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.
I intended to write something for the week, especially because a lot happened the week before. I was in this show at Jamhuri that the president attended and I met this girl who made me feel things I haven’t felt. It felt like being hit by a thunderbolt, the one that hit Michael Corleone in The Godfather. I didn’t want to pen it because I didn’t want to give it half the effort. It’s true, you can’t serve two masters, especially when one of them is a prima-donna.
Instead, I’m going to shamelessly guilt trip you. I’m always the one laying my life bare here. Let us switch, be the storyteller today for a change. What is happening in your life? Are you in school, are you married, how is work, is there someone special? Look, it doesn’t have to be long, you don’t even have to use your name. It can be anonymous like, Ketchup, or Prima-donna, you can even use Riparian Land if that is what swings your golf club. In the meantime I’m getting back to my spouse, what is that I hear her saying? Yeah, she needs a foot rub.
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I like to think of myself as a reader who writes, a Pan-African who thinks with the tips of his fingers, but when I'm not molesting the keyboard I'm usually destroying yogurt (not Frusion) or staring into the vastness of space.