

### E.A. Friday Feature

### September 2015 Anthology

Stories from East Africa

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015, **EA Friday Feature**

Written by:

Annemarie Musawale

Maureen Wakarindi

Vincent de Paul

Dora Okeyo

Elly Kamari

Disclaimer:

Characters and Places in the stories are written in a fictional capacity, any resemblance to actual people in real life is coincidental.

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

***

Stories

By

Annemarie Musawale

Bitch Better Have My Money

The ringing telephone woke her with a start. It was so loud and insistent. She was used to the soft tones of _Westlife_ on her cell phone.

Who kept these old-fashioned clonkers around anymore anyway?

The phone wasn't even a touch phone, but one of those old ones, which had to be at least thirty years old. The telephone was fitted with a Dial, Automatic, 21FA. This had a number ring with black figures on an antique silver background and a transparent fingerplate. The dial cord had spade-tags at one end for connection to the dial terminals and ring-tags at the other for connection to the telephone terminals.

Diana hadn't seen its type since she'd been no more than a tween. But now here she was, in Back Water Australia, on a sheep farm, unable to sleep for fear of some king cobra curling itself around her. Confronted with the shrilly ringing contraption that used to be a communication device back when the earth was cooling.

She reached out hesitantly and picked it up.

"'lo", she said sleepily, her voice rough and cracked with disuse.

There was no one else to talk to for miles.

"Di! You're still alive. That's great. How's it going?" Andrew's cheerful voice danced down the line, sharp and clear as if he was in the room with her.

"Fuck you, Andrew, and the wagon you rode in on", she replied, her voice lowering even further and hardening.

"Aww, don't be like that Di darlin'. Hey, it coulda been worse. You could be here right now, facing the lynch mob known as your creditors."

"Or I could be in the Bahamas, spending those millions you promised me," she bit out, poison in every syllable.

"You could I guess; except..."

"Except you're a goddamned motherfucking liar is except!" she shouted at him.

"Di, Di, Di...come on. I told you the risks when you decided to invest your client's money with me, didn't I? I was upfront and honest about all of it. Not my fault you got greedy", he said, voice dripping syrup and toxins in equal measure.

Diana sighed rolling her eyes even though he couldn't see.

"That's what I get for sleeping with the enemy I guess. What do you want?"

She heard Andrew sigh on the other end of the line.

"I just wanted to check up on you babe, see how you were, if you're doing okay. How's my brother treating you?"

"Like poison ivy. He dropped me here in the middle of fucking nowhere and took off!"

"He's a busy man Di, you have to cut him some slack."

"Sure thing, babe. I'll do that. Just as soon as I see him again. I'll definitely cut him _something_."

"Hey, I won't call you again if you're gonna be like that."

"Like what? Pissed as all get out?"

"Yeah. Like that."

"Well fuck you, Andrew. Fuck your brother _and_ your mother who birthed you both."

"Tsk tsk. Language my dear. You still want me to get you out of this jam you got yourself into, don't you?"

" _Jam I got myself into!! You fucking bastard_ ," Diana's voice was so high, possibly only the bats could hear her.

"I'm hanging up now," Andrew said and matched his actions to his words.

Di was practically foaming at the mouth she was so mad. Upside though, she wasn't currently thinking about snakes or snakebites.

"Did you get the location?" Andrew asked the CID officer standing beside him.

"Yes. Good work, that was long enough," the cop replied with a curt nod.

He turned to his fellow officer and said something _sotto voce_ to him. Then he turned back to Andrew.

"Once we have her in custody, you're free to go," he said.

"Thank you, sir. I was just an innocent bystander. She's the one who was the mastermind. You'll see once you bring her in, she can tell you where all the money from the pyramid scheme went."

The officer just gave him a non-committal nod and left him in the room to marinate. Andrew could see them outside, discussing in low tones. Probably planning to get in touch with authorities in Australia to see if Diana Lucifera could be extradited to Kenya for prosecution. Andrew didn't know how strong the relationship was between Kenyan police and Australian police was. It was the furthest point in the globe they could think to evacuate Di when they found out that the police were closing in on her. Andrew had kept completely out of the limelight. He couldn't imagine how the police had gotten his name. But he was a con artist first, ex-lover second. He wasn't about to go down for something when he could pin it on someone else.

Di had no proof he was even involved in the pyramid scheme, let alone the mastermind. Good sex could do that to a person; it made them sloppy and careless. Andrew had learned that lesson long ago.

A cop came to return him to his cell. A little greasing of palms had made sure that he was alone in there, and a cleaning lady came by twice a day to keep it spotless. Also, those pizza deliveries from pizza inn were like clockwork. It was good to be flush with cash, especially in these hard Kenyan streets.

Di lay back on her bed thinking hard.

Why the fuck would Andrew call her? And for seemingly no reason other than to raise her blood pressure. There was more going on here than met the eye and Di's spidey senses were tingling. She didn't like it one bit. The last time she'd ignored her spidey senses, she'd ended up on the run with a target on her back. She sat up fast, looking around the room for her bag. She had not unpacked it so it was the job of seconds to swing it up on her back and exit the ramshackle she was in. She had a hundred thousand dollars cash.

Time to disappear where _no one_ knew where she was.

***

Never Complain, Never Explain

Roy was walking in the woods, studying the tall redwood trees, looking for the perfect one. The one that would hold his weight without cracking and turning his suicide attempt into an embarrassing accident that would probably leave him with a broken leg or worse. Of course the leg would take forever to heal and it would probably get infected and kill him slowly and painfully.

That _was_ the nature of HIV after all, wasn't it?

It turned the body's attempts at healing into a joke. The thought was almost enough to turn Roy Lestrange away from his quest. But no, fuck that; he wasn't waiting around for the grim reaper to take him slowly and painfully. He didn't want to hang around until the skin diseases had the whole town knowing exactly what was wrong with him, maybe shouting 'fag!' as he passed. He wasn't no fag. He didn't even understand how he'd gotten the disease. All doctors were liars. And that bloody scary witch his mother had taken him to, who'd confirmed the diagnosis was a liar too.

Suddenly the sun came out, bathing the glade where he was in magnificent light.

It was heartbreakingly beautiful and Roy wanted no part of it.

How could such beauty exist amidst the ugliness suffusing his soul right now? Why hadn't this darkness killed him already? Or at least overshadowed the light so that he didn't have to remember that there was more than disease and sickness in the world?

He slumped to the forest floor, leaning his head back against a vast redwood and looking up into the sky with despair. He howled his grief and rage at the heavens. There was nobody to hear him here after all...

Suddenly his vision began to blur, dizziness overtook him and he clutched his head in confusion.

"What?" he asked nobody in particular, realizing he'd shut his eyes when he opened them again to find a huge, naked, black man peering down at him.

" _O hola si_?" the man seemed to be inquiring...in a language Roy had never heard before.

The man seemed to shimmer in front of him and then turn his head to look deeper into the woods.

" _Báareende liikeenda,"_ the naked black man said peering into the distance.

"I.don't.know.what.you.are.saying," Roy said with angry emphasis.

"Get out of here. The Ageless One approaches," the man said in perfectly good English.

Roy frowned wondering why the man had to spout all that foreign shit if he could speak the language well enough.

"Who's the Ageless One?" Roy asked.

He wasn't moving just because some naked black man told him to. Suddenly there was an inexplicable mist in the sunny glade and the man he'd been speaking to was just...gone.

"What?" Roy asked no one again looking frantically from side to side.

Was the disease giving him dementia already? He'd heard that was possible. Then he heard voices approaching and scrunched himself low against the tree. For some reason, he didn't want these new guys to see him.

"...Even the slaves are getting restless," a deep baritone was saying as the shushing sound of feet on leaves indicated that they were coming ever nearer.

Roy scrunched lower down against his tree.

"There is nothing to be done but wait, Armand. The slaves are restless because they know their freedom might be nigh. _Might._ They've been waiting a long time," the second voice said.

This voice had a lower register than the first, like car wheels over gravel. It also shook with a timbre that Roy had not heard before. If he were a guessing man, he'd say that this one was the 'Ageless One' that the big black man had mentioned.

Come to think of it, the naked man had been covered with scarring over his scary tribal tattoos. The kind of scarring produced by whipping, if Roy remembered his history books correctly. Were these the 'slaves' these two beings were discussing? Had he somehow traveled back in time? It was all very disconcerting. Suddenly, Roy found that he just wanted to go home to his mama.

He made a small sound, which to his dying day he would deny was a whimper and then started when the shuffling on the leaves stopped abruptly.

The two had stopped walking.

"Did you hear that?" the baritone inquired.

"The whimpering? Yes I did. Nothing to be concerned about. In fact Armand, there is nothing going on right now that need concern you yet. Why don't you go back to the hospital? Play craps with Bernard and just wait? You will know immediately when they begin to play your song."

"It's easy for you to say. _You_ haven't been waiting millennia for this." Baritone...or 'Armand' sounded a little sulky.

"Oh Armand, ever the impatient one. I have this to tell you. Already the signs begin to manifest; and whatever will happen, it will be soon. Your wait is almost over. There. Satisfied?"

'Armand' laughed bitterly.

"Your idea of 'soon' probably doesn't match other people, Mama Ruth," he said.

"Indeed," she agreed, "But it certainly matches yours..."

Armand sighed.

"I will go now...because I realize I cannot get anymore from you. One more question though, the Andrewes witches...?"

"Again, my eye is on them and when something happens, you'll be the first to know."

"The animals gather outside their shack every night and simply stare. Did you know that?" he asked.

"Armand, the swamp is full of mysterious things. If we wondered at all of them there would be no time to do anything else", the 'Ageless One' sounded tired.

"In other words, you already know why they do that," he said.

"Go home Armand," she replied and this time, the tone of command was unmistakable.

The one called Armand was silent for a bit and then he said, "As you wish, your highness".

There was a terrible disturbance in the air and then after a time, the birds in the wood began to chirp again. It was then that Roy realized they'd gone silent when the black man appeared. Roy looked around him, searching for signs of danger but all he saw were motes of light dancing on the leaves.

"I need to get out of here," he murmured to himself as he hastily got up and got moving.

****

What If

Mary Magdalene woke up late, her head throbbing with misery.

Newsflash. Tequila was really the devil. Somebody needed to tweet that. Not her though. Someone else. She could hear her notifications going off at the rate of a mile a minute and she knew what it was about. She knew she was being trolled like nobody's business.

It was that nude pic that Rick had posted of her. Her friends had warned her about him being a nasty piece of work but did she listen?

Nooo, she went ahead and let him woo her into an affair. Even though she knew, he was married to that Paris chick. He _said_ his wife didn't understand him; that she was cold to him in bed. He'd been so needy. How was Mary to know that he was a stinkin' liar? Well...okay, maybe there were signs. For one thing, his Facebook page was full of pictures of him and his supposedly cold wife doing fun things together. Rick had told her that it was all show. Just for the cameras. That as soon as they got home, Paris barely spoke to him.

Who was she to dispute that? Heaven knew she'd never been married so she didn't know that married people did or didn't behave like that. Besides, he was so nice to her, so attentive. He picked up every time she called, texted her like two hundred times a day. It was intoxicating. Plus, there was that Mazda he'd bought her for her birthday – to show her how much he cared he'd said. Okay so it turned out to be leased and she'd had to pay like a thousand dollars, which Rick had neglected to pay...he'd apologized so sincerely. Said he'd forgotten to pay that cash and promised to pay her back. I mean he was so sweet!

