Category Archives: AFRICAN

THE UNPRECEDENTED ISLAND 2 – THE WEIRD LAND

THE NEW START : THE WEIRD LAND
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Click here if you didn’t read Part One
Desmond Island
0800hrs
‘Get some strong sticks’ Carl requested
‘Strong…? Are those not strong?’
‘Strong enough to burrow the soil’
‘Okay’ Liz responded as she bent plucking and picking the fallen rods of firewood. She was humming her favorite song.
Carl was digging the graves of their two sons, Greg and Colly. They had only noticed by the lockets on their necks they had bought during birthdays. Liz was busy fetching sticks to excavate the soil. They were no ‘jembes’ or ‘pangas’ around.
After some hours the grave was ready. It was just a minimal trench that would fit the remains of the two sons. As they carried the sooty-grotesque bodies, tears from Liz eyes dripped.
‘Hold the lower part of the limbs as I hold this upper side.’ Carl said as he held the fluffy part of the head.
As they reached the grave like structure, Carl positioned the head down slowly and gazed at Liz.
‘Put it down slowly’
They buried their sons in the island. They pushed the soil back to the grave. They lay wild flowers which Liz had plucked from a certain bush. She sat on a certain granitic rock and stared at Carl. She remembered of her huge house in Washington D.C. where there were teeming city streets, glass skyscrapers, glitters and glitz and also the luxurious landscapes.
‘Was life made to be like this? We have lost our sons. They are barely 16yrs. What a life?’ Liz questioned as she gazed above.
‘Problems come in life Liz. This one was unexpected. You should even thank God for saving your life. You are alive and kicking.’ Carl responded
‘Its…’Liz was cut short
‘That doesn’t mean am not sobbing the death of our sons. I’m also grieving their loss’ he said as he squatted on the grassy area.
‘Carl, why aren’t you sad, I see you smiling; no sad face; is there something you are keeping behind my ass? Liz asked.
‘Honey, men are always jovial; by the way do you see men crying in burial?’
‘To some extent, I don’t. But don’t you feel pain for your own flesh and blood? Did their demise mean anything to you?’ Liz questioned holding her chin.
‘As a man, I feel it in my heart, but I can’t bear showing it physically like you do. Just don’t be angst-ridden.’ He responded

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DESESPERADO: NAIROBI CITI CHRONICLES

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Nairobi City Skyline

It was on a Saturday morning. It was  one of my unusual days in town since I didn’t have an aim visiting the place. I just wanted to rotate around the place, get to know the city and manoeuvre through the city tunnels, lifts, etc to see new places and to meet  new individuals maybe to lit up my world. Not that I was a desperate woman but I hadn’t found my solace yet.I believed that some day, I would bump into someone great. It was such a strong belief such that I got at loggerheads with my friends because of it. I just needed positive thoughts about it especially at the age I was at.

Kelly Wambui Is my name. My few friends call me Kelly. I completed my undergraduate at 24 with a Bachelor Of Medicine N Surgery at Moi University and went ahead and mastered in Pediatrics. I haven’t done my PhD but am still planning to venture into it soon. My current age is 35. I am a doctor during the day at some hospital in Thika. During the night, I am a single woman who does her stuff inside my rented compound at Nairobi’s South B Estate.

This specific Saturday, I wanted to manoeuvre through town maybe I could get a new opportunity. I mean, I needed a man. Back in campus, I was the reserved type. I was an introvert. I didn’t want anything to do with “boys”. I called them. I just knew them to be fuck boys or hit and runs. That’s why I remained chaste for my 6 years at Campus. However, I still regret why I didn’t get someone there. When I came to do my masters, almost all the women we studied with were married and the men too. They all had families.  I was the only single humanbeing there. I still didn’t feel complete. What I craved at the moment, was a family. People I would get back to at home and spend the night with; Buy shopping for my family and have a sense of belonging. That’s what I longed for.

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TEACHER JOYCE: BOY SCHOOL CHRONICLES 3

| PART ONE | PART TWO |

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LANG’ATA, NAIROBI
My head had not lost consciousness to the extent of not visualizing completely. I could see a blurred vision of a human figure at the door. I did not even want to think who it was. All I knew is that I was in safe hands. He stood there looking at me with those sharp chatoyant eyes. He got closer still fixed on my embodiment. I wanted him for sure. I wanted to feel his passion, his touch, his taste and his everything that he had to offer me. There was this spirit in me that was soo wanting at the moment. Despite having the drink to my occiput, I was able to move myself like a slithering snake towards his direction. The dim lights made just the right atmosphere. I do not know if it is my eyes that had the blur or was it the lighting. I just felt cool with the view.

