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The epitaph on the grave she buried me goes like this: Here lies the control freak, self-absorbed SOB, egoistical commitment-phobe, snob, sloth sleazebag and a worthless excuse of masculinity.

Well, maybe I have exaggerated a bit, but the hyperbole is just the second edition of what actually she did (not) say before she walked out one me for a barely legal, over self-absorbed Jay-Z wannabe trapped and confused in the limbo of whether to be a man or forever a boy.
I guess now the only thing that we share is lifespans in futility alone, history on (un)fair(l)y tale  and big screen love written down tattered books of breakups history.

However, I can’t prefix whatever she used to be to me with ‘ex’. She’s still dear and close to me, and I hope she’d come back with tears in her eyes. I’d gloat for old times’ sake.


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Stolen from the Grave

I stopped crying the minute the ground swallowed my mother up, leaving no trace of her save for her photos that constantly reminded me of her. The mourning period turned into a tussle over what my loving mother bequeathed me.

Officer Down

The nine millimetre fired at point blank range. “You should have stayed where you belong. Get your fat pay slip and enjoy privileges that befit you; leave the streets we prowl to us. You were getting too close to us and made the connection that we are the most feared in Nakuru of late. If only you could get us better pay …”

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