Who wouldn't be taken in?

When he'd asked if he could take her picture naked, just so he had something to look at when he was lonely, how could she say no? Besides, they were really classy. Only one really showed her cunt; and it was a pretty cunt anyway; all womanscaped and such...she was proud of it. In fact, Rick had also promised to get her some cash so she could have it vagazzled. I mean, how cool would that be?

Then...last night, she'd gone to surprise him at his club appearance in Miami and she'd caught him tongue wrestling some other chick. Some tall blonde leggy slut with obviously plastic double d's and a body modeled on Barbie.

Mary hadn't been able to control herself. She was so mad. She'd grabbed Rick's drink and thrown it in his face, badly stinging his eye. Then she'd called him a cheating liar and left the club. Too bad that TMZ had been on the scene and taken a video of the whole thing. Worse, Barbie girl found Mary's nude pics on Rick's phone and posted them online. Ever since, she'd been getting nasty messages from trolls and she didn't know what to do.

**rickswife67** wrote: _Kill yourself bitch. You're nothing but a husband stealing slut!!!_

**nastygalzsquad** wrote: _Your vagina looks like it smells of patchouli and regret._

**videovixen78** wrote: _If I ever find u anywea nia ma man I'll burn your nipples off cunt_

**kissmyattitude** wrote: _Whore. God will punish you for being a husband stealer_

**songsoffireandice** wrote _: if u wa in GOT they'd have made u walk in the street naked already. SHAME on you._

Mary scrolled miserably through her notifications, looking for she knew not what. Would it stop soon or would she be hounded off social media forever? She couldn't leave! Social media was her life; she might as well be dead without it. She tried tweeting positive uplifting messages to maybe shame the trolls into leaving her alone but they just responded with even more gusto.

**kissmyattitude** wrote: _You have nerve to even get on here with u're fake messages. We know who yu r bitch._

**pharisee123** wrote: _yeah, go on run u're lil bitch ass outta here slutty mcsluttington. How you even show your face? Your cunt looks sick_

**devotee101** wrote: _YOU HAVE AIDS!! YOU'RE GONNA DIE_.

**fiftyshadesoffierce** wrote: _bitch u luk lik a man. Ugly ass vagina._

Mary threw her phone across the room with an anguished cry. It was the new iPhone 6 and the screen cracked as it hit the linoleum. Mary screamed even louder. She wasn't anywhere near finished paying for that thing. Now it was broken.

"God!" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks in despair.

There was a soft knocking at the door. Mary stopped crying to listen.

"Mary? You in there? I heard screaming. Are you alright?" a soft voice floated in from the other side of the door.

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

Had her trolls found out where she lived?

"My name is Jesus. I live just down the hall from you?" he said.

Mary hesitated for a moment but then shrugged. If this was her day to die from some crazed ax man at her door well...it was a good day. She was just about done. She opened the door to behold a Persian guy of middling height, long brown hair tied in a ponytail low on his head and beard flourishing on his face.

"Is everything alright, Mary?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"I guess you don't do social media much huh?" she said.

Jesus smiled.

"Not really," he said.

"Come in," she said stepping back and letting him into her apartment.

"Thanks," he said as he stepped in.

He reached down, and picked up her phone, handing it to her. Inexplicably, the screen was repaired.

"Is there anything I can do for you Mary?" he asked.

She smiled wryly.

"Can you stop people trolling me on twitter?" she asked.

Jesus smiled and kissed her forehead.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"Consider it done," he said and suddenly the constantly beeping notifications stopped. Mary stared at him.

"Why...? How...?" she stammered in disbelief.

Jesus smiled.

"Let him who is without sin, cast the first stone," he said. "Or tweet as the case may be."

Mary bent her head, tears leaking in gratitude. Jesus stroked her hair.

"Go forth Mary Magdalene, and do not sin again," he said.

***

For those about to rock, we salute you

"You're fired. Have your things packed and out of here by noon."

Sam breezed into the office, throwing the information at Missouri as he passed. She stood up and followed him into his office.

"You said get it done, I got it done. What are you in such a tizzy about now?"

"You told Dean that our child was sick! Have you no sense of boundaries? . I want you out of here now or I'll turn our enforcer on you so help me," he growled, looming over her like a volcano about to erupt.

"Sam. I got the job done. You know he wouldn't have come back for anything less," she soothed, arms making calming gestures like there was a hope in hell that he could calm the fuck down.

AFTER WHAT SHE DID. there were limits. I mean sure he lied to Dean; he did. Mostly to save him from worry or heartache; NOT TO GIVE HIM A FUCKING HEART ATTACK!

"I need you to go, Miz," he bit out pointing imperiously out the door.

"You can't fire me," she fired back.

"Why not?" Sam asked, momentarily perturbed before he remembered that he was the boss here. _He_ was the rock star. People did whatever he fucking wanted. Not the other way around.

"Because there is a clause in my contract that says so," Missouri said.

Sam stared at her flummoxed.

"That's not true. None of my employee contracts have such a clause."

"Mine does."

Sam drew himself to his full height and folded his arms, hazel eyes narrowed as he glared at her.

"Let's see it then," he said.

There was a flash of light and then Missouri was holding a paper. On first glance, the paper seemed to flame with an eerie otherworldly glow but then on second look it was just an ordinary parchment. Wait. Parchment? They didn't use parchment to write employee contracts.

"Sam Winchester, erstwhile boy King. The witches didn't exactly bring you to other-Earth out of the goodness of their undead hearts. They needed you here so that you weren't there to stop something from happening. I am your very own guardian witch and you _can't get rid of me_ ," she said her voice slightly lower and hoarser than Sam was used to.

"What did you do with the real Missouri Moseley then?" he asked.

It was the first thing that occurred to him. That Missouri existed after all; and if he could find her...maybe, she could help.

Redheaded Missouri inclined her head to the side.

"She's a vegetable confined in a mental institution by her family for her own good," she told him.

"Oh relax," she said when she saw him flinch. "She was there long before you came here. Some of the things she saw were a little too much for her poor psychic mind to take. This wasn't your fault. It was a gap. Just like you and your brother filled a gap. Suck it up."

Sam was breathing hard.

"You caused me a lot of trouble, Miz," he said.

She was nodding sympathetically.

"I know. I know. Who knew Dean would take his child's fake illness that hard? But, I'll make it up to you. I have tickets. To AC/DC," she said proffering them as if giving a two-year-old candy.

Sam's eyes cut to the tickets then back to her face.

"I can buy my own concert tickets, thank you," he said.

Her smile widened and she beamed at him.

"Not like these; these are exclusive back stage passes mate! And an invitation to the after party where Bon Scott will be taking requests. You know he didn't die in this realm. Can you imagine how surreal it'll be for your brother?"

Sam just stared at her.

"Give him the tickets. Don't offer to go with him, don't make him take you. Just give them to him as a gift and then back off and look like a lost puppy. I guarantee you; you'll be humping like the wolves you partly are before the end of the evening."

Sam Winchester so wanted to believe her. But, he was experiencing for himself the seismic shift that happened when someone you thought you knew has been lying to you about who they are for the longest fucking time. He reached out though and grabbed the tickets. Then he slammed the door in Missouri's face. He grabbed his phone and called Dean's agency.

"Winchester Security, how may I direct your call?" a female voice answered at once.

"Macy, I need to speak to my husband please," Sam said.

As far as anyone in this realm knew, Sam and Dean shared the same last name because they were married. It was a surprisingly easy sell. Dean had been pretty perturbed by that shit but for Sam it was just another lie that was maybe based in more truth than all the other lies they were telling. Okay, _he_ was telling.

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester. I'll connect you now."

Macy had been to lunch at their house more times than Sam could count. She had baby sat their kids on more than one occasion. Still, when she was at work it was always, Mr. Winchester for either of them. Sam listened to Dean's office phone ring, wondering if he would agree to even speak to him.

"Hello," he said in Sam's ear, intimate in the way only a voice on the phone could be. And what a voice Dean had. It was low and gravelly like honey pouring over grits. Sam loved it in a visceral way that could not be enunciated with mere words. He could feel himself stirring with arousal just listening to it. He didn't think that he and Dean had ever gone this long without seeing each other. Not in this realm anyway.

"Dean," he said and what he was thinking must have been reflected in his voice because Dean gasped. There was silence on the line.

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked, eyes closed, fingers crossed.

***

Stories

By

Maureen Wakarindi

***

Fear of Falling

As wedding dresses went, this one was beautiful, a true work of art. It was strapless and of the palest blue, almost white. The bodice was fitted with hand stitched tiny pearls that made the gown shimmer and sparkle. The veil itself was an heirloom and made of lace. The gown had been made to compliment the veil and it all looked perfect. As per her specifications, a long train had been made for her walk down the aisle. All in all, the dress was perfect.

This did not explain why she couldn't bring herself to wear it.

Once again, she turned her back on the dress and paced around the room. Once, twice and back again.

_She shouldn't even be here_ , she thought.

She was supposed to be asleep. Her wedding was five hours away. As it was, her helpers would be arriving within the hour to help her look radiant on her wedding day to the man of her dreams.

There was no question about it. She loved David and he loved her. Marrying him was a dream come true for her and a testament to their love story. Why was it, then, that she felt such panic? Such an overwhelming desire to run and never look back?

The Runaway Bride did it, and the aptly named movie had had a happy ending after all, right?

This could totally work. She'd dress in something more comfortable than pajamas and a robe and hit the road. Her suitcase was even packed, ready to go with her to her husband's home. One less thing to do now. Of course, she would leave the dress as a sign of goodwill and some sort of peace offering. She could be gone in ten minutes and none would be the wiser.

_Stop it, you are better than this_ , she ordered herself.

''Linda, honey, are you up here?''

She'd been so preoccupied with her thoughts not to notice someone was climbing the steps, and then her father stepped into the doorway.

"I thought I saw a light in here. What are you doing here, anyway? You should be asleep. Or are you too excited to sleep?" he asked.

She made a halfhearted shrug and chuckled with nervous energy. She hoped he couldn't read the thoughts running through her head.

He stepped more fully into the room and could now see her clearly.

"What is it? What's wrong? "

There went hope. She should have known. Her father had always been very close to her and highly attuned to her emotions. He could usually tell by looking into her eyes exactly what she was feeling.

"It's probably nothing. I'm just being silly. You know how I get sometimes. "

He would reserve judgment on that. He knew his daughter very well. While she was prone to being over dramatic and creating problems where none existed, he could see from the shadows in her eyes and lines of strain on her face that whatever it was, it was serious.

"Well, be as it may, since we're both up, why don't you just tell me what is on your mind? Let me decide if it is nothing or not. "

She paced around the room once again. Maybe it was time she shared some of her doubts with someone. She was glad it was her father; for she could be sure, he would listen and give her the best course of action.

"I can't stop thinking about the wedding. I'm terrified, papa."

"Now, child, tell me, what do you have to fret about?"

"I just don't know if I can go through with this anymore."

"Is that all? Honey, those are just wedding jitters. Every bride has them, I'm told. When you step in front of the altar tomorrow and look into he eyes of your beloved, YOU will be too busy thinking of starting your life together to worry about nerves and such. You'll see.''

"That's just it, papa. I don't think I'll be standing in front of that altar tomorrow. I'd planned to just run away before anyone woke up, but since you're here, tell everyone I'm sorry and that I really tried.''

"What are you going on about now?"

There was a thread of impatience in his voice now.

