A fast forwarding movie of my dreams being ruined played in my mind—education, job, prosperity, and a family I had thought we’d have together, a happily thereafter kind of a…
Kenya’s Genre/Pop Literature Writer
IN PRISON TWENTY YEARS, I got out today. No one would have said it was a sentence too lenient or an amnesty too early.
My mama always said a mother would kill for her kids. Should kill for her kids.
One chilly morning, just as I was getting home from work, my anorexic, pathologically thin, model-beautiful preteen daughter rushed to me naked, crying.
What she had been telling me all along and what I had been ignoring—because I trusted too much, leaving no room for doubt—came hurtling back. My self-proclaimed pathological liar-cum-womanizer-morphed-sexual-predator husband had raped her—for the umpteenth time.
I checked my daughter’s insides; she was wet.
My beloved, wretched husband of thirteen years, whom I too had neglected due to my job demands, emerged from our daughter’s room in a post-coital trance, not even caring to spare me the sight of his rumpled pyjamas. What father preys on his daughter despite how immodest she appears?
All my sensei-inculcated tactics and many police-paid-hours in a Japanese dojo came instinctively. A round-house pirouette got him by surprise. Before he hit the ground, I had already put two bullets in his heart with my service revolver.
It was a high-profile case with a high-octane media frenzy. I was now part of statistics of rising cases of police officers killing their spouses. The only twist was that I did not end my life in the process of giving crime reporters a field day.
‘Guilty as Charged’ was my plea.
For twenty years, I have lived with hard, die-hard incorrigible criminals caged like animals at Lang’ata Women’s Maximum Security prison, people I had sworn to hunt.
That love for my Sweet Tracy has kept me alive in prison, but now I am out.
I would be glad to go back there if someone ever laid a finger on my daughter.
The truth—and the secret—was that I was a staid erratum and a product of paedophilia extended beyond consanguinity bounds over a protracted period. No wonder Mom hated me so much—I…
In my days as the reigning Miss You, I met, and slept with, men of all sizes, shapes and ages, the old ones coming first, then the young ones later…
He got to the toilets in time to see his brother. The latter was in class seven, handing over money to Waweru, the oldest pupil in Olympics Primary School, Nairobi,…
MY BEST FRIEND FOREVER, SHARON, is mad about Jack dumping me for an obese, post-menopausal version of his granny. Jeez, isn’t it disgusting for a twenty-something hunk, presumably with brains…
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…
In their three-month come-we-stay trial marriage, Brenda had performed every function—and did it so cheerfully and with obvious pleasure—from the most menial tasks to hard labour (with no strokes of…
RINGS COME JUST AS EASILY as they go, I thought as I inventoried the list of things my wedding planner gave Chrissy and me earlier in the day. My track…
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.
“HOW MUCH DOES A JUDGE cost?” my father asked me.
“That depends,” I said.
“Well, that’s all justice is about in this republic.”
HAVE HAD MANY WOMEN in my life.
But no one is like Salome—no human woman can match Salome. Angel embodied.
“When I look at humanity today, I feel sorry for being alive. We live the gospels of damnation to the dire neglect of the true gospels of salvation.” Pastor Winfred…