“Our crimes are that we are beautiful” Leo the lioness roared to Zed the Zebra, who was in the next cage, then went and sat on a boulder in the corner. She reached for the metallic food container with one paw and overturned it. It was empty. She made a loud roar, one for hunger, hoping the wardens would hear her.

“But then if we were free you would be giving the chase of my life out there in the wilderness, if you wouldn’t already have eaten me by then.” The zebra lazily replied, lying prostate on the ground and rolling a few times. The mound of grass in the corner was still untouched.

“You mean you like this? You must be such an idiot.” Leo angrily stood up and began tearing at the wires separating the two cages with her teeth. Catching a sharp edge, she let out a painful yell and went back to her boulder, face gloomy.

“It is better to be alive in a cage than always being on the run without committing a crime, always being ready to be eaten.” The zebra let out a loud laugh.

“Coward” Leo roared, jolting back to her feet. “Your ancestors should hear you, being afraid to be eaten. Those who galloped on all four legs, jumping across streams that we couldn’t, leaving us stranded on the other end. Those whose tough necks resisted our teeth, pulling them out, and making us die in starvation. Those who made us the tough lions of Masaai Mara. They should hear you.”

Leo paused.  Zed wasn’t listening. His body was calm and he started shifting his long athletic legs into various positions, as if a model posing. Leo turned round to view who had caught Zed’s  attention. A couple stood just outside Zed’s cage, slim phones in their extended hands, clicking, taking photos. The guy, dark skinned and in blue jeans, purple polo shirt, stopped clicking and extended his hands around the girl’s waist; she, light-skinned and in red dress top that reached just below the waist and black almost transparent tights.  The girl shrugged and pushed his hands away. “Can’t you see the animals watching?” She turned to him with a sneer and smiled. He smiled back.

“What do you think about them?” Leo asked.

“Such a beautiful couple. Reminds me of my days in the forest with my girl friend, admiring fish in the water as they swam in the River Mara.”

“You are wrong again.”

“Why? I’m never right to you. All you see in me is food.”

“Can’t you see the guy wants something and the girl doesn’t want to give it?”


“Sex, you fool.”

“Why do you say so? I mean, the girl just refused her waist to be held.”

“And that shows so much more.”

Zed downed his head, half closed his eyes looked at the couple keenly then nodded.

“Well, she will agree eventually.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Leo growled back.

“What if she refused? Could he take it by force?”

“That would be a crime. Rape. Fool again.”

“So, none of them is really free to do what they wish?”

“Now you are getting me. They just have to agree. But till then, they are caged. Just like us.”

The weight of the new information being too much, Zed sat down and lowered his head in meditation. Leo went back to sit in her corner, watching her prey keenly.

“I have a plan.” Finally she said, waking up Zed whose eyes had just began to close.


“We can escape tonight if we agree. We can be really free, finally.

Zed squinted his eyes and looked at Leo with suspicion. Studying her face closely, he opened his mouth.


“We create a scenario, at night, howl like we are in deep pain. The guards will come, open the cages, and then we will lower their guards with comics. I’m sure they have never seen a lion play with a zebra. Then we will give them a surprise attack.”

“That’s quite a plan.” Zed nodded, half closed his eyes and sat on his back legs, his head down cast. Leo looked on, a smile forming on his snout. Suddenly Zed jerked up, started running around his cage in loud laughter. Finally he stopped at the corner where the grass was, picked a mouthful and walked with it up to where Leo stood watching, only crisscrossing steel wires separating their faces.

“A mouthful of grass for your words.” He said, dropping it

You know I can’t reach there, and even if I did, lions don’t eat grass. Leo said, proudly displaying her strong muscles and opening her mouth to show strong canine teeth.

“So you plan to eat me after we escape?”

“But that is not a crime? Leo frowned.

She quickly jerked her right paw, but only managed to have a slight scratch on Zed’s leg before he quickly pulled back and galloped around his cage, laughing loudly. He took another mouthful of grass and walked with it up to where Leo stood, watching, waiting patiently.

The couple stood watching. Excited by the animals’ antics, they lowered their phones, decided to watch the unique scenario with their naked eyes. Slowly, the guy wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist. This time she did not resist.


Poet’s Journey on Stage.

Picture this.