He sat at the end of the couch that I was in. gradually; I crawled on fours towards where he was and hugged him from behind. I held his shoulders tightly as I feared I would trip over. The zeal in me was killing my system. My short dress had already coasted upwards towards the head of my femur bone but who cared? It was Josh and I. I mean, I wanted him. I bent his neck on the side and gave a moist peck on his neck. He twitched. I could feel the warmth in his skin. The engorged neck veins were sending a message. He was also getting into the mood despite not revealing it physically. I could see his toes curled up on the wooly-carpeted floor.

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The Palace Of Sins

[EPISODE ONE]

Creative Works By: [Ken N Speranza]

imageThe palatial mansion stood huge as its great artistic walls made it visible at the summits. The trees that surrounded the place made it look like a hidden paradise. It was situated on a hilly area such that everyone who paid residence to the area would perceive its rooftops. At the metallic electronic gate entrance, one would view the international standard swimming pool and a dozen nude strippers. As new time visitors to the place, we were marveled at the great sight of the ‘hidden insides’. All we saw before we ever had this great chance to get here was the rooftop chimney and the great walls surrounding the palace. Nothing more would be made credible of what lay inside the mansion.

We met this gigantic soldier whose appearance sent chills through the backbone to the popliteal fossa of our humble making. He was a giant of a man with great shoulders equipped with oak beam arms. His face was a product of multiple gang fights and a protruding scar on the left cheek could send a message. Not a good message though. He turned his face towards us as we approached the gate. He glanced at us as if calculating the momentum needed for us to escape the premises. He had adorned the country’s official Army Uniform complemented with white gloves on both arms. We were inside a Mercedes S-Class vehicle, which was used for ferrying people in and out of the premises. The vehicle halted at the soldier’s place. The soldier bowed down at the driver’s place and saluted after recognizing the chauffer.

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My 14th Day In Prison

Article by: (Ken & Speranza)

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I reminisce the days when I arrived home in the evening and hugged my beautiful wife. The days when I opened my car’s front door and my kids rushed to hug me calling me ‘daddy’ as they ransacked through the shopping paper bags in a bid to get what dad had brought for them. How we watched TV together as a family as we laughed our ribs out in the living room. The great moments when we ate together as a family at the dining table at the Centre of our home are still fresh on my mind. I miss the many times when I slept on the same matrimonial bed with my wife. We occasionally gazed at each other and had some ‘extravaganza’ episode before we slept in a very cordial pose. In the morning, I would take both my wife and my kids. I would drop my kids to school as I drove my wife to work at a certain corporate company.

 

All that familial happiness ended in a single day when my ‘40’ days were over. It happened in a flash such that upto now, I cannot explain it.

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the ‘RICH MAID’ ABROAD

Story By: {Ken & Speranza}

Many have gone but few make it back successful…
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Welcome to the extra-regurgitated story that falls on deaf ears of many who have the insatiable taste for unseen rewards in abroad. These ‘Thomases’ only believe when they go there and are deported back with ‘painful scars that sometimes never heal’.

Wait, the heading itself is ironical and full of sarcasm if stated. That is what those planning on taking a flight there after paying a hefty fee for their death should come into terms with. They are lured by promises of posh jobs with big salaries.

a RHAPSODY OF BEHAVIORAL CHANGE

How many women have come back and explained exclusively the horrors and atrocities that they met there? How many have been flown back to our country as rotting corpses? How many go there and they disappear under mysterious circumstances? Why do we still want to go there to look for jobs? Meager jobs that lead to many of our young girls and women being overused in useless ‘maid’ jobs under very excruciating conditions. When asked, they say that some of the ladies they know have made it there and are getting paid ‘good money’. Some get good employers while some; in fact get employers who are equivalent to or rougher than ‘beasts’.

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The Observer: YOUTH – It’s Our Time

Article Written By: [Ken & Speranza]

The persona in the story is an Intellect Observer.;
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It was on a Friday afternoon just after I had been interviewed at a certain prestigious corporate company. The only thing I had in my palm was my mobile phone and some bit of nervousness consuming each thought I had about the outcome of the interview. I had adorned that black suit that I usually reserved for such important days and those pitch black shoes that complemented my outlook as I walked majestically across the town.

The scorching sun and the chilly psychic wind were inflicting their arrogance on me as I paved my way to the ‘matatu’ stage whereby I could board a vehicle that would ferry me to my vicinity. The vendors were busy minding their businesses inside the flocked town. In my escapades, I actually groped under a sweaty woman’s armpit as she shouted explosively in a bid to sell her merchandise.

