Lala mistress

Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! Went the clock, another minute, another hour, but nothing had changed. The lady tossed and turned, stretched and moaned as she slept. Every day she slept for 18 hours unfazed by the time that was lost. Sleep was her new god. For the 6 hours she was awake, she spent it plunked in front of a TV screen. Food wasn’t all that to her, but sleep was everything.

Sleep took her to realms reality never could. Hannah was a kung fu fighting, arms wielding salvation of the world in Lala land. Everything she wished she could be she was; she was a fancy TV show host with a body to kill one day, the other a soldier defending her country, the next night she was a Shaolin priest; at peace with mankind and God sharing wisdom and spiritual insights.

Hannah knew that was impossible in her daily life, the only thing that kept her sane and aware she was dreaming was the Tick! Tock! Of the clock and the relentless drip! Drip! Drip! From the IV tube keeping her alive. The IV gave her what she now needed; pain relief and sleep. Hannah had been hospitalized for six months, her reality was dull. Lala land made things bearable, hopeful and less painful.

Hannah was cycling in the morning, when a sleepy trailer driver lost control, and the shipping containers rolled off an ill secured rear. There was a pile up on the highway, and one car that swerved to avoid the pile up, rammed itself up against Hannah on the cyclists lane. Where Hannah rammed up against the nearby escarpment, most of her bones were broken up into pieces in her upper body, her left leg was amputated on the site. Even after surgery her leg was completely rejected by her body and was amputated again.

Unusual to this kind of accident, Hannah’s face escaped unscathed, her beauty was radiant despite all the bruising and swelling on other parts of her body. Despite her radiant countenance there was something about her bruising that told a completely different story.


Matrimonial Tragedy

The organ played Mendelssohn’s classic, the bride didn’t march, she glided down the aisle, her veil was very lacy; you could barely see her face… well up until her bright teeth shone through in a broad smile as she drew close to her parents. The groom stood tall, ironic to his minuscule stature. His bow tie was crooked, his best man quickly noticed and jumped at it to straighten it out.  The groom smiled nervously.

The bride’s parents took her by the hand and her mother began to well up. The bride reached the alter, a bouquet of daffodils in hand. The priest clad in a cassock inched forward and asked, “And who gives this woman to this man?”

The bride’s parents chorused and gazed into each other’s eyes as they said, “we do” handing over their only daughter to her husband to be. When that happened, the joy and muffled tears from the congregation was broken by the sound of shattered glass. A stained glass window had cracked wide open and a ghastly breeze shot through the cathedral; hats were violently ripped off hair and tossed around. Bare hair now stood frizzy and unkempt. Those close to the stain glass window got cut by the flying glass and screams spread from the back to the front of the cathedral.

The groom dove to the ground on top of his bride, his diminutive frame only covering the bride’s upper body. As they lay on the ground he lifted her veil and gazed into her eyes. “It will all be alright. You’ll see.” The brides face went pale and he mascara began to flow down her chocolate face. “Brian, hold my hand.” She cried out.

He reached down for her hand and was met with a cold sensation, he lowered his eyes to look at his hand; it was covered in blood. Whose blood? Brian had no idea. The screams in the church got louder and the breeze stronger, more stain glass windows shattered, the smell of blood began to fill the air. “This can’t be happening. God please don’t!” The bride screamed. The groom rubbed her back and kissed her face. “Baby, it is going to work out just fine.”

The groom asked the bride to stay where she was, he would be back. As he stood, some debris flew and hit him right between his eyes and he fell cold on his bride. She screamed a blood curdled cry. Then everything went dark. The screams grew louder, more prolonged and the air became thick with some sort of fog. The cries now began to mix with violent coughs, spitting and violent sneezing.



“If Jesus was my brother, like I could touch him, would I have been nice to him? Would Dad and Mum have rubbed it in my face?”

‘Don’t be rude to your brother! He’s the messiah!’