"Tell you what. Why don't we just sit down and you can tell me what's troubling you.''

He sat down on the sofa and waited for her to sit beside him. If he knew his daughter at all, she would blurt out what was in her mind in five, four, three, two, one...

"I just don't think that I can sustain a marriage."

There was real distress in her voice.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Well, I read somewhere that men like quiet, biddable women who can cook, clean and be barefoot and pregnant most of the time. I can't cook, I can barely clean and I am the furthest thing from biddable ever. As for barefoot and pregnant, certainly not for a few years. And have you read of the divorce statistics lately? They're spiking through the roof. I mean, sure we say that we are in love, now, but will we still feel the same two days from now? Two weeks? Two years? What guarantee do I have that someday I won't be just another statistic?"

What was a man to do but laugh after hearing such a speech? He laughed until tears of hilarity were flowing down his face and he almost fell off the couch, while she looked on as if he had lost his head. When he could get his breath back, he shifted to look at her.

"As a man, let me say that the person who wrote that book is a bloody fool. Men think that's what we want, but if we got it, we would be bored stiff within a day. But—

"Quiet. You always have to pick everything apart, don't you? Get that from your mother, bless her. Now," he continued calmly, "As your father, let me give you some advice. There are no guarantees in this life. If you find a good thing, you hold on to it as long as you can. Do you love him?"

"Of course I do."

What a silly question.

"Obviously he loves you, because he chose to spend the rest of his life with you, 'flaws' and all," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Who's to say he's not right now awake, pacing as you were, asking himself the same questions and doubting himself."

"Really?"

That had never been a possibility in her mind, but the thought of it now made her feel more at ease.

"If you weren't nervous, then there would be a problem. This shows that you care and will continue to care."

He laid a hand over her arm.

"Marriage is a risky undertaking, I will not lie. There will be days you love, days you fight and other days you will not want to see each other. But if you both put in the effort, I can promise you the love will come out on top. And that's what counts, right?"

He was right.

She could see it now, and it did not frighten.

She was ready.

****

The Haunting of Mystic Woods

The house sat on a clearing deep inside Mystic Woods. It was more of a cottage, really, with a slanted thatched roof, brick sturdy walls and crooked windows. Not a sound could be heard from inside or outside the house.

He found it almost by accident. He had been lost in the woods for days. It was rumored that Mystic Woods was haunted and that no one who set foot in it ever got out. As a paranormal investigator, he'd come here with the intention of getting documented proof of the existence of ghosts. Apart from the personal satisfaction he would feel over that, it would look great for the blog- _Bump In The Night_.

He had tried wandering around looking for a way out or another living soul, but had found nothing. He'd foraged for food and water, all the while hoping that he wouldn't be some wild animal's supper. He considered it a testament to his skill as a good researcher that he'd been able to avoid food poisoning and being eaten. It helped to know the names of plants and what they were for, as well as the habits of various wild animals.

The closer he thought he came to civilization, the more he found himself walking around in circles. To his tired mind and dehydrated body, everything looked the same. He had just been about to lie down somewhere and let himself die when he saw it. The only thing he could think of was, salvation was finally here. He hobble-walked up to the door and knocked. The door swung quietly inwards. If he had been in a better frame of mind, such a thing may have given him pause, but at the moment he didn't care. And why would anyone choose to live so far from civilization?

He went in.

The house was sparsely furnished. There were three wooden chairs and a table that looked crooked from where he was standing. A small area to his left was obviously the kitchen. There was a charcoal cooker, a few rudimentary utensils, and a tiny sink, more brown than white. The light from outside was muted by the curtain that fluttered at the only window. Who hang it there, he absently wondered, even as he moved to the sink for water.

When he turned the tap on, at first nothing happened. He almost cried, thinking about how close he'd come to salvation only to be denied. Slowly, brownish water started to trickle down slowly, and he ducked his head beneath the tap and begun to drink. He didn't care if the water was unhealthy; if he was to die, then he would die with his thirst sated.

Afterwards, seated on the floor after drinking what felt like gallons of water, he suddenly realized how quiet it was. It was like he was the only person in the whole wide world at that moment. Did no one live here?

And if anyone did, where were they?

Upon closer inspection, he saw a door that seemed to have been carved into the wall. In fact, he would have missed it altogether if he hadn't looked twice. Since he was here, he might as well explore. He opened the door.

There was a room beyond it. The only thing there was a bed. On it was a note. It seemed to be beckoning to him, so that he found his feet moving almost before his mind gave the order. He sat down and looked at it. It was a handwritten note, hardly legible as if the writer had been in a hurry. He started to read.

"If you're reading this, that means I'm dead and no one will ever find me."

His eyes bugged out at that. A chill of foreboding raced down his spine. He knew he should stop, but he was too intrigued. He kept on reading.

"I should probably start from the beginning. My name is Zoe and I'm a scientist. I first came to Mystic Woods to study why specific types of trees were going extinct. I came here with a group of scientists. Originally, we were twelve, but seven finished there work and left. The rest of us decided to build this cabin and finish our research here. It was a bit isolated, yes, but our company took good care of us. Every week, they would send us food and anything else we needed."

"The first winter I spent here was very cold. Temperatures were in the negative. You could hardly see more than an arm's length in front of you due to the snow that hampered visibility. If you stood in one spot for too long, you were liable to get stuck. Very soon, the company could no longer bring us what we needed and we were left on our own. My colleagues started to succumb to hypothermia."

The first time it happened, it was almost by accident. Ten minutes earlier, I had watched as my best friend on this project took her last breath. I looked at her lying there and I decided that if I was going to die, I would put up one hell of a fight. I was so cold and hungry; I would have done anything to change that. I must have blacked out for a while because the next thing I knew, I was seated beside her body with my teeth gnawing on her outstretched arm."

He had to stop now and press a hand to his roiling stomach. He felt dirty just reading this, but he knew he'd have to continue.

"Everyone says that any type of foreign meat tastes like chicken. I thought human meat tasted more like beef. Whenever I started to feel queasy, I told myself I was only doing this to survive. Well, miraculously, I got through the winter by eating all the others and using their clothes to keep warm. I could hardly recognize myself in the sunlight. I had clumps of dirt stuck to my body, I was really smelly, and my teeth were falling out. I went to a nearby stream and tried to repair the damage as much as possible. When I found wild fruits and ate them, I vomited everything in my belly. I didn't know it then, but my body had adapted itself to digesting human flesh only.

That is how it started. I would venture into the woods and look for a lone hiker every two weeks or so. With the right lure, they would come back to the cottage and it was easier to overpower them there. One of the side benefits of my new diet was superhuman strength."

A sick feeling invaded his insides. In another time, he would have been that lone hiker lured here by the promise of shelter.

"After some time, I became lonely. As you can guess, my kind of lifestyle didn't allow for friends. Any person I met was just food for me. I thought it was about time I got a pet, someone I could mold into my liking who would entertain me and keep me company.

The first time I saw him, I knew he was the one. He was carrying a backpack and a video camera hung around his neck. I could see a sleeping bag poking out from the top of his bag. He came into the woods with a group but soon, the others left him when it got dark. There was a rumor going round that Mystic Woods was haunted, that anyone who stayed there after dark was never seen again. Of course, that didn't stop die-hard ghost chasers from coming to seek out trouble. I found them instead."

"As for my mystery man, I captured him and took him home. I tied him up and treated him as I would a pet dog. He ate what I ate and he slept where I slept. At first, he was very resistant to my attention but he realized very quickly that he had no choice. He became an animal, my pet. I thought I could control him, but one day when I came back from hunting, I found he had broken free of the bonds. I tried to search for him but it was all in vain. He came to me in the dead of night and broke my legs."

"I decided to write this in my last hour so that someone may know my story. I know he'll be back to finish me off, and when he is done pieces of me will be scattered all over. One more ghost to add to the pile.

Dear reader, please go. NOW. He'll be back and—

The note ended in mid sentence. He didn't want to think why that was.

He stood up quickly and went back to the other room. When he heard the growl, he looked at the door and saw two figures. The sound had come from the one who was crouched down like a dog. As he, it, started stalking him, he knew he was finished.

They say that the last few seconds of living you see your life flash before your eyes. For him, it was knowing he would never go home. Wasn't it sad that no one would miss him much, or even think of looking for him until too long a time had passed?

***

_It had been a very good day_ , Zoe thought.

She had fresh meat now and all was right in her world. It would feed her and her pet very nicely for about two weeks, and then they'd have to find someone else. Not to worry, though. Now that the woods were 'haunted' there was no shortage of people coming around. It had been a stroke of genius on her part to create that rumor and make sure it circulated. As long as she made sure people kept disappearing, the story would stay alive and others would be lining up to replace them.

Thank God for human predictability.

***

A Mother's Love

She had the perfect husband. She had the perfect child. Why could she not be satisfied with both?

The suitcase stood just inside the main door of the house. It had a push and pull mechanism. It was pink in colour with bright yellow flowers embossed on it, a present for herself on her twenty-fifth birthday. Though it didn't look it, it was quite roomy inside and her rather substantial wardrobe had fit in very well. As for her, she wore a short violet dress, the one that skimmed her figure just so and made her look and feel like a million bucks. After all, just because she was going on a long trip didn't mean she had to look bedraggled. If that made her vain, then so be it.

She walked down the hall to look in on Mavis, her baby. Mavis lay there in her crib, one small hand curled up under her chin, dead to the world in her sleep, as if all was right in her world. To her, it probably was. I mean what did she know? She was only a baby, happy just to be fed and changed.

_Oh my baby,_ she thought, _why is it that after all this time, I still feel nothing when I look at you?_

Growing up she'd always wanted to be a mother. She had many dolls that she practised her nurturing skills on. Many were the times she created a tea party and made mud cakes to 'eat'. She watched her mother with her little sister and tried to emulate. To her, children were a delight and she couldn't wait to have her own. He or she would be loved above all others.

She met him, the man of her dreams, through a mutual friend and immediately knew her life would never be the same. They had what is known as a whirlwind romance, and before she knew it, he was her husband. She had a wonderful time playing house for real. He gave her carte blanche over the household. Maybe she didn't see him as much as she wanted, that it was extremely rare to find them in the same room at the same time, but he had to work, didn't he? How else would she get everything she desired?

Then she got pregnant, and it was the happiest day of her life. Who knew such joy was possible, that you could feel as though your smile could light up an entire solar system on its own?

It was a relatively easy time for her. It seemed like in the blink of an eye, labour pains beset her and it was a very fast ride to the hospital. After two hours, she held the baby in her arms and felt...

... Nothing.

She tried.

Oh, how she tried!

There is no one in this world who is without sin. What kind of mother did not love her own child?

Surely, that was a sin.

She had to leave. She just couldn't take it anymore, all the pretense. The child would get another mother, someone who would feel. She lifted her right hand, as if to touch the child's cheek, but she left it dangling in midair. Only a mother had that right. She, on the other hand, was just a woman who had given birth.

The door slid shut with a muted click as she closed that door for the last time.

***

Walking Straight

What am I doing here?

Once more, a stranger bumps into me, with enough drunken force behind it this time to almost send me sprawling to the ground.

Where was she?

She's supposed to be back by now. Going to the toilet, my foot! Who took an hour powdering her nose, anyway? You'd think the loos were in another county instead of just twenty feet away. She had probably gone outside to smoke, a revolting little habit she'd recently picked up.