I approached the matatu station and met a black graffiti matatu that was almost full. I boarded it and walked straight to the back left seat [let me call it a bench; it was not worth the name seat] at the window. I always loved observing as I travelled. I can say that being an observer has made me discover many things in this young world. Moreover, I understand undeniably that the sweetness of traveling is observing. Just when I was approaching the seat, I noticed it had a hole at the center of the worn out cushions. I could not settle myself proportionately. I had to seat at a certain angle making sure not to injure my sciatic nerve in my less adorable gluteal tissue.  Inside the matatu were a whole lot of alarming warning stickers and images of those musicians we here on radios. The tout hang around shouting in tantrums as he hang around like an empty bottle of liquor. The engine started and for whatever reason, I had to stick to my seat until I arrived at my destination.

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Dr. Jaoko, His Range Rover And The Club

Taste Me and Become My Prisoner

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Its 5 am on a Wednesday morning; the air is quite wet and it is drizzling lightly. The sky is a bit dark with the stars disappearing gradually as the dawn dawns. The path is muddy due to last night’s heavy downpour. Puddles and murky pools of water are all over the façade of the ground.

 

Mr. Jaoko has just left the bar towards home. If you are a pseudo-medical analyst, his ataxic weak gait and diplopic sleepy eyes can give you an estimate of the alcohol-dosage he devoured.Alcohol was his dearest friend.He had clung to it like vines on a rock wall.The insensate personality in him kept predominating 100% as he scuttled home. The humid, damp, clammy climate reduced Mr. Jaoko to a limp wet rag.

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the TEMPTING WAVE

By: KEN N SPERANZA

she was left alone at 9 yrs in this horrid world

she was left alone at 9 yrs in this horrid world

She had already lost hope in life when her parents succumbed to HIV when she was 9 years old.  Generally, they were poor and lived that life that most people in the world can never even imagine. The shimmer of success that had remained in her shredded into thin air.  She did not know the next step to take.  For the first 2 weeks after the demise of her last guardian, Joy Atieno locked herself inside the house crying day and night. She did some cooking for survival using the last grains that had remained. She knew that at some point she would have to go outside and beg for food and money. She also knew some of her girls who had ventured into the prostitution business commonly known as the ‘late-night-ladies’. She did not want to be in such a business herself. Joy respected herself and her wellbeing.


The 3rd week had commenced and she did not have any food at her disposal. She had to get outside the house and look for something to feed herself. She was a minor but she had a great vision on survival skills. She started marauding the slum looking for girls like her who had been derelict like her. At every corner she took, scary, imminent eyes were scrolling her from head to feet. All kind of men aged from teenage to married made sure they got a glimpse of her. She walked with that strong confident gait. She did not seem abashed by anything. Some men even went to the extent of sniffing her clothes as she passed through the old thatched ramshackle houses that were closely erected. As she was about to approach the main opening to the local town, a certain teenage boy who seemed gloomy spanked her behind in such a strong blow that she almost fell on the dirty looking flowing sewerage. She abruptly gazed behind her with her face grinned and her teeth clenched. She wanted to retaliate. However, looking at the rabble of ‘hungry’, ‘starved’ and ‘feminine drenched’ men who had formed a small congregation with the boy, she decided to continue walking and assumed the ordeal.

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the SILENT KILLER

BY : [ KEN AND SPERANZA ]

THE SILENT KILLER: POVERTY

poverty in africa

help and feel good enough to do it. life is really cutting off on these lonely hungry children of the poor parents

Throngs of white-washed faced children, with annoying streaks of faded urine plastered on their calf muscles. They are marauding the slum area playing around with puddles and discolored dirty-looking streams of water which occasionally form when it happens to rain. Looking from the horizon, the ramshackle settlements are closely built together in a bid to support each other. Theoretically, in any case one of the houses at the end fall, the entire row collapses with a thud! Walking in between the crowded aisles and cramped alleyways, all kinds of business men and woman have displayed their merchandise including food products on the walking pathways just above freely running dirty streams. This doesn’t make the slum people feel a bit nervous buying such products but it’s a norm and that’s what they live on. On the back of houses and on mountains of garbage, weak-looking frail mangy dogs scamper everywhere around the place. This is a place where plain Ugali (African Cake) is the only affordable staple food from January 1st to December 31st. as a reader, it’s hard to understand the kind of Economic strains some people go through. Where the residents wash their faces with puddles of water or streams that form whenever it rains. In this settlement, crime happens and death goes unnoticed. In the stalls, alcohol is cheaper to purchase than food thus most tend to stay on alcohol claiming that it takes away the pain of hunger. Where parents force their children to prostitution to at least bring food on the table. In such places, sex is the main form of entertainment between couples such that they have a number of uncountable children of which they can’t manage. This is the daily living of almost half of the world’s population.

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