“Maybe when we were playing and I would push him, He would get up, dust himself off and tell the wound, ‘be healed in my name!’

“Or if Jesus was my big brother, maybe he would have been the bully?”

Everyone in the Sunday school class sat their stunned. Sarah had been at it every week. Last week she imagined herself as Abraham’s wife in the desert.

“Where would we shower? How would we brush our teeth?  What would we eat? How did Abraham walk being that old?”

The Sunday school teacher encouraged curiosity and would challenge these young minds. There is a day Sarah got so carried away with the story of Moses parting the Red Sea, she likened a boys partitioned hair to it. She got a biro pen and stabbed the poor boys scalp to try and drive the point home to the rest; to the amusement of all, except the poor boy.

But this Sunday, It felt like blasphemy. Teacher Amanda was tongue tied, all she could do is pray. She gazed out the window, and saw the Deacon passing by. The adult service was over. Sarah was still blabbering.

“And when he was speaking at the temple would I have been as wise as he was?”

Teacher Amanda explained the situation to the Deacon and invited him in.

“Hello Sarah?” His greeting cut her short. “Teacher Amanda tells me all about your wonderful questions…”

‘Yes Mr. Deacon!” She responded innocently, cutting the deacon off, about to continue from where she left off.

“How about we ask Jesus now?” Deacon responded.

“How?” The class chorused.

“Simply ask him, like you do in prayer!” Everyone nodded understanding.

Sarah wasted no time, she belted out her questions.

“Dear Jesus! Hi! It’s your sister Sarah can I ask you some questions?”

And that was how Sarah’s 85 year long journey of faith begun. Her grandson stood at the podium reading her eulogy. Everyone dying of laughter as he imitated the little girl voice she used to tell him the story in. It was a celebration of a life well lived, not limited by fear of others opinions. But one of a free spirit, nothing was out of bounds for questioning for the head of the Anglican Church.

“Had she been catholic she would have been Africa’s first female pope.” Adam, Sarah’s Grandson chuckled at the end of her eulogy.

The mourners laughed, stomachs aching and tears of joy flowed down their eyes. Just the way Great grandmother Sarah would have wanted.


Breaking point

Alarm went off! Angela hit snooze. An hour went by and the alarm went off again seeming louder this time! She pushed it off the bedside table near her bed and Clang! It was shattered. Angela let out a moan, like a cow being slaughtered and turned again.

She heard another distant piercing ring.

“What the hell?! I thought I killed that damn thing.” She said throwing her duvet off of her and sliding out of bed reluctantly to the direction of the sound.

She bent over the mound of clothes on the floor lazily. She stepped on something, then kicked the clothes. The sound got louder. She erected herself and stared at the ceiling, rolled her eyes and growled again.


Then she bent over again tossed the clothes aside and voila! There it was. She muttered something derogatory and then stood up. Her eyes squinted adjusting to the bright screen on her phone.

“It’s only 8 am.” she muttered. “Wait! What day is it?” She takes a quick glare at her phone showing the day and date.

“Darn it! Tuesday!”

Angela loathed every waking day. Her usual prayer before she slept was something God either delighted in not answering, or chose to ignore.

“Kill me God!” That is the one prayer she would not mind God answer instantaneously. “It really isn’t much for you.” She despaired.

It was now 8.45am. Angela was ridiculously late to work. She dragged her feet to the kitchen opened her fridge and stared inside deciding what to have for breakfast. She got a can of left over baked beans, whipped out three eggs and the loaf of bread. She put them on the counter and helped herself to some yoghurt. She served herself and sat, savouring every bit. When she finished she turned on the gas, realised she had run out of milk for tea.

“Darn it!”

Angela whipped up the baked beans, toast and an omelette, she chugged it down and washed it with the last bit of concentrate cordial in the fridge.

Again! The animal-at-the-slaughter inspired moan. She held her forehead.

“BRAIN FREEZE!!!!” She shouted.

Now wide awake and brain partially defrosting she dashed to the loo, flushed and hit the shower and hell fire visited. Again! The moan.