You are a poet on stage, digging words from the depth of your soul, letting them out layer after layer, hitting new realities into the thinking dimensions of your audience. You pause for a while and scan a section of your audience. At first it doesn’t surprise you; maybe the guy looking down on his phone, fingers busy will be booted if he doesn’t reply to his girlfriend’s message immediately. You have been there too, and you understand the situation perfectly well. You move your eyes across the rest of the audience and notice two or three more guys huddled over their phones. One of them mumbles something to their neighbor. You try to catch what they are saying, maybe it is important, maybe it could have the answers to the many questions you are having now. But it is only a whisper, and you are no lip reader.

You try to raise your voice in order to have the attention of the distracted, but it becomes disheartening to watch them engage more in their illicit activities. At this point, you are about to turn away and concentrate on the audience that is willing to be fed, those who think you are worthy of their ears. That’s when you notice poet X, a big name in the industry, whispering to his neighbor. Your knees weaken, they wobble, but gravity refuses to pull you to the ground; it is not time for prayers, at least not yet. You are about to poop on yourself, but then you remember you have no diapers. Your funeral ought to be held here, were it not for your audience that comes to your rescue.

It encourages you with snaps. Their thumbs violently connect with other two fingers and sparks fires in your heart. The lion in you awakens and you remember who you are. You give your deserving audience what it deserves. It amazes you how the words come out, connecting with the thirsty audience. Soon you are through. You get a loud applause. The event organizer is smiling and that assures you of your fare home. Some guys give you a standing ovation, and you bow in appreciation. You are shocked to find two of the guys who were busy with their phones earlier now standing. Clapping. You smile and walk down the stage, but your soul pesters you with so many questions.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?????

These questions are not to be answered soon.

You walk down the stage after a great performance but your head hangs low.

“Did those guys pay more than the rest of the audience?” You ask yourself.

You decide to go sit next to the noisemakers. Maybe they might be having the answers.

“Awesome performance bro.” One of them turns and gives you a man hug, his phone still in his hands.

You are about to ask him why he wasn’t born with four legs and no hands to hug you. Or better still, without a brain to understand your words.

But the next poet is already on stage, and you don’t want to be a jackass to your fellow brother/sister. So you sit down and listen. The performance is awe-inspiring and your soul is blessed, questions forgotten. You go home a happy person.

But the devil is real guys. The devil is real.

You awaken early the next morning still in your boxers, face your image in a body length mirror, try to better your art for the next event. After a few rounds you remember to check on facebook, expecting lots of photos and congratulatory messages on the previous performance. A post from great Poet X is attracting many likes and comments. One look at it, and you freeze.

‘What is that thing they do on stage? Calling it spoken word? For who? For what? Mediocre!!! Mediocre art everywhere.’

Your comments come in torrents, wild punches from Pacquiao.

Which spoken word piece are you speaking about?

Why generalize?

Is it my piece?

Could you point out the mistakes?


But all Mayweather big poet X does is hide behind the referees (fellow big names in the industry), avoiding, covering their faces, and going under the ropes, yet getting all the victory on their facebook posts.

“Is this what mentorship is all about?”

You wonder as you go back to the mirror, practice, this time adding some rhythmic punches that you plan to use next time you meet big poet X.

Later, you think of calling your nursery school teacher and connecting her to some people who might need lessons on how to nurture talents.

Big up to any poet who graces the stage, big or small, known and unknown, young or old. As Theodore Roosevelt put it:

‘It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.’

Lest We Forget

When I look on a fellow blackman

And imagine him tilling

On a land faraway


For no pay

The scars awaken


We battle tears

When we open history books

To see black bodies being transported across seas of pages

Their bells chiming sad songs as they walk

From one continent to the next

From glory to disdain

We put ourselves in their skins

Because we share the same tone

And our tears now

Have formed another Atlantic

Hoping our pride can use it to cross back to us


But what to do now?

We cannot forget

Unless we change the color of our skins


African chiefs

Will you fall for the same traps as your forefathers?

The wealth didn’t remain with us

But the tears never seem to end

Lest you forget

You Ask Why I Write?

