Muffled

He was walking down the un-tarred road of Ishieke, this boy with a neat afro cut and chalk-white shorts. If there was someone walking along the street at that time, perhaps a teenager, said teenager would see him; this boy on chalk-white shorts and ripped red polo. The ripped red polo would have absolutely drawn …

The Portrait Of A Landscape

This is a portrait without an easel, a painting without a canvas, floating freely in the seat of memory, unfettered by the constraints of reality. It is emblazoned in my mind, a haunting creation of an artist’s craving. It sits in the sea of my consciousness, this portrait of a desolate scene. It is a portrait of a landscape that is redolent of devastation, …

NO REDEMPTION IN HELL

Survival, they say, is the first impulse, the first faculty in this side of hell. This is the picture of a heavily lit labour room, of a boy with moist as his first clothing, of a boy who refused to cry at birth. The watch word: “Survival is the first impulse,” printed in loose graffiti …

Maurice

Maurice   I’d always loved toy dogs. Ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted one. But dad would hear nothing of it. Mum hated dogs and that was it. I mean, what harm could they do? They were just tiny creatures needing love and they also kept company.   Take for example the Pomeranian. Its foxlike head …