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

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#UPNOW
You had never seen such a stunning girl before, you thought as you watched her walk across the petrol station. She was petite and tall in fitting grey jeans and a cream top that cut shy of her belly button. Her face was something of a wonder. Eggshell smooth, oval, and brown. Like black coffee with a hint of milk. On her head were braids running from the nape of her neck to the apex of her waist. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/milk-shop-girl/
Milk Shop Girl
Milk Shop Girl
kisauti.com
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#UPNOW
Midnight finds you at Forty Thieves, a club on the shores of Diani beach. Thatched of roof, hot and humid of air and full to the brim with white revellers; women and men with wisps of blonde hair, skin as pale as milk and dance moves crooked to the tunes of African music. All of them speaking through their nose in that accent urban Kenyans try to mimic, to the chagrin of their mother tongue and upbringing. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/mzungu/
Mzungu
Mzungu
kisauti.com
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#UPNOW
I was emotionally sick. The job was not coming. It was the same thing day in day out. “They’re not hiring,” my dad would come home with the news, his shoulders hunched and his face sullen as if he was the one job hunting and not me. He would then ask me to print more CVs. And I would go to the local cyber café. One look and the guy manning it would know I had come to print CVs again. That CV that read: Bcom, (major in Management Science), CPA section two, Accounting intern at Sarova Panafric and Finance intern at Sarova Stanley—but not even my previous employers wanted anything to do with me. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/tarmacking/
T for Tarmacking
T for Tarmacking
kisauti.com
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#UPNOW
The first time baba came home drunk, he banged the door in a horrifying cadence that made me jolt awake in terror. There was a heated debate and mama cried and cried till day came. The following morning she had a black, hideous residue formed around her left eye as she prepared me for school. She told me she fell but I didn’t believe her because I had fallen many times before on the playground but never suffered such a malfunction. I told her sorry, then hugged her tightly till we both broke into tears. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/home/
Home
Home
kisauti.com
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#UPNOW
I don’t know why I told my mom I would string along a plus one to my small sister’s graduation shindig. I just heard myself say it. Perhaps to jettison in her eyes my lack of commitment and recast myself as a charmer looking to continue the family’s progeny. And it worked. It was the way her aura vibrated with a heady excitement, probably imagining all the tea parties she would have with her daughter-in-law to discuss her son. Married men should tell us if there is anything more dreadful than their mother and wife having a sit-down. I mean, they are the two people in this world who can destroy you at a moment’s notice. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/plus-one/
Plus One
Plus One
kisauti.com
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#UPNOW
And then I was flat broke, seated in a matatu going fifty miles an hour towards Kangema, where my dad was born, where my grandfather, the one I’m named after is buried. I had been lost in the melee of trying to be somebody in a city that seemed out to sabotage my every move and it had now boiled down to running. My rent was unpaid, my water and electricity switched off. I could barely put food on the table and most days I had to make do with githeri and ugali. As the matatu left Nyamakima stage and the city rushed behind me. I had a feeling of relief. I was leaving it all behind. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/broken-man/
The Broken Man
The Broken Man
kisauti.com
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#NEWPOST
I talk with him sometimes. He’s called Kim, he’s a cook. I would not call them conversations. They are not solid. They are scattered, unformed niceties that any decent human being would engage in especially with the person who prepares his food.

“Uhoro wa rucini, kuhana atia?”

“Gutire na ka-uru.”

“Muriukuo na mwathani?”

“Eh.”

I don’t think much into the interactions but recently I noticed he started digging deeper into my life. Asking where I stay and what I do. I took all this as the building blocks of small talk and obliged him with the information without knowing that he was creating rapport. Weighing me to see if I measure up to his scale. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/man-to-man/
Man To Man
Man To Man
kisauti.com
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I’m having an impromptu beer at a club in the city. I haven’t indulged in the pleasures of the bottle in a while. I am not big on the noise, the expense, nor the hangover after. The plan is to have a drink and head home. One for the road so to speak. All the tables are taken by two or more people except for this one that has a lovely lonely girl thumbing her phone. Her face is sullen and her body sagged as if she has just lost her husband to an Instagram model.

She’s in a cream coat. On her neck, an oval face with big brown eyes, a face that is easy to like. Her forehead starts from the middle of her head and then her hair begins. Which means she’s from House of Mumbi. Which also means she was born holding a jug full of water ready to flood your broth. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/rose/
Rose
Rose
kisauti.com
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My friend called me. We haven’t been in touch for a while. I asked him how things were going and he told me he quit his job to pursue his own thing. I have been in his shoes twice but I still felt scared for him because I know what it is like to be alone groping in the dark not knowing what will happen tomorrow. I mean, people will tell you that they want their life to be unpredictable. That they want to wake up and not know what will happen that day but it’s poppycock.

There are certain aspects of your life that you want to remain predictable. You want to be certain that you will have a meal on the table, for example. That rent will be paid, that you will have the clothes on your back. There is nothing fancy about these aspects of life being uncertain. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/youve-quit/
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This will be short. It’s up to you to decide if it will be sweet. I have been busy inking the book that’s dropping in November. I have gotten to the point where it has turned into a taxing spouse that demands all my time.

“Honey, I’m craving fries.”

“Fries? Past midnight? Let me dash to Sonford, It’s no trouble at all.”

“Hon, my back, it’s uncomfortable.”

“Here, take my pillow, we don’t want you having a back injury.”

To put it simply, I’m whipped. Or like we say it on this side of the Sahara. Nimekaliwa chapo. Read on: http://www.kisauti.com/thunderbolt/
Thunderbolt
Thunderbolt
kisauti.com
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