You ask why I write? I write to create ripples that will drown my sorrows, ripples that will touch a friend I haven’t met and say hallo before I do. I write to kiss those with split lips, so that they can know how love looks like, painful but pleasurable and healing. I write to stop bullets and turn them into flowers for their owners, snatch the guns out of their hands and blow up the stupidity in their minds. I write to fill love into black holes found in hearts, to remind them that they were created for a purpose; to create a balance. My words are fodder for the black sheep. I write to remove the shame of a twenty four year old who has travelled the life journey of a ninety year old. I write to advise ninety year olds too. I write to impress, to caress the teeth of people who know not to smile and tell them that life is still beautiful. I write to turn you into a plot twist and surprise you, so that you can stop worrying about tomorrow, or so that you can worry more about tomorrow. I write for mama and papa, so that fossils will say that they had a son, and those few minutes of pleasure were not in vain. I write to stir jealousy in the sperms that did not make it, those that I beat. I write so that wish you can marry me, so that you can wish you were me, I don’t care whether you turn out gay. I write to stop time, time that hurries us into graves. I write to whisper a new tune into the winds to create a better future. I write to turn virgins into whores and whores into virgins. I write to question, to be the end of a sentence that doesn’t make sense. I write to remember, because I will never be a child again and dancing may be hard at some stage. I write to remind you, childhood friend that I have never met of days that could have been. I write to smack my tough primary school head teacher and advise my Sunday school teacher. I write to break rules and not get caught, mock stupid religions and not get shot. I write to become angry when I’m happy and happy when I’m angry. I write to reverse time, to tell nature to fuck off with its strict rules, coz we are not its slaves but its kings and we will decide what it will do. I write to remind you that they lied, that you don’t know, that you haven’t learnt yet unless you first forget and then start up again. I write to live my childhood dreams, to create rain in the desert, to be poor and then rich. I write to laugh at living, and then laugh at the writing. I write what I can’t speak, and can’t tell anyone to say. I write the pain that I hide. I write to celebrate life on flowers that are more beautiful than me. I write to kiss lost girlfriends and exes, create characters with their names and tell them that they still have a special place in my heart but its too shameful for me to say it loud or dial that phone. I write to create my own fantasy world and invite you in, hoping that you will copy it too. I write to move you, just as I saw the river move but did not carry me away, touch you like a whisper of wind then walk away blissfully. I write to control the life of kings and queens, to create presidents and turn them into peasants. I write because there is nothing else someone can do after so many dashed hopes and dreams that never came to be. I would have gone on and on about this nonsense…….. but the next time you ask why I write, I will write about you.


fourteen falls

You barely know her.

You think that Fourteen Falls is an interesting place to fall in love with a stranger. The sound of the large volume of water hitting the ground makes you talk louder and listen to each other more keenly. You walk along the banks of the river, side by side, not holding each other hands, a little distance between you.

On a normal day you would have said that she is a fashion disaster, but today you don’t really care. She is wearing a black tight jeans rolled up to halfway between the knees and her feet, a white top that you don’t understand how it merges to be black at the back and red artificial hair. She walks barefoot, and you can’t help but stare at how her brown legs gracefully caress the grass. You are no better wearer. You have blue baggy jeans that make you appear bigger than you actually are , a long sleeved blue-white stripped jersey and old blue sport shoes that are torn in several places due to doing morning runs and hiking through various forests.

The furious waters of the Fourteen Falls rage on and on.

She suggests a rock by the river for you to sit on. You think that the rock she has chosen is rough, small and a little bit dirty, but you sit on it anyway. You are uncomfortable at first, the rock doesn’t seem to be made for two, but you forget that too. You look at your surroundings and wonder why the barks of trees are wearing out, some branches have irregular curves and the grass is laid flat by stones and large fallen branches. You wonder whether she is also looking at the surroundings or at you.

She is actually looking at you.

You feel the gaze of her eyes penetrate the skin of your dark neck, something that makes the images you were watching blurred and your mind stop wondering. You turn, look at her thin brown lipstick-less lips and are amazed at how they are a perfect match for the slim brown face, small nose and oval eyes. You lean down to kiss her lips and she closes her eyes, the eyelashes beautifully merging, mouth partially opening, waiting.

You hands touch hers and you continue reaching for her lips.


The director yells amidst the voice of the zooming cameras.

A soft wind passes between you. You continue holding her hand a second longer before letting go and starting to rise up.

Her name will be Jeddie and that will be the most beautiful scene of your life.