I want to go home. I feel hot and dirty, and not in a good way. I can hardly see past my hand, it is so dark in here. The crush of bodies in this place is stifling, to say the least. Who knew so many people liked this band so much? I can feel my claustrophobic urges acting up and they want out NOW.

The stench of beer, cigarette smoke and sweat— do these people never bathe?—is revolting. As I feel the bile start to rise up in my throat, I strain once more and try to locate her, my sister.

Maybe you can't see her because someone slit her throat and she's even now bleeding out on the sidewalk, my overactive imagination taunts me. That can't really happen in real life, can it?

I pick up my Smirnoff ice and take a healthy swig. Clearly, I'm not drunk enough if I'm still noticing all these details.

How did I end up here?

There was a time I thought coming to this concert was a great idea. I mean, who didn't like Karma, the band? Certainly not me. Sure, some said their music was a little risqué and a lot offensive, but that was just part of the appeal. They had carved out a niche for themselves.

When I first heard they were going to perform at my local club, I think I screamed for ten minutes straight. It was a lucky thing I was alone in the house, or I would have caused ear damage. It wasn't a question of whether I would go, it was a question of what I was going to wear.

I was a little taken aback when my sister insisted on accompanying me to the concert. Our tastes in music were radically different and I did not see the point of her coming with me. She gave me some story about how she wanted to broaden her horizons and blah blah blah....

Personally, I thought she had no plans for the night and she was feeling out of sorts. The night of the concert, I could barely contain my excitement. I felt like the energizer bunny on speed. I was ready and eager to go hours before the event.

I got there to find that many others had decided to get there early as well. There was quite a substantial number of people. Who knew Karma had so many fans?

I had a plan for the night. Get in, enjoy the concert, and get out before I started to feel closed in and other people got drunk and stupid. In about five hours, tops, I would be back at home, warm and dry in my own bed.

What can I say about the concert?

Fun, amazing, stupendous, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.... Words have not been invented yet that can fully describe it.

I ran into my first hiccup of the evening on my way out of the door. We saw some of my sister's friends seated at a table near the door. When I would have walked right on by, already seeing my bed in my mind's eye, she stopped to say hi and so did I by default. A simple 'How do you do?' somehow translated into us sitting down and getting a drink in front of us.

So that is how I find myself here, cold and very irritated, moving steadily towards anger. When my sister gets here, if she's not lying dead on a pavement somewhere, I'll have to kill her. It's just the principle of the thing.

I look at her friends across the table, talking at the top of their voices about some inane thing or other. It is clear that they have long gone past merely tipsy to full on drunk. At first, they tried to include me in their discussion, but they soon gave up when I gave them one death stare too many. I know it's not their fault that I'd rather be anywhere else than be here, but do they have to be so loud and grating on the nerves?

I hear a laugh somewhere to my left. It sounds familiar, so I look and see my sister with a strange man. The stranger has his arms around her waist, while hers are holding onto his arms. What they are doing can be loosely described as dancing, though they are mostly whispering in each other's ear and laughing. It is clear to me that my sister has forgotten about me and everything and everyone else. I may be a soft touch, but I don't appreciate being made a fool of. With righteous indignation, I pick up my stuff and prepare to leave. I'm tired, cold and sleepy, so I'm going home. She can take care of herself.

Whoa!

Did I just get up too fast, or is the floor tilting because I'm drunk? There's a pleasant fuzzy feeling at the edges of my mind and everyone I see seems to be enveloped in a haze.

Oh no, I'm seeing double, double!

I look at the veins in my hand, the way they stand out starkly against my glassy skin, a surefire way for me to know I'm super drunk.

With the slow shuffling walk of the really old or sick, I make my way outside. The 3am breeze helps a little in removing the cotton wool from the space inside my head. Home is just a five-minute walk, along a relatively straight road. I can do this, I think in an attempt to bolster myself. I start walking slowly towards home, in that exaggerated straight-line walk of drunkards. I am very careful to watch where I step lest I fall. Honestly, how embarrassing would that be?

Wait. What's that bright light? Have I reached the end of my tunnel already? I squint and barely make out a car moving in my direction in the distance. The urge to laugh maniacally at my weird thoughts is almost overwhelming, I quell it just in time. A mad woman I am not.

I step out of the road, all the way out. Even though I think that the car is far, accidents happen. I will not tempt fate.

I walk for about ten minutes before it hits me that I've walked much farther than is warranted. I immediately turn around and start going back, a bit more vigilant this time. It is so dark tonight, I think. The streetlights must be busted again. Or were they stolen again? It is difficult for me to keep a straight thought in my head.

I catch the watchman at the gate to our estate closing the gate after someone else. I slip inside with a minimum of fuss, and since he's the chatty sort, he strikes up a conversation.

**Him:** _Habari, madam. Umechelewa sana leo_. (Hello, madam. You're late today)

**Me** : (knowing what he expects to hear) _Mzuri sana. Ni kazi imekuwa mingi leo_. _I just want to go to sleep_. (Very good. There was a lot of work today.)

**Him** : _Okay, madam_. _Uwe na usiku njema._ (Have a good night.)

**Me** _:_ _Sawa sawa. Pia wewe. (_ Ok, ok, you too.)

I move away, trying not to lurch or stagger, with only one thing on my mind- a queen-size bed with a brass headboard, a floaty mattress topped with a grey and red swirls duvet, and a mountain of pillows.

***

Stories

By

Vincent de Paul

****

Cursed Blessing

When I applied for a job in Kenya's first nuclear plant, I did not know that there was no plantation there. I did not know how quickly it would move me from Kibera to Huruma, drain the blood off me; how I would go back home desiccated, a husk of what I used to be.

Before this, we were living in an iron sheet structure I had grown up knowing only chicken resided in them. My wife was the famous _Mama Mboga_ who supplied the whole of Kibera with veggies grown from sewage farms. We survived fires that were known to ravage such estates of penury thrice. We blamed the government for our woes, waylaid and attacked government officials who wanted to make us their charity projects. We survived the government-sanctioned eviction by the National Youth Service when it was discovered that we were renting out the bed-sitters the government had built for us preferring our former Squalid Quarters (SQs) where toilets instead of birds flew.

Ten long years have passed and now I have few days to live. There is a motorbike outside my house that I should be looking for scrap metal dealers to buy. The Municipal tow trucks delivered the junk to my doorstep after my cousin whom I had elevated to working class succumbed to injuries after a street-racing stunt went wrong along Jogoo Road.

On my lap is my latest addition to the world, a bundle of disfigured joy my wife delivered two years ago. The girl has never spoken a word and though doctors tell my wife that our daughter might be late in her development, as though she is an infrastructure, I know that she will never speak.

Twenty years after nuclear energy was discovered in Kenya in 2011, the first plant was built. It opened job opportunities even for the youth whom the President of the Republic of Kenya (PORK) had been promising jobs since independence. It was a break in the economy and I applied for the Chief Security Officer position in the plant in charge of opening the main gate to the compound and keeping idlers from Mathare and Kibera away. The night of the day I was hired, my wife and I made what we called love till the large cock we were preserving for Christmas crowed telling me that it was time to go and report for work.

With my new social class, I moved to Huruma so the idlers whom I used to entertain at the Kibera's jobless corner for days on end wouldn't find a money-minting machine in me.

If they thought by our past association they would claim connections to the Chief Security Officer of the plant and canvass through me to get a job in the nuclear plant as engineers then they were mistaken.

But a year later, one of the reactors exploded.

The radiation spewed was ten times Hiroshma's according to the _Daily Nation_ newspaper pieces Maina of Kwa–Njugu's Butchery wrapped a meat for me with. The tragedy robbed the country of its beloved, men and women. Others gave up their lives, their future, to save the country – firemen, Red Cross workers, volunteers, disaster managers, the gallant Kenya Defence Forces personnel who had survived al-Shabaab's IEDs and ambushes in Somalia for two decades, and those who went to build the first shield to entomb the reactor. Over a million people died from the initial radiation. Another seven million were exposed to date. The result was a trail of cancers, genetic abnormalities and birth defects of which my little Ciku was a living testimony.

Up until when I was given six months to live three months ago, I did not know what I had done by applying for that job, even for generations, not until I saved the last meat wrapper from incineration by my wife who wanted to light the _jiko_ with it. Whatever my body gulped in gallons for ten years in that plant will live with me for generations to come. Up to my tenth, or even a hundredth generation, genealogy was forever altered – inoperable tumors, mental retardation, genetic configurations and other effects of the radiation that my body absorbed during my stint at the plant as the Chief Security Officer and passed it to my wife while consummating our love instead of rubbering it off.

***

The Human Shrine

I did not remember getting to the woods no matter how I racked my brain. What it managed to do was pump adrenalin into my body. I darted my eyes in all directions looking for a landmark to tell me where I was, or show me the way home. I did not even know whether it was Karura or Lang'ata forest in Nairobi. I figured that being in the woods was a nightmare I was waking up to, but I was not a member of the Night Runners Association of Kenya. Bodies were everywhere. Human bodies tied to trees, nailed to X crosses, stakes driven through their hearts, sprawled spread-eagle on the forest floor at odd angles. People painfully resting in peace.

When I commanded my limbs to move they disobeyed my orders. I felt like a commander in the battlefield whose soldiers had refused to take his orders. I then decided to do whatever I wanted my limbs to do myself. I couldn't. I was bound, hands and legs. Plan A failed. Plan B was to scream my lungs off but when I opened my mouth I felt as though I had swallowed coir. What came out was a wheezing sound of my lungs expanding and contrasting.

I tried to lift my head. I had forgotten how to do such basic human body things. I was in the Seventh Circle of hell. Or what else could explain the violence. The stench was overpowering. I finished taking stock and I lay back down, limp, lost in shock, horror, and fear.

Was this someone's idea of an April fool's day prank?

My friends trying to spook me on my birthday?

Halloween night?

But there was no answers to my questions. How could there be if those who were supposed to answer them were pitifully dead and roasting in the hell of the assassins, the tyrants, and the warmongers? I could as well see foul birdlike creatures with human faces making their nests.

Perhaps I entered into a catatonic state or I died before the cool night breeze resuscitated me. When I came to, I could hear whispers of people around me, imaginary footsteps in the eerie darkness. Perhaps I was in a tomb and fellow ghosts were trying to have a conversation with me to kill time but I was not understanding their ghost-speak.

However, my eyes managed to slide open, taking in a wide panoply of stars and luminous darkness and a familiar stench. The eyes wandered in the darkness and explored the night sky. I prayed to the stars to illuminate the way for somebody to find me just in case they were searching for me and were stuck somewhere in the night and wanted to give up. I felt lost and small, my mind and body shrinking and alone on a globe forever spinning like there was nothing going on. The stars moved according to the physical laws of nature, their dim brilliance only in my mind, a mind that was a concoction of fear, horror, and confusion.

The wind began to blow. Clouds were on the move. Some were dark, blowing themselves up like froth. They intermingled with greyish ominous whirlwinds of heavy clouds not enough to make rain. It seemed as though it was going to rain. It got darker and darker. Then, the clouds formed a larger monster cloud that went across the night sky swallowing other clouds up.

It looked like a dragon. I watched the dragon in the sky eat up everything on its way. There seemed to be no answer for my prayers anywhere: no one was looking for me. Maybe they had given up on the search and decided I was a statistic of those who went missing every other day, or I had eloped with a lover. Was I in a 'Missing Persons' report at Muthaiga police station?

