Writer's Dream


In the 1960s and early 70s, Canadian children did not regularly eat fresh fruit or vegetables during the winter months due to complex British Commonwealth rules that stated that all food must be grey or mush or both. Even if fresh fruit were allowed, the cost of transportation from warmer climates was prohibitive. This was […]

via O, supplemented youth! — Drinking Tips for Teens

I want to fly.


I want to fly,

beside the amazing bumblebee

as we cruise above the wastelands

that was once green and full of grace.


I want to fly,

with neither regrets in my mind

nor demons to persuade me otherwise

as the future is bleak for dreamers like me.


I want to fly,

with no ghosts to hold me back

because the past is gone

and the future needs rescuing.

Who am I


As simple as it may look,

Not all will find it charming.

Like a soft wind,

It whispers in our ears and gently strokes our skin.

Who are you?

Tell me.

Art of selflessness


Words are spilled out to suit the mood,

enough to intrigue every friend and foe.

Smeared on the walls of our hearts,

the crow of skepticism dashes away.


After a tiresome and pointless fight over a paint brush,

Brothers can finally agree on something.

Nations can come together once more,

bound by a common goal of rewriting history.


The world is no longer the same

when one puts aside his or her wild desires.

Desires that not only darkens the colours of inspiration

but also seems to charm deceit and greed.


Giving another priority over oneself is a rare gift

which shows wealth in one’s character.

Just like a painter spotting an outstanding beauty in a simple being,

not afraid to replicate it.



Silence in my heart


What creeps in is flattering,

What remains is a mystery,

No other would find beckoning,

For it is mine to cherish.


Stealthy lying in me,

It dreads the stinging agony

That would cripple its world.


Realizing it could trigger vulnerability,

It retreats to its harbor

where it sticks to its rhythm.


Bedtime stories


The screams continuously faded, leaving little to my imagination. My hand shook vigorously threatening to drop my torch as we strolled inside the room. Every occupant was dressed in long pitch black cloaks that swept the floor on their way in. My heart thumped insanely as I tried to keep up with their humorous ritual singing.

Mtoto wa mgema halewi mchana

Pindi tu jua ikishapotea

Yeye hunywa akiwa uchi.

(The son of a local brewer doesn’t drink at daytime. Once the sun sets, he will drink while his naked.)

On the farthest side of the room was my cousin, Jamba, who I’d been trailing with him having no slightest clue of it. We stood in long widely spaced rows allowing the ritual conductor to walk in between with ease. I kept my head down dreadfully worrying about being exposed in this bizarre place.

The singing commenced once more and everyone let go to the soothing rhythm while four freaks marched inside the room carrying a girl on a wooden stretcher. She lay motionless on it with her eyes closed and was in her mid teens. They laid her on the floor, everyone gradually kneeling down. My eyes still glued on her, I barely noticed what was happening.

“Kara has chosen you. You’ve proved your bravery,” the ritual conductor said stretching his arm. He narrowed his daring eyes at me, handing me a knife. “Go on,” he insisted.  I walked between the kneeling cowards towards the front where she lay. I hardened my grip on the knife as I got closer and closer to her wishing there was a possible way out.

A small stream of blood flowed across her neck staining her dark hair…

The dying star


When l was a star,

I filled the heavens with delight.

So bright, I shunned the spiteful dark

That shadowed the good.


When I was a star,

I found peace in me by needlessly sharing my glory

to the weightless floating bodies,

skimming far and wide into the emptiness.


But I was quick to forget,

the spark I’d once instilled in what appeared senseless.

I sucked it all in in a huge pit of bitterness.




Power to prevail


It’s time to flip to a blank page,

to be carried away by the current tides.

Is it scary? Definitely, we are humans and it’s completely okay to feel so.

However, these are the points in our lives where crowds are sieved.

Where few realize what they are after,

where dreams turn into a reality,

where life becomes more meaningful,

because we have a true purpose worth living for.


Story of a guy cook.

It is arguably true to say guys are the worst cooks. Moreover, it’s also a fact that many great cooks we come across are guys who learnt a thing or two from their mums. In addition to this, it’s hard to stumble across a father whose cooking is impressive and more so enjoys what he does. Most fathers who do so are ones who are selfless when it comes to their families.

However, it doesn’t mean that fathers who don’t cook actually don’t care. Some spare themselves the humiliation because that’s just not part of their stunning attributes. As much as it might be a good idea to try out new things, know where you lay in that particular field.

My best friend’s dad once made dinner when his mum was out of town and his sister was off to boarding school. He took his time searching through the internet by reading on certain tips on how to get started, steps to follow and the dos and don’ts while internalizing each and every concept. He wore his apron, walked to the kitchen and got started.

Hours later, he was done cooking happily placing the food on the table. The aroma was so inviting that it beckoned my best friend, Phil, who rushed from his room to the dining table in a split second. Being eager to have a taste of his dad’s food, he did some self service and sat across the table from his father. Then it hit him,” Gosh! I need a cup.” He rose from his seat, dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a huge cup. This whole time, his father watched in his curious drawn face. Innocently, Phil placed the cup on the dining table steadily pouring the huge amount of rice water from his plate of rice inside it. He then continued munching through the delicious food until he was done and ready for bed.

To my surprise, my dad once made us dinner when my mum was out of town for days. Our first meal was very delicious and we were all astonished by it. Unfortunately as days went on, we realized how much we missed our mum. My dad only knew how to prepare that one meal and nothing else. We grew more and more frustrated day by day.

As I grew older, my mum sent me to the kitchen often to prepare some meal. She told me that it was important for me to know how cook for myself and for my family one day. I also frequently carried out some house chores with my sisters which have proved helpful for me. Indeed, I’m a great guy cook as I write this. One thing someone finds it hard to resist me and all thanks to my mum.


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