The Woes of using my Bachelor’s to Cook

Here is kinda a funny one and crazy one, but msinipeleke Mathare please. Huko tuliachia kina Poeta. My favorite food is ugali and fried tomato stew, all due to my younger siz Muthoni Hinga who insisted on devouring such delicacies alone during our very interesting childhood. I was very excited yesterday when I decided to buy four big ripe tomatoes for supper. After lazing on watsapp for a while, I get down to serious cooking business. Three cups of water, add heat, five minutes wait for water to boil, add a lot of unga to the water. Five minutes pounding, turn the mould and shape it like a mountain, the ugali is ready. Remove from fire and store upside down on a metallic plate, just like I saw mummy do back then. Then comes the easier part, cooking tomatoes. Just slicing onions and tomatoes then add some oil and heat. Very easy cooking, suitable for any bachelor. The tomatoes are almost ready, boiled in their water to flatness after kindu five minutes. The next part always confuses me. Adding salt. I think it is something to do with my hands being either too small, or me underestimating my hands, or thinking that the tomatoes look too many now or my eyes being too big/small. I am not sure whether I am having my specs at this time. I think that the salt in my hand is too much, but who wants to waste salt? You can never be sure about anything on this earth anyway, just have to try my luck. The salt might just be enough. I add all of it and hope that the God will be with me.

Its time to serve. I place the ugali on the covered water bucket and slice it into as many large pieces as I can. I only manage two large pieces. I promise myself that I will cook a bigger ugali tomorrow. Tomato stew needs no serving, just put it into a plate and add a spoon, wash your hands. Pray, and thank God that He turned some of the salt into somebody’s wife. Maybe Lot’s. Then taste. The food is too salty. At least someone is still a bachelor like me, the salt didn’t become anyone’s wife. That offers some consolation to struggle with some few spoonfulls, then give up. Seems I will have to sleep hungry tonight. I know I would have called my sister and she would have suggested that I add some water into the food. But who adds water to tomato stew? That sound’s dumb.

I lie helplessly on my bed, meditating and spreading nice thoughts to anyone who might be in my position. Till I remember that I was once a chemistry guru, a BSc Analytical Chemistry holder. A genius idea strikes me. What was that thing about neutralization again? Or was it titration? Isn’t sugar the opposite of salt? Or is salt the opposite of sugar? Which is which? It’s one of those, unless our class two teacher lied to us. Mrs Thamaini looks too innocent to tell any lies. I add a few spoonfulls of sugar. Just two will be enough; I have to experiment first before going any further. I sit down, very happy with myself; the one who is able to apply chemistry to solve domestic problems. All that chemistry done in campus didn’t go to waste after all. And then I have my first bite of my newly prepared concoction.

My eyes redden, deep furrows form on my face. My childhood was haunted by cold chills and I didn’t like it when my dad forced me to have syrup as medicine. I don’t like it now too. This stuff tastes like it. I can’t go past three spoons of this thing. I have to sleep hungry after all. Maybe it’s just fate. It’s hard to get any sleep but, who said life is easy? A few more lazy chats on watsapp and facebook. All of them remind me that my friend Richard Mbugu is gone forever. I have to sleep now, at least to try and escape from the sad reality. May God rest his soul in eternal peace.

I wake up late, stomach rumbling and grumbling. Have to work first, no time to prepare proper breakfast. Go to check on my thing again. Still there on the gas cooker, uncovered, spoon improperly positioned. Untouched by houseflies. Not even a cockroach came close. I start by taking quarter spoonfulls first, with short stints on my computer. I had planned to take the stuff to the lab for analysis, but it’s too late now. I can see none of it. I don know how it disappeared, but maybe the tractor sounds in my stomach can tell.

Her Name (Part III)


Part III

I received my employment termination letter from the diocesan offices the next day. I couldn’t go back home, my mother would be furious with her disparaged son. I resulted to camping at ‘Witeithie Bar’, far from my home town, drinking all illegal drinks during the day and sleeping in abandoned buildings at night.

One of my elder brothers had once given me alcohol while I was still a young uncircumcised boy, and I had thought it bitter. I wondered why people drank it. But compared to all the problems I had gone through, it now tasted sweet. Speaking to women was out of question, barmaids included, unless they came in beer containers or their bodies full of beer. Only then would I kiss their lips.

I didn’t want to speak to her. But then, nobody spoke to her anyway, and she didn’t seem to want to be bothered by anyone.

Except when ordering for beer.

I always avoided ordering beer from her.