I heard a twig break, and the imaginary footsteps materialize taking the form of light ghosts. I knew then that I was going to be thrown into the furnace of hot brimstone and prepared to gnash my teeth for eternity, but I felt hands on my shoulder, and my heart exploded.

***

"I don't even know why I give these stupid interviews as though repeating what I always tell you will undo what happened to me..."

"Jenny, it's therapeutic. It helps in healing." Doctor Oloo coughs and swallows the phlegm. "You are the only survivor of the ritual killings that have been going on in Nairobi. You have no one else to talk to, that's why I'm here."

I swallow hard. I don't need to be told how to deal with the trauma. If anything reliving it makes it worse. Why can't they let me be? Fighting my own ghosts is what I should do. What commander goes to war and lets his soldiers fight alone?

I'm alive, that's what matters.

"Jeez, you people suck," I snort before getting up to go.

***

Visitors of Warmth

When I least expected, the Pope called me. It was a call a little too late, and the conversation was clipped partly because we the Poor Clares are not supposed to have cell phones and partly because the wing where my dingy cell is cell phone network is weak. All other Clares had been asked out either by Cardinals or high-ranking priests. The previous night I realized that I was the Cinderella of Santa Chiara nunnery of San Severino and that I wasn't going to get my joints oiled by one of the rich and famous priests we always gossiped about in hushed tones when Mother Superior was praying her incessant rosaries in her refurbished cell. So, when I heard the Pope's Chamberlain's distorted voice telling me that I was wanted at the Vatican my heart somersaulted and landed in the pit of my stomach in anticipation.

After the three-hour ride, the chauffeured limo bearing Vatican diplomatic plates glided down Via di Porta Angelica and connected into Largo del Colonnato but veered to the right to a network of streets and lanes that led to the _Passetto,_ the secret passage between Vatican City and Castel Sant'Angelo in Rome, Italy. The limo parked outside the church and an aide guided me through the secret tunnel from the tomb of the Roman Emperor Hadrian to the papal apartments where there was a party going on.

It was a day of 'consistory' when the pope promotes cardinals. After the formal celebrations at St. Peter's Square, the newly elevated cardinals hold a private party. Selected nuns, commonly known as _visitator di calore_ (visitors of warmth), are invited to warm the church elders' beds through the night. Anything goes this night, from binge drinking and strip dancing to unprotected sex. Now you know why that nun gave birth and didn't know she was pregnant until she was taken to hospital after a stomach cramps attack.

I did not know I was the one to warm Pope John XII the Young's bed. After the meals, which were served on a naked nun lying in front of each crème de la crème of the Roman Curia officials like an offering, the Pope gave an awkward short speech with his hand around my waist. When he was done, he pulled me to follow him through the adjoining doors after telling the guests that they could leave at their own pleasure. For the rest of the night I was the high-class call girl nun I was supposed to be, the warmth of the Holy Father's bed.

Growing up in the capital of Kenya my parents tried to raise us in the best way they knew: baptism immediately the umbilical cord was cut, Sunday school, catechism and first Holy Communion at the age of eight, Church schools, confession every Sunday, the rosary, and the Crucifix which hung over our beds like a talisman. They did not see the contradictions in Catholicism. The priests were celibate but were caught in bed with married women, impregnated schoolgirls, sodomized altar boys, or they had secret families. The nuns dressed like the Virgin Mary yet they ran bordellos in the name of convents. Adultery was a crime punishable by stoning to death but my mother visited her toy boy every Wednesday afternoon. And then there was the confession; you hadn't sinned unless you had committed a mortal sin of which many a time I had to fabricate sins when I went for confession so that when I recited the Hail Marys and Our Fathers I was told to for my absolution I really felt God had forgiven me.

I whom was touted to be the Great Prostitute of Babylon right from Sunday school became a nun, while my sister whom everyone knew was to bring salvation to our family when she became a nun surprised everyone when her butt naked photos surfaced on the internet. Within no time she pumped her boobs and ass with silicon and with all her LL.Ms she became the perfect definition of a socialite according to the Nairobi urban dictionary – a young beautiful woman with tantalizing titties (anterior), big ass (posterior) and no brains.

During my candidacy and novitiate I was counselled out of it because there was still time not to take the bold step, but when I took my temporary vows against my confessor's advice, whom I was screwing, even the Mother Superior was convinced that I was truly called and chosen to be a nun. Then I took perpetual vows and instead of giving myself to God, I offered myself like burnt offering to the lusty ordained men of the Roman Catholic Church.

I did not know what the Church in Kenya saw in me that I was chosen to join Santa Chiara nunnery in San Severino, Italy. I knew I was going to serve the church in the Order of the Poor Clares, like Saint Clare of Assisi, the founder, only to be initiated into closely guarded secret church escort service.

This night, Pope John XII the Young shagged me rhythmically, as if having sex with an African was a mystical ecstasy. When he looked into my eyes, I wondered what it really felt to listen to people's sins and no one listened to yours. When he emptied his holy seed in me, he rolled onto his side panting. I almost called his personal doctor afraid his heart was attacking him.

In the silence that followed, when he was beginning to breathe heavily, I asked him, "Why John XII the Young?"

After a long silence, he spoke.

"Story goes that Pope John XII, who ruled from 937–964 AD, gave church land to a mistress, murdered several people, and was killed by a man who caught him in bed with his wife," the Holy Father said. "He was not pretentious, hypocritical. He was just human. There is no one in the world that lives without sin."

***

Mira's Love Affair

Ever since I was branded the newest kid on the block of Kenyan music, I have been making headlines. The fame is like canonization. I am a saint of sorts. The popes of hip-pop(e) beatified me in front of the crowds of boys who tore their shirts off for me to expose their dad bods and loyal overly hormonal women who threw their thongs at me on the stage. But before then there are ups and downs, untold unsuccessful attempts at this noble profession of gangster-wannabes.

Being a hip-hop musician is romantic, brassy, healing and rejuvenating. The rapping, the rhythmic and rhyming lyrics endears you to women both young and old. You are their fantasies come true, a god they can worship and sacrilege with.

Mira was the best of them all. When she bared her boobs during one of my performances at Carnivore, my mouth went like 'Whack!' stopping me mid-lyrics. Her perky breasts pointed to heavens as though her bust was thanking the gods of beauty for such a blessing. After the show, we went to my crib where we stood the whole night and the morning after I told her I wanted her to be mine for keeps. She knew the myriad ways of lovemaking, a woman so true to herself that I was a liar before her eyes. Her beauty was beyond convention, defied description.

However, Mira, the truest free-spirited woman I had ever met, told me in words so plain that we couldn't be on our fifth date.

"I was hungry for you, but now I think I don't need you anymore."

"Why do you say that, Mira?" I asked.

"Because we both have had what we wanted, there's nothing more left to want."

"Mira, I am sorry about my impulsiveness and haste. You can forgive that, can't you?"

"Yes, I can, but what I can't do is have a boy with me."

That stung, and I gave an exasperated sigh, wiped a thin film of sweat on my upper lip and continued.

"I'm afraid I love you. Hell, I love you, Mira."

Mira's mirth defied decorum. It was mockery.

"Come on, Dill, or whatever you call yourself. You are too naïve. That's why I said I can't be with a boy."

"I said I'm sorry for what I did."

"You are such a drool. I have a family, for fuck's sake."

"You're a big girl, Mira; smart and intelligent. I am sure you know what to do."

"And then what? Will you marry me?"

I didn't reply for a while, then I said, "Look, I..."

Mira stopped me with the wave of her hand like a traffic cop.

"I have a family, Dilman. I wanted a nice time. It's over. Limp on. In my world there's nothing like love."

"I can't help what I'm feeling for you. I want more..."

"Listen, my marriage may be on the verge of incinerating itself, I may not get what I want from my husband, but he is still my husband. I'm still married. I love him in my own way, and he does love me. We love each other. I can't give up all that to be with you. We wanted a good time, we have had it. Now let's move on."

"That's what I'm trying to do, but something always comes out of the blue and gets to me."

"Don't be stupid, hip-hop boy. I'm not one of your female fans who throw their pants at you on stage..."

"That's why I'm saying I feel something more for you."

"I may have cheated on my husband, I may be the cougar all the lot of you are chasing after to further your music career, but I am not that vile. Precisely said, I am not the type of woman you shag for her husband's hard-earned money, celeb boy, all for carnal pleasure."

"What makes you think I am not any better?"

"You are behaving like a school boy who has just had his first kiss."

"So, what was all this about? We are going to be like it never happened?"

"For jove's sake, a woman needs to be safe. I am safe where I am. I can't throw away years of marriage for stolen times..."

"God, Mira..."

"I've a family, Dilman. A husband and children I love very much."

"Look, I love you, and I want to be with you. I give you what your husband doesn't..."

"Yeah, drugs," Mira said, snorting. "You turn me to this fantasy girl I barely know. Truth is, I love this girl. That's what I want, but it's not what I need."

I touched her and she trembled. I wondered whether it was from the cold blowing from her car's fan or it was desire.

"Stop it! STOP! Nothing more happens. This never happened," Mira screamed.

"But you just cheated on your husband."

I wet my lips when I said this.

"Don't you dare blackmail me," she said, smiling even wider.

She knew something. She had her secret wild card to play.

"You, of all people, should not be thinking of playing that game, especially when a career like yours is pegged on business..."

I squinted at her and then everything tumbled on to me.

"That's it, celebrity kid. I appreciate you loving me, but boys love their mothers."

That stung like hell, but she wasn't supposed to know that much. Whether I had let my guard down or she had spied on me did not matter. Dating a cougar who could possibly further my music career was one thing, but that cougar knowing I was not just a user of the drugs I used to give her so as to have multiple orgasms was another thing.

She could talk. Women gossip every day. Who knew whom she could loosely talk to? Someone stumbling on such classified info could ruin political careers. Heck, the government could tumble if it was revealed that it was being run by a drug baron.

In my bag was a dirty bomb which was meant for one of my boss's rivals. It was too bad Mira had to die, but in war, there is collateral damage.

"OK, fine," I told Mira. "If you want it that way, OK. I will go."

But I knew I was not going anywhere, she was.

I got out of the car and headed to my house. As the gates closed electronically and her car's taillights disappeared round the corner, I dialed the number that was to detonate the bomb. Mira's car exploded. A fireball went airborne. It then plummeted down. I heard a deafening crunch, metal against asphalt.

****

Stories

By

Dora Okeyo

****

Rosemary

The house was along that street.

The address she stole from his computer had to be right. She held onto her bag and headed towards the first gate. She knocked and a face appeared right above her through a blank space.

"Hi, I am looking for a house and I think I am lost."

The face and the blank space disappeared then she had a clicking of metals before seeing a whole body. His eyes traveled the length of her body and settled on her behind taking in the diversion until they finally found their way to her eyes.

"Yes Madam."

She looked through her purse and then gave him the address.

"What do you want from the people in that house?"

"My boss sent me to deliver these flowers and chocolates for his wife and it is my first job. He said they should get to her by eleven o'clock before she leaves for work and I am lost."

The man looked at her again and then adjusted his belt. He pointed at last house in the lane on her left.

" _Asante_."

" _Karibu_."

She looked at the flowers and smiled. She hated red roses. Whoever said that red roses were the perfect declaration of love had clearly not seen white roses! Maybe he had but he was too attracted to the red to think clearly. She looked back and smiled again. No one ever questioned the delivery personnel. The security guard had been taken by her butt that he forgot to ask about the chocolates.

