She was beautiful.

But so were her fellow flowers. 

She wondered why they never picked her.

Maybe if she was brighter, taller.


She died without realizing her purpose.


Puppy Love

Jump, lie down, roll over.

That I did for you, day in, day out.

I did not mind. 

It kept me fit and my heart open.

You learned my rhythm, at first with fascination

mesmerized by what I was willing to do for you.  

Soon your eyes glazed over, and out of boredom

or pure sadistic nature, 

you began throwing sticks at me. 

Jump, lie down, roll over.

That I did for you, day in, day out.

and though you missed at first, you became better.

‘Catch’ became the name of the game. 

Then it turned to metal rods. 

Your aim was perfect but it hurt to catch.

My gums became sore but for you 

I did my best, all with a smile.

And so the game continued.

Jump, lie down, roll over.

That I did for you, day in, day out.

Until you threw a knife. 

In my denial, I stood mid-motion

between a jump and a land. 

I thought it was a mistake so I 

spit the knife from my bleeding mouth,

only to have you throw a knife 

where my roll  would stop. 

Jump, lie down, roll over.

That I did for you, day in, day out.

I became a cautioous fool for you and continued to not

Jump, lie down, roll over

but to roll over, jump and lie 

anything to miss your daggers

that you now threw with vigor. 

Finally I fled. 

This young one learned a new trick. 

Jump, lie down, roll over.

That I did for you, day in, day out.

But no more. 

Dagger-ed hearts don’t pump blood.

‘Haunted’ House: A true story

The first three or four times it happened I thought I was losing it. Not in a ‘Wambaire, time to check you into Mathare Mental Hospital’ way. No. It was more of the basic concern for my sanity. I think I said a brief pray at one point, and my fear was quietened with a reminder that A, angels were watching over our compound and B, we are covered by the blood of the Lamb. It wasn’t a full sermon. It really came to me just how you are reading it. For this reason I knew that the devil was not upon me.

(Okay my elder brother, the topic of this post, has just let out a loud and rather frightening laugh from downstairs. My heart is still pounding. Shee!)

Then it became habitual. At this point I knew that my mind was being played with.

My brother would call my name from his room. It was never loud; he wasn’t really calling out. He would use a conversational tone but I could hear it from my room (we share a wall). I would call out ‘yes?’ or ‘sema!’ but my response would be met with silence. I would call him back and ask him what he wanted to tell me but he would respond that he doesn’t know what I am talking about. I would then insist he called me, to which he would respond with, ‘Ai, Wambaire sijakuita.’ and as time progressed, ‘Wewe umechizi.’ (You are crazy)

I came to terms with this mean pastime and I altogether stopped responding. If he wanted something he needed- and still needs to- call me more than once for me to respond. That sentence feels odd.

One morning my younger brother said to me in a rather concerned tone that he keeps hearing someone calling his name. As his shrink and fellow victim I assured him that the ‘someone’ was merely le frère playing games with him. With my new found confidence, I would once in a while tell off my dear darling sadist brother for pulling such a psychologically messed up game. He would always give me a blank stare.

Oh he’s good.

So during our December family holiday, his boldness reached a new height. We were in a restaurant waiting for our dinner and because some big football teams were playing, the bar was rather noisy. The translucent glass wall that separated the bar and the dining room was not doing much to reduce the noise of the riddims that the DJ started playing after the match ended.

Right there, on the table, he called my name.

I looked up. He was looking elsewhere. His body language showed that he had not called me but I am betting my sanity on this- HE DID CALL ME! So I lost it; in the ‘no this is too much’ sense of the word, not the other. I told my parents what torment he had been subjecting his younger siblings to and boy did they laugh. Not the response I expected but at least now they knew. My brother denied the allegations with a straight face. As my mother began to tear up, as she usually does after a hearty laugh, this prankster started tapping my wine glass with his unused straw (he was on flu medication :D) saying that it was the alcohol bothering me. I was two sips in. And the wine was for digestion purposes. You know how indigestion and constipation are rampant during holidays…

He was told off, if I could use that phrase, amid outburst of laughter for traumatizing and harassing my younger brother and I.

A month later and he is still at it. Not as frequently as before though. I still ignore. He is however asking me whether I am okay a bit too much nowadays. He randomly calls me, I remain silent, he calls me again, I respond, and he goes, ‘Uko poa?’ (Are you okay?) I find this rather odd.

So readers, it has been a one week three days since my last call… 😀

Oh!  And mother last week confessed to me that she thought she heard her son call her.

Much later…

We had just finished supper and were lazing around the living room when my mum told her eldest son that she had heard him call her (mom) twice already. 

The conclusion was that he should not drive the entire family to a mental hospital because he needed us. His conclusion is that ‘kuna majini’ (there are ghosts) after-

Come to think of it, he never denied pranking her. He just laughed!

A new breed of writer’s block

And it is called Sufferingcom Safaricom internet.

I tried to load pictures of our December family road trip but because of how slow the net was I gave up. Besides, we are already halfway through January so what would be the point of uploading them anyway?

Aside from that I had tried blogging twice before but could not think of anything worth writing about (case in point) and it got worse when I noticed that almost everyone and their mothers are getting babies blogs. I really wondered what to specialize in and after talking to a friend, I settled on short stories. You should be seeing those for the next while.

I will however not let go of the Coffee Series. It is dear to my heart. And stomach.

That said, my editor (pressure!) tomorrow will be working on a story I sent him and by nightfall it should grace your timelines and reader’s list! Joy!


I have for the longest time had daydreams about almost anything under these skies including being a president’s wife aka Thee First Lady. I know. It is sooooo… not likely. I have nothing against presidents (not unless they are like Fitz) but I need to be able to have and enjoy uninterrupted and judgement-free mood swinging days. In peace. Back to my point. So I thought to turn this time-wasting activity into short stories. However forgive me if they initially appear to be more of scripts than prose but this should get better with time.

Till then!


Somewhere between Meru and Nanyuki