey in silence. When he is 40ish, pressure may build up. In a moment of horn madness, he might sell his property and take a 20 year old comfort lady who calls him ‘papi’, to Dubai. To feed sharks. A month later, he comes home broke and begs his wife to take him back. They start all over again. A woman can do all these things in one morning and still have the energy to go fire someone at work.