Face flushed and body steaming from hell’s furious shower, she trudged even more defeated to her room. She looked at her wardrobe draped in all her dripping glory. The wardrobe had nothing in it but a dress, a party “I had too much to drink and woke up in a random man’s bed” dress. The rest was in her laundry basket. She bent over and lifted some shirts and smelled them. A sniff followed by a sneer. She picked a trouser, saw a yellow stain, picked at it then licked it.

“Mmmh! Mustard!” She licked again to clean it off and threw it on the floor.

She shrugged, was tempted to call the office, now at 10am, to give a lame excuse.

“What the hell!”

She slapped on lotion, roll on and shrugged as she reached to the lone silver sequined mini halter neck dress. It was so tight she couldn’t wear any underwear. She twirled in front of the mirror and let out a sinister laugh.

“I.T expert my arse! Hehehehe!?” Angela walked out her front door, hand bag in hand and sneakers on her feet. It was 11am time to get to work.


Adolph & I

I told him that his moustache looked cheesy. He didn’t care for my remarks, after all the world was in his hands; well almost. If he could rule the world with that cheesy thing then being trendy wasn’t all a man needed to win a girl over.

He was sweet to me when we first met. Goodness, Dolphy still blows me away. You see we were at a rally, like everyone else, I had gone to meet this great orator. Stories had been told that he was invincible; his charm would impregnate women who would bear his children without any physical contact.

I have a soft spot for tall men, but when his eyes met mine at a rally, that fine Friday, I made a compromise. I knew Dolphy saw me. That afternoon the sun was kind and gentle, it was dishing out warm kisses to everyone. Cheeks were shiny and bright, children chuckled with laughter, some with ice lollies in hand with streaks of red, yellow or orange running down their cheeks. My dress was flapping in the wind and would occasionally lift slightly to reveal my supple mid thighs. I loved it when it did that; the sun would kiss and warm me up. It was an afternoon full of fuzzy feelings.

Couples walked, hand in hand gazing in each other’s eyes. Women twirled their sun umbrellas, men holding their gem’s firm at the waist and closer to their hearts. It was…how can I say it? It wasn’t just love… it was heavenly. Beauty, love and innocence filled the air. Then from out of nowhere, the ground beneath my feet began to shake.

A great force was moving towards me, there was no fear, just curiosity. Crowds formed and I pushed to the front to where we were now being cordoned off. I wondered what this was all about. Then as I craned my neck to see; there he stood majestic, powerful, yet his eyes said something different. There was a childlike cry for love. There he was…. Dolphy!

He stood and spoke. I heard nothing. I was enchanted by the movement of his supple lips. The warmth caused a slight sweat that run from the left side of his temple, down his neck, his piercing blue eyes beckoning me. His eyes moved through the crowd and zoned in on mine. I knew from that moment on that I was his.

After the address, before Dolphy turned his back on the crowd, he beckoned me out of the crowd. I walked to him and that was the beginning of a love that the world would never understand.



You see, James was an average student and like Collin Powell’s confession in his memoirs. James was a ‘C’ student. He was OK at Basketball, he was an OK kisser, he was an OK student, he was an OK child, an ‘in-betweener’, he wasn’t last in class and wasn’t first, he wasn’t quite right in the middle but he was close. He did his best, but he was well, a ‘C’, in everything he did.

If this was a superhero story, maybe he would have discovered a super power or maybe would have been from a wealthy family and bought gadgets to save the world. Or if he was smart, maybe James would have been bit by the arachnids he was studying. But not James. His parents accepted him as he was. They did not exert unnecessary over achieving tendencies common to Asian and African kids. And in return James took life in stride.

He never even bothered to aspire to anything. He had a ‘clothes in a store’ philosophy in life. No one will punish you for trying on different clothes you like, in a store, to see if they fit. So why the pressure, try it on. And if you like it; take it, if not leave it. Date that girl who smiles at you and see where it goes. Try playing rugby and see if you enjoy it and like it after breaking your limbs. Try smoking weed, is it really worth all the hype?

