Posts

Mariah, Curry and Rice

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Dearly Beloved Greetings. Salutations I think I should be here explaining myself silly telling you why on earth I didn’t get that birthday post going, but before that, let’s all take a minute to appreciate the awesomeness that is the legendary Mariah Carey alias Daughter of the land, Queen of the pipes, Throat empress. If I were president for a day, I would not make any day Mariah Carey day, obviously . Rather, what I’d do is this, I would get up at around 9:28, cup my hand over my mouth and take a whiff of that presidential morning breath, send a shout out to the Man in The Sky, take my mobile phone and cancel my 9:30 am alarm. At 9:31, I would put on my bathing robe- a fuchsia blanket of heaven with a thread count made for the gods and walk around my presidential suite. I would then press the lime green buzzer on the head board alerting Zedekaya in the kitchen to bring me up my Soya which I will have in bed. A little pre-game just before breakfast also fondly referred to as,
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Pubs, Brassieres and Honey Glazed Potato Wedges

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I was headed home one afternoon recently. I had had this mutura craving the whole day and I finally caved, I went by the mutura place to get myself 50 bob worth of an herbivore’s intestines. There is a path I take from the mutura guy to my humble abode. The path itself is a delight. A total gem. On either side stand buildings; some semi complete, some fully complete, others just structures put together with sand and ballast. Most of these buildings are shops, salons, churches, you name it. Any money-making enterprise that can fit a 21-square-foot room. Further along the path, there’s a broken sewer pipe. That part is perennially wet. Come rain or Maji ya Kanjo rationing, this place is where the hydration is happening. If this part of the path were a person’s skin, then trust you me that would be one heck of a hydrated face. Glowing to the high heavens and not even one break out. Right after this small oasis, stands my favorite feature along this path. THE PUB. I don’t
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Eggplants and Supermarkets: A Memoir

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Type… type… erase erase… pause… stalk on Instagram… YouTube… type some more… shut the computer down, go out and buy samosa pale kwa Sanchez, pass by the barbers’ to pick up my USB drive, get back to the house, let Patricia in and leave out Puss in the cold (she has a boyfriend so…), chill with Patricia listening to her chastising me for being mean with milk, I decide to tell you this story instead. I love supermarkets. I do. There’s people who love money, others love their women, another group loves their children, and then there’s me, who loves supermarkets. There’s something about the aisles that has me going. The shelves stocked with things, most of which I buy just to hoard and some of which, like every normal person, I like to imagine myself buying. I like imagining myself buying a leather jacket and two brooms, adding Nan baby formula and eye drops just for the shit of it. I like imagining how the people around me will look at me as I lay these items out on the counter.
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Sipping On My Over-spiced Tea

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First of all Dearly Beloved, allow to me register my apologies for posting this here on a Monday, a day we agreed we shall loathe for the rest of our existence unless they decide to make it free nyama choma day pale Njuguna’s at Westy. As it turns out, we had a little bit of technical difficulties which we sorted out last night (God, I feel like one of those TV people whose faces are caked in foundation staring at a camera and reading things on the teleprompter) So, now that that’s out of the way, Dearly Beloved, I give you, Eve Kavenge. Chairperson of The Contemporary Africans Book club . Author of several publications on Wattpad under the pen name KEMUND books. User of turmeric. Slayer of rodents. Champion chapati eater. All round cool child. By Eve Kavenge: In the spirit of the month of love, I decided to use red font. This is about as 'festive' as I will get over Valentine's Day. Yes, I have been guilty of doing 'festive' things on this day. The class
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Zuma and The Telephone

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I have an aunt who says Vebruary instead of February. She also says Vavour instead of favour and she can easily call Fiona, my cousin, Viona. Yes, that is her child. She mispronounces her own child's name. Don't you just love parenthood? Away from that, so, you know I am huge on sharing you with anyone and everyone right? Literally pimping you out. Reducing you to a one of those people in school who demanded your soul in exchange for two pieces of meat on Wednesday. They were, are and will forever remain scum! Today, I decided to switch it up and instead of doing another post a fortnight after the last one, I got an individual as bitter as I am about not having a Valentine's Day date to share with us the true meaning of Valentine's Day. Here goes: By Emma Kwamboka. It is February! The month of love. The month where we are blessed with couples’ snapchat, Instagram, and now WhatsApp stories. Are we really? I know, I know, we should jubilate when others are happy. An
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Valentine's Day, Ash Wednesday, Churros & Childbirth

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I am supposed to write something nice and sweet about the month of love. Something that will have you wincing in pain at your own singleness, leaving you with that hollow feeling, a feeling that can only be filled by long hours of staring at couples on Instagram with their clear skin and white teeth, looking like purity and serenity in a tall glass serving. No? Just me? Are you kidding? You want to tell me you are part of these clear skinned individuals now? Oh please, I am obese not gullible. You know what, let’s jump right into it folks: TODAY’S POST! I believe Valentine’s Day was a day we created as human beings to give ourselves a tap on the back for surviving January. A rather lazy one at that. We hyped it with flowers and cake and wine and chocolate and all these things that give you diabetes, high-blood pressure and make your cholesterol levels sky rocket. But hey, who’s checking right? My father recently told us (mother dearest and myself) that he only recently knew ab
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