The President’s Daughters

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The president’s daughter flew past me sprinting to only God knew where. She wouldn’t have even waited for me to leave the class.

I hated them. The world beat a path to their door. All they needed to do was just sneeze.

But not anymore.


Melisa’s iPhone vibrated with the arrival of a new SMS. Em, a quick ciggie b4 da next lesson, plz. Ditch Myra.It was from her sister, Macy.

Macy was the first to follow the teacher when the lesson was over. Melisa did not approve of her, but what the heck? They were the First Daughters. Macy was the Queen (she-devil) of the Braeburn Queens, a close-knit sisterhood of spoilt rich girls.

Myra watched her sisters from her silent corner. She was used to living under the microscope and public eye. She kept her life under wraps.

Melisa and Macy wanted to fit in. They were more of Muhoho Kenyatta than any other First Kids the country had seen.

Melisa made a beeline to Myra’s desk.

“Can you come with me for a sec?” Melisa told Myra. “A quick word with Macy, sister-to-sister…”

“Like I haven’t heard that before. I am sick of your…”

“Come on Myra, loosen up a bit. A little banter with your sisters shouldn’t come that hard. No offence…”

“None taken.” Myra glanced down at her art book. They were her sisters, only minutes apart. “Okay,” she said. “But make it quick. I want to be ready for the next lesson…”

“Who doesn’t?” Melisa snorted as she led the way to the bathroom.

Macy was surprised to see Melisa with Myra in tow. What part of ‘Ditch Myra’ didn’t Melisa understand? But Melisa winked and Macy toned down a bit.

“We’re all about a ciggie right now,” Macy said. “Myra, you have to…”

Myra looked at the door. “You shouldn’t smoke,” Myra said. “And if dad hears about this, let alone the headmaster…”

“Don’t worry. The president is not going to hear about this, ever…” a man’s voice said.

“What are you doing here Mr…?” Macy never finished what she was about to say.

A strong pungent smell hit them before everything fuzzed out.


The news was all about the triplets. The president’s daughters were missing. Somebody has already lost their job, I thought.

            The man had gumption. Even with his sweet Macy, Melisa and Myra missing he was stoic on national television, talking politics.

            Well, he was not going to pamper them again, never again, on taxpayer’s money, mymoney.

            He thought he was infallible, untouchable with the legions of police and secret branch protecting him. He signed draconian bills into law, and ruled with an iron fist beneath the façade of democracy.

            Let’s wait and see how strong he would be when his puppies fail to get his precious girls for him after a week, month, and years, then forever.


The mood in State House was sombre. It had been since Macy, Melisa and Myra went missing. There was no communication from the kidnappers yet.

            The president was trying to be strong for the country. He loved them more than life itself. He had been told that Myra was smart, intelligent and focused. She could even be the first female president for Kenya. But deep inside him he knew Macy was the one with a future in politics.

The First Lady could not help crying, on national television. She begged whoever had kidnapped her children to return them for anything in the world, even her life.

Then the kidnappers made their first contact in three weeks. It was a text on the president’s phone.

“There’s no ransom demand, and no demands. You’ll never see them again.”

Mira’s Love Affair

It felt like I was connected to my wife’s car by a tow hook. I could actually see her through the rear-view mirror holding her cell phone to her ear

Deaths of Right (Part II)

Take care of my children. His voice never left me. There were nights that I dreamed in such vivid detail that when I woke, I was confused, forgetting, for a fraction of a second, that I was in my bed. For the minutes that followed, the grief washed over me for the loss of a friend who had had my back, the uselessness of my life fighting for the imperialism of a country that didn’t care for me. Part of me wondered if the dreams would change, if one day they would be the same monochrome shadows of before Somalia.

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