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Posted by on in Spoken Word

©AmarePoeta 2012
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Posted by on in Essays & Novels
In the ten-by-ten shack, Maina, four years old, is writing his home assignment. Kamau, Maina’s dad, drunk and angry comes home. He wants to know whether his pregnant wife is carrying his child or not. He storms the house and descends on her with blows and kicks. Battered to near death, writhing in a pool of blood, Kamau raises a stool above his head in order to crush her skull. Maina, bolstered by anger, sinks a kitchen knife into his dad’s spine, killing him instantly. Now thirty-three years old, Maina is haunted by his past and tortured by poverty. He enlists himself into violent robbery. Then Love raids his life. Nyawira, a beautiful woman, steals his heart, begs him to quit robbery. He relents, but with serious financial implications. He must find an alternative means of survival. Maina becomes a matatu driver. Their first child is diagnosed with heart failure, depleting...
©Oduor Jagero 2014
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Posted by on in Essays & Novels
Roger was a hacker. The companies he had wronged hated him; the ones he’d helped to secure their systems adored him. But his peers, especially novices in IT, worshipped him. He never wore official trousers, shirts, or jackets. He never owned a pair of official shoes in his adult life, and he had a phobia for neckties. He bathed twice a week, never combed his hair, and could easily vomit at the smell of perfume.  He never, ever, wore socks, and his feet sweated. It was difficult to work with him or sit by him because of his pungent odor. His girlfriend said he smelled like sh!t, but she also confessed her addiction to his brainpower. They had dated for six years without having sex. Sex, according to Roger, was disgustingly messy, unhygienic, and more addictive than cocaine....... . . ..  . Oduor Jagero is the 2011 African Playwright winner and...
©Oduor Jagero 2014
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Posted by on in Short Stories
If anyone had told me that I would one day be seated across a table from James Bond at a fancy restaurant with three full pages of the menu dedicated to French and South African wines, I would have scoffed at them and walked off. Yet he had called me out of the blue to propose a business venture. My real estate holdings needed a pick-me-up after six dry months in a black hole of obscurity and the usual weekend company, Lisa, had run off with another group of friends for a weekend getaway I wasn’t feeling up to. Saying his name without leaving behind a trail of curiosity about my manner has always been a challenge. I had a flared red hot crush on him exactly eight years ago, but there had never been a chance at anything more than the usual strained platonic relationship. I was seeing someone at...
©S.Ogugu 2014
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Posted by on in Poetry
I street Sweeper, I could you tell you my dreams! While I sweep, sweep clean all the alleys and bins, When I sing, sing songs of the cars and the clothes, That maybe one day, would give me a face and a name.   I street sweeper, I move, move because I am invisible, I know, know because I have no voice, I am allowed to see, see because I am blind, This is why I am trusted with the secrets of this city.   I street sweeper, Have a kanga for the naked and mad, Pick up the wrappers and packs, Of a population of people who have no time for people, Who are without face, without name!   I street sweeper, Take whatever scraps remain, Make a home of whatever is strong, And a meal at the brink of rot, A song of the city dwellers.   I street...
©AmarePoeta 2014
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