They called her Wanjiru, a composite of a smooth ebony skin wrapping a streamlined middle height body. She was the new barmaid in town. Unlike the others, she would wear long skirts that reached to her ankles and serve customers while standing a distance of at least half a meter from the table. She would jump instantly any time a man’s hand tried to reach her, which happened often. Many are the times in which she poured the customer’s drink in her involuntary jerks. The bar manager would be cross with her and deduct the poured drinks from her month end salary.

I pitied her.

I decided to be ordering beer from her as many times as I could so that she would be too busy attending to me, and reduce the disturbances from other customers. I would fold my arms across my chest and look in the opposite direction when she was serving me. It would make her feel comfortable and she would come closer to the table. No words would be exchanged between us.

On this Friday, it rained heavily, and I was the last one in the bar. Everyone else had gone home apart from me and her. I was feeling dizzy, but I wanted to have one final cup of keg before going ‘home’.

“Wanji, one more cup before I go to sleep.”

“No, it’s too late.”

“Just one more.”

She slowly and reluctantly picked a jug full of keg. Without realizing it, my eyes were transfixed on her approaching figure. Her slender hips swayed in synchronicity with the sound of the pouring rain, her feet tapping to the rhythm of the drops on the iron roof sheets. I became aware of my alcoholic breath, slowly being overpowered by her sweet passion fruit scent. Everything else was still.

“Please hurry up. It’s already midnight.” She said, refilling my cup.

It was the first time she had spoken to me at close range. Her voice was a rhythm my eardrums had longed for. It awakened a part of my brain that I hadn’t realized I possessed.

I drank the beer in a few large gulps as told.

Once outside, she locked the steel door. I fell a few times as I tried to walk in the rain. It was hard to balance on the slippery mud. She supported and compassionately held me. The rain hit harder.

“Where are you going?”



“The first empty building I find is home.”

She narrowed her eyes. Confused. Wondering.

“It is in open doors and empty buildings that I find a space to fit. Anywhere in the world can become my home.”

Being tipsy always made me philosophical. She smiled, impressed.

“And you?”

“I’m going to pick a bodaboda at the stage to take me home.”

“No motorbike will agree to ride in the rain.”

“They do.”

She looked at me and smiled. She had sensed my intentions.


She released the grip on my hand and started walking towards the stage. Barely had she gone a few meters when I fell down with a large thud. A thud that I made sure she heard.

I heard her footsteps fading into the distance carrying away my last rays of hope in the dark. I breathed hard and made several futile attempts to lift myself. A motorbike screeched and roared into life, approaching where I lay, its bright light temporarily blinding me. The bloods in my veins rushed and energized me into beginning to crawl out of its way. I was too weak to make any progress.

It stopped just in front of me.

“Here, help me lift this guy. He cannot take himself home.”

“Just leave him alone, drunkards know how to take care of themselves.” I would have stood up and kicked the motorbike guy if I had the energy to.

“I will pay you. Just do as I say.”

A whim of excitement electrocuted me from my head to my toe.

Hard and soft hands lifted me onto the motorbike. It was not hard to distinguish hers from his.

I sat behind the bike rider with her behind me, her hands supporting me. There was a jerk, followed by the sound of the bike’s tire attacking tarmac, another jerk, followed by the cranking of gates. All of them made a lullaby to a drunken tired mind, sandwiched between two bodies.

Soon we were in bed. It was a night with no dreams. A night with an alien beside me.

Dawn found me still covered up. I could tell that it was early morning by the chirping of birds outside. The room was partially lit by the rays of the morning sun shining through the spaces on the wooden door. She had already woken up and sat on the bed in a white night dress. Beauty has a way of revealing itself more in the dark. It was not so much about the little light that bounced off her body, but more about the immense darkness that tried to mask her beauty unsuccessfully. It was that darkness that made me imagine things, of what lay beneath that white silk skirt, of what time would unmask, knew but would not tell at the moment. She sat there, still, looking at me, and with each imagination she could see the change in my eyes. The grip of our eyes locked together stopped the imaginations, stopping the time, and nothing else existed. She shifted her gaze and smiled. Watching her smile was like watching a drop of water cascade from the top of a fall to hit the bottom with no thud but still create a memory; her lips unfolded with the tick of the clock on the wall. The pores on her body seemed to open with the smile, her skin stretching to reveal more beauty. I followed her eyes to share they were directed, my legs and saw what had made her smile.

