Surviving ‘In between jobs’
This book took me back to my own experiences of job loss, which like any one who has spent their career time in the NGO sector is more than once. I reflected about the three key times I lost my job and
before maize there was mtama
Balancing on a board of wood The other side extends a greeting We touch in water and they desire to pull me under Beneath the weight of water and wonder The fear of gripping mud and becoming part of this tectonic movement
Bennu
I had seen the white bird before, but not this one. It stood tall, glittering in the sun like a great white boat as big, the size of a man; that I struggled to make out its stature as it floated on
god sees so much sex
The fuckle of creation, is in the deliberate sounds of nature The throttle of abandoned power and supplication The multiplicity of it in plain sight and multicolor The risk of death in reproduction and renewal in shared knowledge The path of a
Oyunga’s tough ask for Kenyan oaks to bend like reeds
MR Man Talk, Oyunga Pala has moulted, he would even want to think of it in religious ways like the Sufi, having died and returned; and with that journey he has acquired the great wisdom of journeying through the underworld. In his
My Side of the Street
One of the immediate feelings one has with Chris Lyimo’s book, MY SIDE OF THE STREET, has s that it is the product of good writing AND thinking. Whereas it is expected that such an autostorying of a man’s lowest moments, especially
princes of filament wings
Under the red mound built in spittle of gang workers without pension The last surviving termite mound stood on my door, The colony almost collapsing, from the poison I poured into the subterranean empire, like a farmer We will make it for
After the concert of life, village jingles call Francis Okomo
If any writer has grasped Shakespeare’s philosophy of life as a theatre with everyone having a role to play, then it is Francis Okomo Okello in his autobiography, The Concert of Life. His theatre is indeed a great concert, where he performed
Taban Lo Lyong’s After Troy
There is a master of the written word who follows no rules and takes no prisoners. He wears his skin as only a South Sudanese would and there is a fire in his eyes that even age cannot vicariate it smothering ember.
The vinyl thief
The vinyl had been replaced by the tape, the tape by the CD, by the flashdisk, memory stick, now everything's in the cloud. What chance did they have against virtual storage, but some few eccentrics and lost souls.
How to tour Diani in local hands
If they would throw him in the middle of it, he could navigate his way to shore. Floating like driftwood as the current sailed back on familiar tide.