I stood gazing, trying to tattoo it on my would-be memories when the time would come to remember it. I wanted to paste it on my soul, imprint my being with its essence. I had to dip myself and saturate in the trueness of what my eyes were seeing.

My guardian angel is one sad fellow who walks around with his face contorted into an ugly scowl like a Kenyan whose salary has delayed for a day. He never says it but I know the kind of thoughts he harbors in his mind about me. He thinks I am pathetic.

Sarah is a Visual Artist with a background in Human Resource. She worked in a digital marketing agency when we first met. We would later meet again this year at the Go Downs Art Center.

I grew up in the arms of a queen,

Who got married off to a man more of a grandfather than a husband at the age of ten.

At the age of thirteen, she was selling tea in the school’s canteen,

Belonging is a funny thing. We spend our whole life searching for it in different places, but it’s never ours to take. It’s always something that must be given to us.

The atmosphere in the car is tense. Kim opted not to change his plans for the sake of Family Time and my parents are doing a horrible job of pretending that they are not seething. The small talk is pointless, as always. Kip and I retreat to our …

Dead dried up purple flowers were spread all over the compound. No more were falling, the tree was completely bare. The old man sat beneath the jacaranda tree, looking for what shade that could be found underneath the branches from the scorching sun…

The rain was just beginning when I reached the apartment block. Big, fat raindrops that hit you with a certain kind of impatient ferocity, as if they too had felt delayed up in the skies by the rain gods who resided high up in the mountain of Kirinyaga and who, some farmers whispered among themselves, sometimes slept on the job.