It hit me that I was stark naked, hard on erection.

My muddy clothes lay in a dirty bundle in one corner of the room. I used the bed sheet to cover my nudity.

“Where do you go to church?”

I hoped that she did not attend my previous church. I did not intend to disclose to her any of my past experiences.

“To the seven suns of the Plaideans.”

I looked at her and smiled. I admired her good sense of humor.

She looked at me and smiled again, then started to slowly lift up her night dress and remove it over her head. I folded my arms across my chest and looked in the opposite direction.

Soon she was behind me. Her hands slowly massaging and counting the bones on my back. She pushed her legs astride my back and folded them at my front, massaging my crotch. All I could do was moan with pleasure.

A hard thing pressed my back.

She slowly pushed me into a kneeling position and slid her body on my back. Her firm breasts and erect nipples courted my skin to a forever wish song played by the soft hisses from my mouth. Her fingers rode from my heels to my back in a way that reminded me of walking bare foot on wet sand, my hairs standing on edges, something that made me feel alive more than ever before.

She was now parting my buttocks. She couldn’t have fingers that big. It was becoming painful. I quickly turned.

“Jesus!” The exclamation escaped my mouth unwarranted.

“Jesus defied nature. The good Lord taught you to be like Him.”

“But Jesus only calmed physical storms in unnatural ways, not metaphorical ones.”

“Anything that is physical can also be metaphorical.”

“And why are you telling me all this? I’m not a pastor?”

“You used to be one.”

‘And why the hell do you sell in a bar if you are that saved? Will you also tell me that you want to defy nature and turn water into wine?

“Actually, that’s what I do. I’m glad it has rained today.”

It now dawned on me; the long skirts and the involuntary jerks. She resented men.

“But I’m also male.” I said, looking down at my crotch, just to make sure.

“No, I don’t hate men. I just hate their behaviors.”

“And what are you? You have both male and female sexual organs.”

“Everybody is both male and female. There are no men or women, only humans. There is nothing special about sexual organs; there are body parts like any other.”

Her face was quiet and composed despite my bewilderment. The door was still partially open behind me. I turned and looked at it. There was nothing she could do to prevent me from leaving.

“Don’t even think of it.”

She had sensed my intentions.

I started taking a step towards my freedom. The door immediately locked itself. I turned and looked at her, shocked.

My eyes switched to the window. I could see that it was still open.

It immediately closed itself.

I was cornered.

I thought of what she had told me. Maybe it didn’t really matter if we had sex. What was sex anyway? Hadn’t I admired and lusted for her just some moments ago.

“Okay, no problem. But allow me to be the man in this case. I’m not used to playing woman.”

She went into a kneeling position on the bed. This time there were no words. I positioned myself behind her, shrinking in the awkward silence. It seemed like rape, sex done only to satisfy bodily pleasures. I tried to imagine whether it would be pleasurable. How would it feel? Would she cum green liquid, gas or stones? The thoughts scared me. I slowly started pushing into her.

Her hand elongated from the front, held my dick and directed it towards her anus. I jumped off the bed, a high pitched scream choking my throat. She slowly stood up, fire burning in her eyes.

She started coming towards me. She stood just in front of me and held my chin.

“You can go. I won’t force you to do anything that you don’t want to do. True love uses no force.”

The door unlatched and opened itself.

I stood there, glued to the ground.

I could not understand her. She seemed to be so perfect at times and at other times so cruel. I looked at her keenly and tried to understand her, concentrating on every curve of her skin. It no longer looked beautiful. I could see alligator like scales on her skin. Green. Slimy.

“Sometimes I become human and get attracted to you.”

She moved closer and touched my forehead softly with the tip of her index finger.

“Sorry for being cruel.”

A cold bliss flew through my whole body. I froze, my mind blanked.

By the time I recovered, I was standing outside the green mabati shanty, naked. The place I once used to call home.

I now stay at home. I don’t consider streets, churches or bars to be any safe for me. I don’t want to meet any other woman but Mama still insists that I should marry. At some point I’m thinking of marrying all the three women, only that I don’t know how they are going to live together in the same compound. Of course mother can beat all the three of them together in a heavily dominated one sided battle. She has proved it many times with my sisters, but I don’t want another America versus Iraq in our home, again.