The Break Up

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When my fiancée of three days, after seven years of dating, called and told me that she wanted us to talk, it did not occur to me that it was going to be so epic let alone turn out to be what it did.

Some people, when they say they need some time to breathe, actually mean it. Others just use it as an excuse to wander off into greener pastured fields, but to those giving the air to be breathed it seems like the end of the world, wondering when the hell did the rain start beating them.

She took me out for a five-course meal at a grimy street restaurant, and over dessert she narrated how she loved and cherished me, and had over the years. What was this? A celebration of love? Oh boy, hold your horses. More is coming.

When I had proposed she had said “OKaaaaaay”, not the classical response expected when the black velvet box is exposed to light and the lid popped open to show the world’s smallest cuffs, the ring.
So, my fiancée told me that she had thought about it over the three days (and nights) and resurrected with an answer (not) expected. She couldn’t!

“What?” Not like ‘what are you talking about?’ but ‘what the fuck do you think you are saying? Are you outta ya’ mind?’

Well, I had heard her loud and clear, and before I get worked up or jealous, it’s no one I should be worried about, her words, not mine.

Now, there we go. It was not another prince (un)charming who’d been caught in the sandstorms of Sahara on his journey across the desert to her and had arrived. It was a princess.

God, she was leaving me for another girl. Great, classic actually.

Imara Angani

The crew room at Laikipia Air Base was a flurry of activity and a cacophony of telephones ringing off the hook. Fighter pilot Major Ahmednasir Ramah sweated copiously inside his flight suit as he waited anxiously beside the telephone, glancing every few seconds at the crew-room clock.

Deep in his bones, he felt that either this mission would pass as a blip in his military career or it would be his last. Ramah held the telephone handset tight, raised it to his ear, and listened.

Street Mother

“I want to go back to the streets,” Grace Njeri said. “This is not where we should be.” “Mother, you can’t say that,” replied Shiko, Grace’s ten-year-old daughter. “We have

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