She walked on until she came to the gate and this time she could see through it. She saw an old brick house with a wooden door and a black metallic post box right beside it. There were flowers and a garden but her eyes could not see that far. She waited.

No one attended to her and so she reached for the button and pressed it. She did not know what to expect or how the lady would treat her, but she needed to do this. Her friends had told her it was stupid but she knew it was right. No one ever said that the truth was easy.

She adjusted the strap of her bag as the woman approached her.

The woman had a petite profile, short hair and was clearly beginning to show.

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"Hi."

"Yes..."

"Um, listen...okay, I am sorry to disturb you. I think I got the wrong house. Thank you."

She took a step back and was ready to turn and run but she heard the lady's voice pick up.

"Okay, it happens. Bye."

She stopped and turned back to her again.

"Do you need my help?" the woman asked.

"Hi, my name is Rosemary. I work, better yet, I worked at Imaging Consultants Limited."

"Yes, my husband owns that company."

"I know you do not know me, but I had to come here and face you because I know that it is wrong to simply think or live as though no one else exists and..."

"Do you want to come in? I am into my second trimester and I get tired sometimes."

"No, you do not want me anywhere near you, Mrs. Muli. I came here because I could not live with myself knowing that your husband had been interested in me when he was married."

"So...he cheated on me with you? How much did he pay you, Rosemary? How many times did he sleep with you and in how many hotels? How many times did he tell you that he loves you and that he is divorced? So, you have the guts to come to my home and show yourself, but why did you come here in clothes when you go to my husband naked? Why couldn't you come to me the same way you go to him so I could see what he sees? God will punish you, I swear He will—"

"You have every right to be mad at me..."

"Oh, SHUT UP! What do you know about being a wife? What do you know about being Richard's wife? If you have any dignity or sense of worth, you will leave and never come back... _nikikuona hapa_ , I swear I will kill you and cut you up before covering your body and placing it on his bed so he can sleep next to a corpse!"

"Mrs. Muli! I quit! I quit because he wanted to sleep with me and I refused, okay! You are right, he kept saying he was divorced and kept sending me flowers or paying for my lunch—but I wanted to come and see you, because I could not do what he wanted me to. I am not like that."

"So, now I should clap for you, Rosemary? If you quit, he will hire someone and she will sleep with him, so you have not done anything worth my applause."

"Mrs. Muli, did you ever work for Trans-Media seven years ago?"

"You looked at my profile. Yes, I did. If you are done talking, please leave because you have overstayed your welcome, Rosemary."

"It's alright, but you were in my position once and you slept with your boss."

"That was seven years ago, now, leave!"

"The man you slept with every weekend was my Father, Mrs. Muli. I did not look for you to validate my actions, Mrs. Muli. I wanted to see what it took to send my mother into depression and kill her, and I am glad that you gave me such a fine sight."

Rosemary threw the flowers on the ground and walked on. She had to secure another job so she could finish paying her HELB loan. She did not look back as Mrs. Muli called her for she knew that if she did, she might be tempted to forgive the woman. It had taken her seven years to find the cause of her mother's death.

***

Michael

This one's for my friend. I pray you and your husband will heal.

***

I find myself in between words written using this blue pen on this white piece of paper. You left for work today at 5:30 in the morning. You looked at me, stretched your hand to stroke my head but withdrew it as though I was a baby who could cause mayhem with just one touch. You dressed in the bathroom and left without taking tea or even writing me a note. You live as though I am a minefield and you're the Wanderer who has to make it through without losing a leg or an arm.

See, I noticed, not because I wanted to but because I could not sleep. I have not slept in a week and you think the medicine that doctor prescribed helps but it does not. I want us to talk and sit before the TV talking about _La Malquerida_ with you pretending to follow when you are clearly bored. I want you to look at me as you did before the voices started filling my head.

**It's always the voices.**

I can hear them and they are always coming after me.

Where were you Michael? Where were you when they insisted I follow them through those woods? Where were you when I fell and had to cry out for help as they looked at each other wondering what to do? Where were you when she flowed out of me as if she could not stand the filth that was within me? Where were you when the doctor had to say, "I am sorry for your loss," reading from the script of her career as though those six words could bring her back to me?

Michael, I am not going to see the Therapist or Pastor Mark. I am not going to talk to my mom or your sisters or my best friend. Tell them we are not entertaining guests and talk to me.

Look at me and tell me everything you have to say for yourself because I am falling and I am watching myself die every time I inch closer to the earth. You leave me in this house where our hopes for her assail me and expect to come back and find me cooking in the kitchen while listening to Xfm.

Michael, she died and your sisters stood there debating over who pushed me and what they would say to your parents. I lay there afraid to move as the trees parted to reveal the clear blue sky. How was I to know that no one visited those parts of the woods? How was I to know that whoever heard the children singing as they walked through that part would lose their soul? Who believes in such stories?

But, I heard the children singing. I heard their voices as beautiful as the sun that lit up the clear blue sky fill my heart with such peace before our daughter spilled out of me. It hurt. It still hurts and that is why I have not been able to close my eyes.

I closed them for a second thinking I could feel my legs but when I opened them, I had lost my precious one.

Our daughter.

You told me that night on our way back.

"Let's forget about it, baby girl. God has a plan for us, everything will be alright."

But you never looked at me again. We sat next to each other in that bus for three hours and you never said anything.

Was it God's plan to have your sisters trip me so I could fall in the middle of nowhere? Was it God's plan to have your family look at me like a pile of filth simply because I am not the woman they wanted you to marry? Was that reason enough for them to commit murder and then bring in God as a buffer?

Michael, you will come home tonight and find me seated on the kitchen floor waiting for you to read this letter. I cannot speak for my head is filled with your sisters' voices and laughter. You will read this and when you are done, you will reach out and finally hold me in your arms. You will sit there on the cold cement floor and hold onto me until I cleanse myself of every ounce of pain and anger through every teardrop.

When I stop for a while, we will have the _Ugali_ and _osuga_ that I shall have prepared and start...we will start because I know what I heard in those woods and I know now that they are not just stories. I know those children have our daughter and some day she too will sing for your sisters.

And oh...how I look forward to that day.

Sadly,

Your Wife, Maria.

***

A Concert of Their Own

Ben invited Nancy to lunch on his unluckiest day.

His immediate boss had uttered a long list of reasons why he was being monitored. The conclusion of that list had been on word **"underperformance."**

Daniel, the employee of the month, had sold three homes worth ten million. He on the other hand had sold one apartment and secured ten tenants. This was not good according to his boss.

In his words, "we expect the best and this is not the best Benjamin. Your colleagues bring in investments greater than you do and yet you earn the same basic salary. You need to do something about this. Consider it your first warning."

He'd walked out of that office smiling.

No one was to see him frowning or sad about being lectured. If they knew, he'd remind them that their commission depended on their sales. The employee of the month was proof of mismanagement of funds. He earned his commission and splashed it on his Mark Two car that never seemed to glide over a bump without a scrape.

So, when he received Nancy's text that she was busy, his heart went out to Njuguna's pub right across the street from his house.

He sent her another text: _it's okay, later love._

He sat down and went to back work. He had a list of clients in his database that he would follow up on to gauge their commitment to the organization. He pulled out his calculator and keyed in the figures of his sales. He calculated his commission and sank in his chair.

How could he have stayed here this long? He had wanted to start his own Real Estate Organization and resume school but somewhere between young single friends, readily available pubs and single women, his dream had faded into the background.

He was looking forward to having dinner instead with Nancy. They had been dating since January. In that time he'd learned that if she sent him a text he had to reply in under two minutes. If she talked about salon or somebody's dress or perfume or weave he had to look at her and nod just as he did in his Comm skills class!

He also accepted that she was the mistress of disguise every time she visited the salon. His new skills included naming weaves; so far, he knew Daniella, Isabella, and Sophia.

He left work an hour early to prepare for dinner. He dropped by The Green Restaurant and bought the best of their fried chicken curry and vegetable rice before stopping by Uchumi supermarket for some wine. Nancy loved the Four Cousins and he did not hesitate to get that.

He got home in time to pay Mama Flo for cleaning and dusting the place.

He then started setting up the house for that dinner taking his time because she'd be delayed due to traffic.

Nancy knocked on his door at seven o'clock still in her grey office attire. She wore nothing but exhaustion and before Ben could speak, she told him about the stupid traffic police who made the driver pullover and ignored them for thirty minutes. She couldn't alight because the conductor could not return their money. The woman seated beside her chewed loudly. The driver turned on Classic FM and the station lived on repeating the same songs.

When she stopped, she turned to him and asked, "I'm sorry, my day has been pathetic, how was your day?"

"My day was good love. I'm glad you're here."

"So, what are we having for supper?"

"Close your eyes for a minute. I know you are tired but _tafadhali_ I promise it won't take long."

She closed her eyes and he turned on the lights and his music player. He walked to the middle of the room praying that she would believe in him because he did not at that moment.

He was shaking when he said, "Open your eyes, Nancy."

"Ben is that Mozart?"

"Yes, I know your dream is to attend one in New York, and I swear you are the only person I know who loves this kind of music, so I thought why not have our own concert here and now, just the two of us, and ask, will you marry me Nancy?"

"What? Ben, yes! Yes! I will marry you, and now I feel so stupid. I was all about my day but you had this prepared for me. Thank you, sweetie, I love you. Wait till I show my friends!"

"Let's eat then. So you really don't mind this?"

"How many people listen to Mozart through their home theater system in Nairobi? Don't you like how it fills the house?"

He didn't but she did and in that moment, Ben and Nancy loved each other in their own little concert.

****

Stories

By

Elly Kamari

***

The Red Kanga

"Do you remember...?"

Kuria glanced at the woman perched on the stump in the middle of the clearing. She had a new red _kanga_ tied around her hips. Her green blouse, made of soft silky fabric, clung to her curves. She'd covered her hair: that glorious long dark mess, hidden with a green headscarf. He couldn't see her face because she was staring at the green grass at her feet. She held a stick, poking at the ground as though searching for answers in the soil nourishing the green blades.

"Do you remember we used to come here when we were kids?"

Nostalgia clung to her words; brought back memories.

"I remember," Kuria said with a wistful smile. "I remember you never covered your hair those days."

She chuckled, poking at the grass faster.

"I had time to play with a comb then. These days I'm too busy."

"Busy is a state of mind, Shiro."

Kuria shifted, pressing his back against the rough trunk of a tall tree. Hundreds grew around them. He stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and stared up at the waving branches above. The sun sifted through, rays of light falling on the stump in the middle of the clearing, highlighting Shiro. It looked like a natural spotlight.

She paused in her poking to glance at him.

"Are you going to tell me why you called me?" she asked. "I left _githeri_ cooking on the _jiko_."

"You always have _githeri_ cooking." Kuria scowled. She never invited him to eat it. "Who are you cooking for this time?"

She shrugged.

"The house is full of people. Stop worrying about my _githeri._ What do you want to tell me?"

"I went to the shopping center to get charcoal earlier." Kuria threw the blade of grass on the ground and crossed his arms against his chest. "I heard you were seen there with Chege. Are you two together now?"

Shiro scoffed.

"You're like a woman. Why do you listen to gossip?"

"Is it true Chege bought you mangoes from Mama Nora, or not?"

"The mangoes looked good."

Shiro tossed her stick and sat up straight, a frown dancing on her forehead.

"So, he bought you mangoes?"

"Ah ha," Shiro said with a nod. "What's wrong with eating mangoes?"

"I bring you avocados from my mother's tree and you sell them, but you ate the mangoes, didn't you?"

