If you find yourself 1-v-1 with an avocado and say, “Hii nitakula kesho.” You have already lost that war.
Jesus has always been box-office. You can tell by how the church, and in extension, religious organisations have been serving...
The villagers are made puny by the backdrop of stoicism in the face of the comrades, which loom like colossi and then by the event itself. It’s a kamikaze mission. A comrade’s death is a cenotaph, buried deep in the unmarked graves of our hearts.
Porn is like potato chips. They may taste good, but will never fully nourish you and is not sustainable as a diet. Sex without intimacy is just empty calories.
Walking in Nairobi is John Wick searching for his dog. Walking in Nairobi is realising someone killed John Wick’s dog, and thus everyone has to die. No town can been more loved or more hated. Depending on who you ask, Nai either “brings it all together,” or it is a sunlit mortuary where “you can rot without feeling it.”
Roaches are the wretched of the earth, the Twitter of pests, so it wasn’t long before I found myself slaloming my way through Moi Avenue, past Tom Mboya Street and into the badlands of Luthuli Avenue for the antidote.