Everyone is in a rush
School kids all over the place 'Is it monday?'
Yelling touts and passengers scurrying off
make up the rest of the bustle.
Two, three steps into the hustle,
A whiff of Omena tickles my nostrils,
'Mama mboga is late today' I think to myself.
Suddenly interrupted by a strong smell of detergents
Lightly coated with a tinge of urine.
Cleaning going on at the Ekotoilet.
Further into the jungle of metal shacks on motor and wheels,
Amidst calls for 'wanyee kabiria hamsini'.
Which suddenly changes to 'mlolongo mlolongo gari ya haraka',
and then another jumbled phrase I can not recall.
Ahead a sign board says 'Railways museum'
I exit to the left.
It promptly goes quiet....
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...
You wake up with the rising sun, Drench your blood in your favorite variant of nicotine or caffeine, You are wired to toil till the sun sets, Fueling at preordained intervals. The moonlight glow marks another chance to rest, To wait for the rising sun, and so it goes. Script n Rhyme by Shedyk....
Today, we shall lay to rest a man who wrote fifteen novels, bore three sons and a daughter, and waited to see tens of grandchildren. After 95 years, we finally mark the sweet leap to yonder of my mentor, the man who build a global media company from scratch, and shook the literary stage with a simple quake of his pen.
Death is a function of nature that must activate itself at some point. We have no sadness or pain or regret in allowing the African Bull safe passage into that controversial realm – the other life. But we’re joyous to look back and see what I call the Kingdom of Sweat, the palace of pain, and the era of making the impossible emphatically possible.
By all means I am proud that my grandmother accepted this man. I pray a simple thanksgiving to the gods who kill great men...