"Chege paid good money for them," Shiro said, as though that should make sense.

Kuria frowned.

The woman was going to drive him insane.

She just didn't see the point.

"I don't want you to eat anything Chege buys you again."

Shiro gaped.

"Did you hear me?"

Shiro stood up, her hands on her hips.

"You're going mad, Kuria. You can't stand there and dictate what I can or can't eat. Who died and made you my master?"

"I'm warning you."

"Warn away," Shiro said. "Keep going and I will go find Chege and tell him to buy me all the fruits in the market."

"I'll kill him."

"Then you'll go to jail," Shiro said. "Anything else you wanted to say?"

Kuria fumed, annoyed by her innocent expression. She had no idea how mad she got him. How angry he was that she dared talk with that Chege.

Why couldn't she see how he felt about her? Why didn't she care?

He thought about the avocados he took to her house.

Three afternoons ago, he'd climbed the avocado tree behind his mother's house and spent two solid hours picking each fruit with care. The trick with avocados was not to drop them from the tree. They bruised easy. Bruised avocados turned to rot.

Yes, he had carefully picked each fruit, and hauled two large baskets down the tree. He'd taken one to his mother, the other he kept for Shiro.

She thanked him with a smile. Ah that smile..., he glanced at her face now. That smile was missing. She didn't grace him with her smile too often, so when she'd smiled at him that day, he'd felt like he won the lottery.

Yesterday, he'd gone to take milk to the dairy and heard the women there talking about Shiro's avocados. Shiro had sold all the avocados he'd given her. It hurt to know she hadn't even tried to eat one.

"If you're going to scowl at me, I'm going home."

Shiro's irritation was clear and he pushed off the tree when she started to leave.

"Why did you sell my avocados? I brought them for you and your siblings to eat. Why sell them?"

"You brought a basket full. They would have gone bad in the house."

"They weren't ripe. You could have divided them and—

"I don't like eating avocados." Shiro sighed. "Don't you have a fruit you don't like?"

"No." Kuria fumed. "You used to eat them fine when I gave you a slice over at our place."

"That's because I didn't want to disappoint you." Shiro shivered. "I don't like the taste very much."

"What kind of excuse is that? If you don't like something just say it," Kuria said confused. "Did you sell all the avocados?"

Shiro nodded. "I sold them all."

Kuria scoffed and shook his head. "So much for my efforts."

"Don't look so disappointed. I used the money to buy this _kanga_. Do you like it?"

Kuria looked at the red _kanga_.

"My old one was fading." Shiro smiled and his heart jumped, the beat racing. Shiro's smile had that effect on him.

"What do you think?" Shiro prompted, touching the red _kanga_.

"It looks good on you," Kuria said, clearing his throat with a slight cough. He liked this pleased smile on Shiro's lips. He wondered what else he could do to bring it back. "I can bring you more avocados if you like."

"Will you?" Shiro asked in surprise.

"Yeah," Kuria said thinking his mother wouldn't notice one basket missing.

"Are you going to get mad if I don't eat them?"

Kuria shrugged.

"No, as long as you don't sell to Chege."

Shiro laughed and turned to leave.

"I'm going to finish cooking my _githeri_. You're welcome to come and eat it, if you like."

Kuria grinned because that was the first time she'd ever invited him to eat her _githeri_. She left the clearing in quick strides, glancing back once to wave at him. He stared at the stump where she'd sat, and smiled.

Yes, he remembered. He remembered every time Shiro met him in this clearing. Every laugh, every smile, and every argument they'd had.

One of these days, Kuria thought, he was going to propose to Shiro right here, and she was going to say yes.

****

_githeri_ – popular beans and maize traditional dish

_kanga_ – colorful wrap

***

Have a Nice Day...

Hunter picked up his guitar cases from the minivan's floor, and scowled when the snap broke and the case opened. He knelt on the tarmac, and placed the case on the ground, reaching for the lid, he paused, his gaze on the expensive electric guitar resting in the black velvet bed.

Hunter touched the surface with reverence. The surface smooth to the touch, he smiled as he remembered the first time he'd fallen in love with the guitar.

_Fourteen years old_ , he thought.

Listening to a random station in the back of his mother's house, Bon Jovi's _Have a Nice Day_ filled the air. Damn, he loved that song. He sang that song every day after that. Screaming it out like a maniac so all the neighbors could hear him. He sang in the shower holding the soap like a microphone, at the dinner table with his spoon for a microphone. He sang that song until his mother started calling him, 'Have a Nice Day'.

Of course, he grew out of the phase of singing _Have a Nice Day_ aloud when no one was happy to listen, but his love for guitars had increased.

At fifteen, Hunter cajoled his father into paying for classes at a private music school in Hurlingham. He winced at that memory. His father had used it against him for years...through high school really.

Every time he failed exams, his father would threaten to discontinue paying for the classes.

Hunter sighed.

As a result, he worked like a maniac in school. Studying hard, keeping top grades, all for the love of guitars.

Snapping the case closed, Hunter got to his feet and carried the guitar toward the entrance into the Safaricom Kasarani Stadium. His band was having three shows here, before moving on to Tanzania.

"Let me get that for you," a young man hurried to his side, holding out a hand, eager to take the case from him.

Hunter shook his head. No way, he loved this baby too much to give it to anyone else.

"Don't worry about it," he said, when the young man gave him a disappointed look. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Maina," the young man said the smile returning.

"Look Maina, maybe you can get me a large bottle of cold water. Cold, very cold."

Maina grinned and hurried away through the maze of corridors. Hunter hoped Maina would know where to find him.

"What took you so long?"

Hunter glanced ahead to find his bandmates watching him.

_His crew_ , he thought taking in the trio leaning on the wall, surrounded by management staff.

Hunter remembered the day he met them too.

Nairobi University, at a poetry discussion meet, they'd all sat in the back, listening to poems about the world ending. Depressed, they skipped out of the session, instead went to hang out at a local hangout joint, and ended up starting a band.

There was Jake, the band's drummer. Jake was an architect by profession. Then there was Troy. Troy had started out doing medicine before he ditched that major and pursued music. Troy wrote the band's music. Then there was Kate. Kate with her long thick braids, and catty eyes that could chill a man's blood, she was the band's bassist.

Together, they made up the rock band _, Furahi_.

Hunter held up his guitar and Jake shook his head in amusement.

"No one will steal it," Troy teased, crossing his arms, his drumsticks held in his left hand.

Troy never let anyone carry those either, Hunter thought in amusement.

"Stop teasing him, Troy," Kate said, moving to pull Hunter into the circle. "The back-up band is on stage rehearsing. I like their guitarist; he's almost as good as you, but he's missing the flair."

"No one is as good as Hunter," Troy scoffed. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have him in the band."

"Well, that's good to know," Hunter said with a smile, there was no ending Troy teasing him.

They'd all known each other for ten years. Lived through mistakes, bad decisions, devastating outcomes, and disappointments, Hunter could remember each one with a painful pang in his heart.

_Furahi_ was successful today, but it hadn't always been. Their bad days haunted Hunter.

As though reading his thoughts, Jake touched his left arm.

"They say the tickets are sold out," Jake said. "They are worried fans will riot at the entrance."

"That's crazy," Kate said, her amazed expression understandable. "We've arrived, folks."

Jake and Troy chuckled; Hunter just squeezed Kate's shoulder and nodded to their manager who was beckoning them.

The next two hours were exhilarating and nerve wrecking. Prepping a concert started months before, but the last few minutes before that first song, Hunter always felt as though the world was dancing on his shoulders.

Taking in a deep breath, he adjusted the black fitted pants and the metallic belt he wore. The band's hair stylist had his hair cut in a short Mohawk. He sometimes didn't recognize himself in the mirror. If it was up to him, he'd have a full on Afro like Lenny Kravitz, but apparently that didn't work for him.

Hunter shook his head, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw. Oh well, whatever it took to sell their albums.

Chicks dug the whole bad boy thing anyway, so...he sipped the water Maina had brought him. He'd had to give an autograph for the water.

"If I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd kiss you," Kate said coming to stand next to him.

She looked hot in leather.

"Dump him," Hunter challenged, wishing she would.

Kate grinned and kissed his left cheek before she walked away.

"Tease," he called after her.

"Time," the show's producer called into the dressing room setting off the butterflies in Hunter's stomach.

He performed thousands of shows, for thousands and thousands of people. Still, that moment before a concert always got him. Hunter followed his bandmates backstage, climbing the steps with trepidation.

"We got you," Jake said, right before they stepped out on to the open stage.

Their audience exploded: screams, shouts, and their enthusiasm blew him away.

Hunter stood still on the stage, feeling free for the first time in his music career. The audience's enthusiasm exorcised his butterflies, fueling his energy.

Taking his guitar from its stand, Hunter walked up to the microphone, amid screams, he was afraid their audience wasn't going to let him sing.

"We love you, Hunter!" someone screamed out and he grinned. "We love you, _Furahi!"_

Hunter turned to his bandmates.

"Have a nice day...." He sang and got wide grins from his bandmates in return.

They knew the story of that song and those days when he sang and no one had screamed in happiness to hear it.

Hunter turned back to the packed stadium, and strummed the first bar of their hit song _Get Me Home._

Hunter started singing, and as his audience sang along, he finally understood Bon Jovi's song.

Do what you want...no matter what...live your life how you want it.

***

The Girl with the Golden Smile – 3

Life outside the Box

Nalia.

Nicholas bit into the chocolate cupcake.

She was a temptress. How had she known he liked chocolate? The cupcakes tasted good, heavenly. She passed him a mug of coffee and he stared at the steaming liquid. She was a magician too. He hadn't done grocery shopping yesterday.

"There's a shop at the end of the road. I bought instant coffee there. I took money from your car."

She grinned.

"I think it's funny you have a jar of coins in your glove compartment."

Nalia seemed to have gone exploring while he slept. Changed her clothes too...or her blouse. She wore a clean white t-shirt that read _Wishing for the Stars,_ and the blue jeans she had yesterday. The jeans had watermarks. She'd tried to clean out the mud. Her braids fell around her face, hiding the bruise that had turned darker.

"I borrowed this too," she said tugging the t-shirt. She sat on the chair across him and leaned her elbows on the table. "Found it in a closet on the second floor. Do you live here?"

Nicholas sipped the coffee, it wasn't the best, but it was hot and sweet. Three healthy sips and the sleep cobwebs dissipated.

"No." He looked around the kitchen. "This is my first time here."

" _Waa_ ," Nalia's eyes went wide. "You're one of those people, aren't you?"

He didn't like the tone she used, accusing...judging.

"What people?" he asked.

"You own a country house and an apartment, and a hut in the hills, and a bungalow by the beach." Nalia counted his imaginary houses using her left hand. She shook her head. "No one lives in these houses but rats and stray cats. So, why own them?"

Nicholas chuckled.

"You have a wild imagination. Do I look rich enough to throw money away that way?"

"So, are you a penny saver then?" she asked. "Ah...but the coins in a jar should answer that question. You know I noticed you don't have proper furniture around here. There's only that one mug you're using, and I had to use a rolling pin to mix the cupcakes. Do you know how hard that is?"

"No." Nicholas sipped his coffee. "You talk a lot."

"It's not my fault." Nalia sighed and sat back in her seat. "I hang out with kids all day. When I meet adults, I get excited and try to use all my words."

Nicholas laughed then.

She smiled.

