STORIES FROM MY HEART

I hear Githongo is in town. I do not celebrate; I wonder what he is here for. After ducking away into European warmth, there is only so much to do back home, the zoo is still the same, the monkeys, the very size and colour. Nothing has changed. 1500 hrs, at the Hilton hotel, I walk in and notice the amount of dreadlocks and tattoos that mark the presence of the civil society, and we joke about the irony of having this press conference at the grand Regency Hotel, I found it funny, some did not. For some strange reason I revisited JM Kariuki’s threadbare story and this being the last place he was seen alive, after a cup of coffee or so. Upstairs in the Tsavo room, the event was just about to begin, and Muthoni Wanyeki was calling the crowd to attention, a huge crowd here today, lots of TV and Radio crew, I hear some stations are going live, interesting, for a man whose last days here were pegged with death threats, back on the invitation of the Prime Minister. I must say that th

First was the box of Godiva chocolate That turned my already tuned on self Into a sweet creamy dream You took me there, Yesterday. Then there were the flowers Lilies, orchids and those of the wild No roses, For you knew my tastes and colors Their soft petals caressed my senses Those that fired every time I saw you And I fell in love over and over again, Yesterday. I remember as if it just happened The way you tried to impress me with your cooking Fried ¼ liver and spaghetti sprinkled with cheap cheese And after dinner, laying on your raffia couch Catching up on season 4 of lost Cuddling, laughing and playing like little children Yesterday When you found me I loved, I knew love, I wanted love, and I gave love Wholesome, When you went to work very early, I woke up to kiss you goodbye, probably a little some some, Walked you to the door with a packed sandwich And remembered to dip the salami in Ketchup Even when I insisted on mayonnaise Yesterday Your phone was yours And I never bothered

Trust me I’m a Journalist At 9 o’clock every morning When the opening bell rings on the NSE I am there, to see the trading begin Bull Run, what’s the demand for the green back, Safaricom, is the share price up? Why? So I can tell you where to put your money I translate the indices, points up or down, when to buy, when to sell Then serve you with the simple arithmetic that tomorrow you can add peanut butter To your daily dry bread and black tea Trust me I am a journalist I may be the last one to leave the club every evening The one whose name everybody knows But I still take the matatu home after clubbing While you sashay into your Range Rover sport After Listening to my witty stories of dining with Raila, holding the chain for Ababu, Coaxing Kimunya, laughing with Kajwang and ducking from Martha After those wonderful nights, you leave, and I wait for daybreak Because taxi…not my style. My number 11 to south B will be here at around 4 am, till then I get the vibe from the waiters, and t

 1500 hrs: Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. It was one of those days when time just stood still, my SAA flight to Jo Burg was either running late, or I got to the airport too early, traffic on Mombasa road isn’t the sexiest place to get stuck in on a Friday Afternoon. So with extra hours to kill, I roamed the duty free shops inside the Jomo Kenyatta international Airport, wishing I had an Ipod, however much I hate the way those cords stick out of people ears. I had packed in a hurry, and forgot to pack a good book. So I look for a book store, passing by some Nigerians speaking rather loudly sitting on the floor, their plane must have been running late. Either that or they had been left, they were not happy, Nigerians are very loud people, that’s normal, but when they are angry, the voice meter hits red and stays there. " Oga? how you think am gon go home now, me I had a godam meetin in abuja tonight, now am still here, how many dollar you think i lose , are you gon pay me now