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Kariuki Kimuyu
86 followers -
Like fine silk my words have texture. Feel them.
Like fine silk my words have texture. Feel them.

86 followers
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Kariuki's posts

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Rosa stood at the balcony looking at Young Jonathan playing with the other children. You couldn’t tell that he was raised by a single mother by looking at him. The absence of a father didn’t make him walk with a limp, laugh with a snort, or stand with a hunch. The only time you could tell something was wrong was when the gate was opened and one of his playmates ran towards it with overwrought excitement, singing, “Daddy, daddy, daddy.” Then, his cheeks fell and a dour melancholy engulfed him and you could tell something was missing. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/dads-go/ 

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I should have listened to my friend Shila when she told me that when your mother-in-law is too good to you there is usually something wrong with the son. When she rushes in to hold both of your hands and call you her daughter. When your face is stuck on the TV screen and she doesn’t start a small war because you’re not in the kitchen. When she’s okay with your low cut attire and foreign culture, there is usually something amiss. It’s unspoken, you won’t see it immediately but it’s there and sometimes you get to learn about it later when you’re neck deep inside the rabbit hole. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/forever-after/ 

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I turned 27 last Friday. Birthdays to me are never occasions, they pass quietly like the fluttering of leaves in the wind. They are an ominous reminder that I’m adding another year to my age, that thirty is looming and soon forty will be here and what I want to be then hinges a lot on what I do now. I felt really gloomy over the weekend, in fact I didn’t want to write this piece. I was contemplating ghosting off, maybe for a month or even indefinitely. The plan was to sit with my laptop and give you guys excuses on why I wouldn’t be coming here to hang out with you anymore but I didn’t have any. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/growing-old/ 

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I had a beer with my old man and a few of his drinking buddies last week. I get to the rendezvous after the sun has put on its nightdress and gone to bed and they’re uproarious in excitement when they see me, as if they’ve just seen a lifeboat in a storm. Everyone wants to buy me beer. My old man is already tipsy and he keeps telling everyone, “This is Kariuki, he’s named after my dad. He’s my son.” And my cheeks flash pink like a Japanese Geisha in a tea house. He calls the waitress; a spherical shaped woman with matuta for hair, a round chubby face, clever eyes and a mouth trained to say the right things. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/tipsy-conversations/

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Whenever I punch into my Facebook page I usually find folk like Thuo Patrick there, armed to the teeth with their brushes and paint filling the place with color. Sometimes I will engage but most times I won’t because you don’t add brush strokes to a Picasso painting. Others are however more discreet and they prefer the hidden veil of the inbox. I got a message from a reader telling me my writing is congruent with David Karanja’s “The Girl Was Mine.” I said I haven’t read him but I will make a point to look him up and they told me if I don’t get the book, I can email them my postal address or tell them where they could drop it off and I was overwhelmed by the generosity. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/days-off/ 

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He comes back from his afternoon run, his vest dripping with sweat. He finds them on the couch eating junk food while watching TV. “You know why you guys are always catching a cold or coughing, it’s all these chemicals you eat.” He says while toweling off and his seventeen year old daughter looks at him, rolls her eyes and goes back to watching TV. “We’re all really made of chemicals Mr. Fred,” her boyfriend says. “The human body is all just chemicals: Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium and phosphorous. That great feeling you got after you finished your run. That was dopamine. Chemicals, chemicals, chemicals.” Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/chemicals/ 

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Muthoni will lie in bed at night and wonder whether he is in love with her, on account of the child that lies deep in her belly. She knows that he doesn’t love her like she does. It bothers her how he rented her an apartment and only comes to visit once in a while like she’s some dirty little secret. She was vulnerable in the beginning, desperate for something to finally go well; it did but now everything seems to be falling apart. He makes a mess. She cleans it up. She needs. He provides. Is it okay? Is she okay? Will it last? She grabs her. It is primal. She doesn’t know if she likes it anymore. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/foreign-sequel/ 

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I have always thought of writing as this art form that sings to me. An art form that is often insecure, existing on bookshelves, newspaper pages and magazines, nervously and unsure, waiting to give itself to the first stranger who gives it attention. An art form that is sometimes messy like the stickiness of cake and cream on your fingers. But amidst the insecurity and the mess, it still has a way of holding your hand and taking you on an adventure. An adventure where you get to make friends, travel and learn. Some books are like a hurricane, rearranging your thought process, others are like the sea breeze, calming. Regardless of your preference, they both make you a little better, teach you a little something and unfold you out of your own head. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/launch/ 

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You finish campus. You made Google, Wikipedia and photocopied PowerPoint presentations your friend and you managed to be an honor student. Your parents threw a small soiree in your honor and family friends came in their numbers to drink to your degree. You were an esteemed adult, a learned one at that and they chanted your praises, “When other students were wasting themselves with alcohol and mindless things you were studying, unlike your peers you didn’t embarrass us.” They chirped, lined up behind you and sung and danced and prayed you get a job because a job is the crown of education in our society. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/the-artist/ 
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