"Finally," she said. "I was a bit worried you're those people who frown all the time. I feel better now. I wanted to thank you when you're smiling."

"Thank me?" Nicholas asked, reaching for another cupcake.

"For being my life saver last night," she said, her tone changing. "You took a risk taking in a strange woman in the night."

"You jumped out of nowhere," Nicholas accused. "You could have been killed, what were you thinking?"

"I don't think I was." Nalia rubbed her arms with a sigh. "I wasn't in the best of places last night. You must have been shocked."

Nicholas studied her face. She had one of those slender faces. Clear dark brown eyes, and a ready smile. She was pretty, in a plain innocent way. The bruise on her left cheek bothered him.

"Did you get that bruise running in the woods?"

She reached up and touched it, her fingers trembling as they touched the tender skin.

"I got it from a bad habit." She got up. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'll leave now."

"Wait," Nicholas said, surprising himself.

She paused, giving him a frown.

"I made you coffee and chocolate cupcakes. I don't have money to pay you—

"That's not why I'm asking you to wait." Nicholas waved her worry away. "Please, sit down for a minute. If you stay a bit, I'll drive you home."

"No." Nalia shook her head, the cheerful smile disappearing. "I—

"Fine, I won't drive you home," he said, wanting that ready smile back. "I'll take you to the bus stop."

"I don't have money."

"I'll lend you bus fare."

"How will I pay it back?"

"You can pay me with Mpesa."

"I'm—

"Hey, it's a Saturday." Nicholas sat back in his seat and folded his arms against his chest. "Everyone takes a break on Saturday morning."

"Yeah, not me," Nalia clutched the back of her seat, looking out the window at the rising sun. "I need to get going. I did something last night."

"Something bad?" he asked, curious as to what would make a woman go running in the woods so late.

"Something outside the box," she said with a sigh. Her hands were shaking. She let go of the chair, and crossed her arms against her chest. "I know I look like I'm smiling right now, but...I'm a bit insane."

"Should I be worried?" Nicholas asked.

Nalia stared at him and when he lifted a brow in question, she burst out laughing.

"You can't possibly be afraid of me, can you?" she asked.

"You said you're insane," Nicholas countered.

Nalia studied him for a moment, and then nodded.

"Yes, you're right. I'm insane. I've gone crazy. You are the first poor soul I ran into after my descent into this state, so you've taken a risk I tell you. Who knows what I'll do next."

"My friend is coming over," Nicholas said reaching for another cupcake.

"What does that have to with this situation?"

Nicholas bit into the delicious chocolate cupcake.

"I'm just letting you know someone will worry about me if I go missing."

Nalia laughed again, and she pulled out the chair she'd vacated and sat down.

"I thought you were leaving?"

Nalia reached for his mug of coffee and made a show of taking a sip. She took one of the cupcakes and made a show of eating it too.

He frowned.

"I'm eating too, in case you think I've poisoned them. This way, you're sure your friend will find two bodies." Nalia swallowed quickly, and sipped his coffee again. "Mmm...these are really good."

Nicholas chuckled and wondered what fate had decided. It seemed his risk taking last night had awarded him with a crazy woman who loved chocolate cupcakes.

What was he going to do with her?

***

The Girl with the Golden Smile – 4

"You haven't told me your name," Nalia said.

She trailed behind Nicholas, watching him survey the house. She supposed he _was_ assessing his purchase. She tugged peeling paint from the wall in the corridor, and winced when white dust fell on the floor.

"Nicholas." He flashed a grin at her. "Nicholas Muchemi."

She nodded.

"Nice to meet you," she said.

"So, Nalia," Nicholas said, walking down to the next room on the second floor. "What were you running from last night?"

"Do you have to know?"

"You said I was your lifesaver. Of course I have to know."

Nicholas leaned on the doorjamb to what appeared to be a library. There were old books left on the shelf. Nalia entered the room, the books calling to her.

"Lifesaver or not, I don't know you well enough to tell you," Nalia said, stopping by the bookshelves.

She read the titles on the shelves with interest.

"Do you like books?" Nicholas asked.

"Some," Nalia said, touching the old spines. "The owner of these ones didn't take care of them. Are you going to sell them?"

"Maybe," Nicholas said coming to stand beside her. "I might have them restored and keep them as part of the house."

"How often do you do this sort of thing?" she asked, pulling out a geography encyclopedia from the shelf.

"This is my third house."

Pride colored Nicholas's words. Of course, he would take pride in his achievement. She couldn't imagine how much money it took to restore a house like this. She'd probably never see that kind of cash in her life. Returning the encyclopedia, she sighed and walked to the windows.

"It must be nice," she said, staring out at the overgrown flower gardens behind the house.

"It's a challenge. I like challenges," Nicholas answered behind her. "You're changing the subject, Nalia."

"I don't want to talk about last night. Why are you making me wait for your friend?"

"He's a doctor."

Nalia turned to look at Nicholas. He walked along the bookshelf, reading the book titles like a connoisseur. He was tall, taller than Malik. Nicholas was lean where Malik was bulky. Nicholas moved with grace, a warm refined air clung to him. Nalia imagined it came from years of living in a world he mastered.

She couldn't imagine Malik browsing a bookshelf. Her husband preferred watching the news, and reading newspapers as though they held the secrets of the world. He thought novels were a waste of time, and he only wrote when he absolutely had to.

"Nalia," Nicholas broke into her thoughts.

She blinked and stared at him.

"What are you thinking about? You looked so far away. My friend just text me, he's two minutes away. We should head downstairs."

Nalia frowned. "You said he was a doctor?"

Nicholas chuckled.

"Don't worry, Eli is a real doctor. I saw him graduate and get his certification."

Nalia stared at him and then she laughed.

The saga of a quack doctor had taken over the local news. A man who'd pretended to be a doctor and used his position to abuse women instead. She imagined doctors were having a hard time lately, having to prove they were real doctors.

Nicholas had a sense of humor.

She liked that.

"I like your laugh," Nicholas said studying her.

His compliment shouldn't have excited her, but it did. Warmth burst inside her, so vibrant, she forgot all the reasons why liking him was wrong. Heat suffused her cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

"We should go," he said then.

She nodded and followed him out of the library.

She imagined the folks living here before must have been grand to have a whole room designated as a library. All her books were stacked in a carton in her closet. She often had to fight with her clothes to get those books to sit well.

Downstairs, anxiety hit when she heard the sound of another car. She slowed down, while Nicholas seemed to increase his pace, hurrying to the front door. She watched him open the door with a flourish.

She stopped in the middle of the living room.

Fear returned, and she realized how free she'd felt before, when it had just been her and Nicholas. This house had somehow given her solace from her life in the last twelve hours. Sitting at the kitchen table with Nicholas, prowling the house with him, laughing...she couldn't remember the last time she felt so carefree.

The sound of excited male voices outside reached her and she closed her eyes. She was scared again. Nicholas returned followed by a short brown-skinned man who carried a medical bag.

"Eli, this is Nalia," Nicholas said, leaving the front door open. "Nalia, this is my best friend, Eli. He's a private doctor."

Nalia could only nod, her voice lost. She tried for a smile, but even that seemed gone.

"Nalia," Eli said with a warm smile. "I hope Nicholas has been good to you?"

She glanced at Nicholas and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. Guilt set in. She was married. Yet here she was...tempted.

Alas, it was true; there is no one in the world that lived without sin. Were she to count her sins in the last day, she was sure to burn.

_Malik would be the one to burn her_ , she thought with a shiver.

"Shall we find a private room?" Eli broke into her thoughts. "I'll take a look at that bruise on your cheek, put ointment on it."

Nicholas pointed to a door to their right. She gave him a nervous smile and led the way to the door. It opened into a study. There was an old desk and a pair of armchairs before it. She chose one and let out a shaky breath when Eli produced a stethoscope.

She closed her eyes when he leaned down to study the bruise on her cheek.

"Can I ask how you got this?" Eli asked.

She'd heard the question asked many times before. Concerned friends, her mother, her neighbors...she always lied. She told them stories of falling, bumping into doors, cupboards, absurd lies...never the truth. Opening her eyes, she met a kind gaze, and suddenly she just couldn't lie anymore. Tears filled her eyes and she found she couldn't form the words, though she wanted to say them.

"Did someone hit you?" Eli asked then, taking a seat.

She nodded, making the tears slide down her cheeks.

"Was it your husband?" Eli asked his gaze on her left hand.

Nalia fought back the shame that welled inside her and took in a deep breath.

"Yes," she said, feeling as though she was jumping over a huddle. "My husband hit me."

***

To be continued...Thank you for reading!

Look forward to the October 2015 Issue.

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About the Authors

Annemarie Musawale

Annemarie is an alleged female residing in Nairobi Kenya and working on owning a better class of pajamas through her writing. When she's not hunched over her computer typing stories or procrastinating on the internets, she's worrying about whether she's raising her son right (she is).

Her Books:

The Swamp is Full of Mystery

Between Death and Heaven

Single Motherhood Unplugged

Blog: Child of Destiny

Connect with her on Twitter: @amusawale

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Maureen Wakarindi

I am Maureen Wambui, God fearing, intelligent and an observer of people. I love cars, heights and sarcasm. I can be loud, opinionated and stubborn, but you'll love me anyway. I am a lover of words and nothing gives me greater pleasure than being able to use those words in my story. I have two blogs, and I also write for the Storymoja blog using the name Maureen Wakarindi. Please feel free to stalk my work, and tell me what you think.

Blog: Nepenthe

***

Vincent de Paul

Vincent de Paul is the author of the 2010 Nairobi International Book Fair literary awards winning collection of poems, First Words, and the sensational collection of love poems; Holy Emotions and Holy Crimes. Other works are Flights of Poetic Fancy and Flashes of Vice: Vol I & II. He has a Diploma in Comprehensive Creative Writing from the Writers Bureau, UK.

Vincent has been published online on different websites and dailies in Kenya; on Africa Creates, the African Street Writer, The Africa We Know About (TAWKA) Diaries, NaijaStories, AfricanWriter.com, African Street Writer, Artbeat Afrika, and Storymoja Africa amongst others. In 2013 he was long-listed for the Nigerian Belgian-based writer, Chika Unigwe Best Short Competition and published in an anthology of New Age African poets, Black Communion, in Nigeria.

Vincent de Paul is a member of Bloggers Association of Kenya (BAKE), affiliate of Association of Independent (AIA), and Naija Writers Community. A freelance writer, blogger, author and poet, he is all over the cyberspace.

His Books:

More Books

 Holy Crimes

First Words: A Collection of Poems

Blog: Flashes of Vice

Connect with him on Facebook: Vincent de Paul

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Dora Okeyo

Dora is a wanderer whose writing attempts have earned her some reviews. She is neither famous nor rich, but loves reading and drinking coffee. She is currently forcing her family and close friends to read her book, Fire. It is available on Amazon. To follow her day in day out life, forget reality TV, and follow her on Twitter, @herhar.

Her Books:

 Water

Fire

Mist

What Happened to Us

More books by Dora Okeyo

Blog: Nilichoandika

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Elly Kamari

Elly is a romance author living in a sunny corner in Nairobi. She loves romantic stories and when not writing them, she reads them. She loves gardening and making peanut butter, and sunny afternoons in Nairobi.

Her Books:

Save My Heart

I Dream of You

Bits & Pieces (Poetry)

Shattering Zoella's Demons

Blog: Love in Nairobi

Connect with her on Twitter: @ellykamari254

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Previous EA Friday Feature Issues:

August 2015