However much James was average in life he was perfect. Because he; as in childhood, was a man of moderation. He tried anything that fed his curiosity. And if it worked for him; great! If not, he moved on. It was amazing because by the age of 30 years. James had motorcycled from Nairobi to Capetown; he had tried out engineering as a degree, got bored and shifted to nursing. Then he opted to try an IT career after graduating from nursing. He had followed one of his sweethearts to the US for further studies and waited tables to get through the two semesters he schooled in the States.

He had bungee jumped, wrote a manuscript that was published. It was a ‘cute’ yet idiotic comic book. It didn’t do well; he only sold 50 copies, all relatives. It did not faze him. He just moved on to something else. Rapping. He worked on his first album, it did relatively well, he worked on a second and it flopped horribly. James moved on to try something else.

He gave teaching a shot and that is when he moved to Afghanistan. He dated a hot Military babe. You should see the pictures on Facebook. He lived and enjoyed it. James came back last year with her, and made the official introductions. He thought it was time to give marriage a try. He met her family in the states. They loved him. Then a day before they returned to Afghanistan, her ex showed up. He was a wrestler with WWE, needless to say, James’ trip to Afghanistan was cancelled and two weeks later he was headed back home with a sling and new dentures. He was beaten off as competition.

James wished his fiancé well. And like everything in his life. He moved on. But when he got home, something had changed. Mum wasn’t home, Dad was drinking daily and for the first time in his life, James felt, overwhelmingly, that he wasn’t good enough.


A- Meru-can

“We can’t do this anymore.”

Ella’s face froze. “What do you mean Mike?”

“You heard what I said! It’s not working.”

Ella just stood there staring at him in disbelief. A woman in a grey trench coat and fish net stockings about 6 ft tall and a large frame walked up to Mike and kissed him on the cheek. Ella’s jaw dropped.

“What the HELL MIKE?” Ella lost her cool. “You couldn’t do this in a more dignified manner?”

Their wedding was a month away, everything was set in motion. Just a few weeks ago they seemed more in love than ever before.

“Baby let’s go.” The gargantuan lass said in a deep voice.

“It’s not like we would have actually gone through with it right?” Mike sounded so oblivious to what he was saying or doing to Ella.

“When did this happen? Who is this thing you are with now? Was I the only one who was aware we were in love and getting married MIKE?” Her tone turned from flabbergasted to sarcastic.

“Love ain’t no thang?”

“Love ain’t no thang?” Ella responded sarcastically.

Mike hadn’t even left Nairobi, now he was speaking with a JKIA acquired ebonics accent. This had to be a dream. Was she blind, had someone hit her with a blunt object in the head? Maybe it was trauma. Maybe she was lying in a hospital bed in a coma and this was all a bad dream. Ella pinched herself. She looked at the she-man who was now stuffing Mike’s face in her voluptuous bosom.

“You’ll do great Ella! I gotsta do me!”

“Jesus hold me” Ella mumbled under her breath. She had missed something. There had to have been a sign in their relationship that she was blind to.

“MIKE! This is B.S! Where the hell is all this coming from? We were planning OUR WED-DING! You piece of crap!” Ella was seething.

“Baby doll…” Mike started as he tried to caress Ella’s face.

Ella smacked away his hand and then he got one in the face. “Baby doll my foot!” Ella retorted. Mike nudged her and directed her to walk away to the corner of the street. He signaled the she-man to stay.

“This better be good.” Ella started.

“Ella, here’s the truth.”

Ella crossed her arms over her chest and uhu-ed in muffled anger.

“Go on!” she demanded.

“ I…I don’t know how else to say this. But I….” Mike was interrupted by a loud thud and screeching sound.

He turned and there she was on the ground bleeding to death, the first part of this unusual puzzle that Mike was about to reveal to Ella.