Help! I am in love with a Writer

That’s it, I am officially losing my mind, and to make matters worse, he does not get where I’m coming from!

  1. He’s a Writer.
  2. He loves reading Autobiographies, Memoirs, Agatha Christie, Charlotte Bronte, and did I mention that he doesn’t know what the hype is about Chinua Achebe?
  3. He has this Note Taking App, called Adler’s Notes.
  4. When we sit down to coffee, he would pull out his phone mid-conversation and type something and then say “sorry, just had an idea.”
  5. He is a tea person!

And then there’s:

  1. He knows not to ask about a work in progress.
  2. We have coffee any time.
  3. He bought me the Lord and Master Trilogy by Kait Jagger because he knows there is some kink in me.
  4. He just saw three things that are wrong with this post’s title.
  5. I’m the one who has published and he is yet to complete his manuscript. So, when I aced NanoWrimo he was the first to ask “how do you write 50,000 words in one month when I cannot even write a thousand in a week?”
  6. When I disagree with him, we both picture each other as inanimate objects in our stories. I once drafted him as a stool in a short story.

So, now that I have written all that…I think, I’ll just go and sit down quietly in some corner and figure out how this can be drafted into a plot for the next romance novella I’m writing.


Say You Love Me



“The opposite of love is not hate Mark, it is indifference. When she does not care about anything you do, know you have lost her.”

I wish someone told me of this early enough. I messed up, worse off I got caught. Things have been awful at home. I need to make things work. I need to get her back by all means. I miss my wife. I miss knowing that she thinks about me. I miss holding her in my arms-and even her smile. I have never seen or heard her cry. I guess I am the first one to make her bear so much pain. This has just messed me up and why did she call me? It was just one night of fun and I paid her well. She was not meant to call. Anyway she did so and that’s why Beryl left.

I met Nelson at the court and he told me she wants a divorce. He even showed me what he was drafting-she wanted a clean exit. She did not want to split property or take anything from me; rather she wants to get rid of my last name. I had three shots of Tequila that afternoon as Nelson advised me on what to do. He asked me why she was seeking divorce and I couldn’t tell him. I referred him to his client. Nelson has been my friend for a few years. He was in the same law firm as me before he got promoted to another branch within town. I took up the role of senior partner; word is that he is still doing his best to get there. The man is the best divorce attorney I have ever met in Kenya. He can get his clients the house or the children with just one word! I knew if Beryl went through with the divorce she would win. I love her. I know I messed up and I am doing what I can to get a second chance knowing I would not mess it up.

God how I wish I never went out that night. How I wish that I could go back and set things straight. Some of the guys laughed it off. They could not understand that with Beryl is the gentleness and never ending support that any man would be lucky to have. She is the ideal wife and I messed it up. I am sick of all this silence.

Do you know how we met? It was at a restaurant. She was seated at the table at the far end of the restaurant slowly going through a ladies magazine. I had to update a requisition letter for a client, and needed a place to plug my laptop charger. Her table was the only one located near a plug and I asked if I could join her. It was her smile that blew me away. I did not expect it but she asked me what I was engrossed in. I told her about what I did and she smiled and said, ‘no wonder you look all suited up!’ I must have laughed a while before it hit me that she was leaving. I gave her my card if ever she needed legal advice and she gave me hers saying that if ever I needed to buy a house or an apartment I could call her.

“How about coffee tomorrow evening?”


“Yes, I’d be honored.”

“Name the place and time and I will be there.”

“How about right here?”

“I will see you then Mark, have a wonderful day.”

“You too Beryl.”

I watched her leave before saving her number on my phone list in case I lost her card. I am careless with business cards and my clients know that too. In fact they always laugh about it at the firm that for a lawyer I lose the most vital information. I always retort that it’s better that way clients pay consultation fee!

Credit: Say You Love Me, 2012, Dora Okeyo



I am falling. No, it’s neither in love nor asleep, but into a black hole. I have always known that I would have to write about myself.

Now that I have to, I fear that whatever it is I write, nothing may be as virtual as I would like it to be.

Someone once said that there is no line between fiction and non-fiction, the only difference is three letters ‘non.’ I have thought about this for twelve years. Truth is when I write it is never for anyone, but myself. Some stories have been to free myself of a guilty conscience while others to free others of theirs.

In essence it all boils down to me. I choose who lives and who dies, not when but just how. I leave the ‘why’ to you who’s reading this right now. So, if you could meet me for coffee and ask me one question, what would it be? What would you want to know about me? On the other hand, if I were to meet you for coffee and ask you one question, it would be ‘would you like to go for a walk with me?’ I learned this from my Grandmother. She told me, anyone willing to walk with you is worthy of your time. I did not understand the depth of her wisdom then. A friend once told me that life is never ending. He said this at his grand father’s funeral where we stood by him lulled by the wailing and the eulogies. He smiled and said he was glad the old man got some rest because dialysis was killing him. The thought that tubes went in and out of him broke his spirit more than the fact that the process was extending his life. He just stood there and said that life never ended. He said that one is born out of two people, lives, dies and moves onto the after-life.

What he could not bring himself to admit was that life only ended if whoever died never created any memories with those he/she left behind. And that’s why I want to live, such that generations to come will know about me, and I am glad that in Kenya, generations name their newborn after those who are long gone. Talk of a sure way to ensure reincarnation, and Romeo had the audacity to ask “what’s in a name?” And there are some things that I will never say, not out loud, and not even at my deathbed. The moment you think, ‘I have to share this with someone,’ it becomes a confession- words spoken in the hope of being understood and forgiven, but none of it makes sense.

Truth is most of them are memories they wish to realize again and again.

Excerpt from Memories. Published on August 29, 2013 on Smashwords.

Updates on the writing life

Hello Friday! I have been looking forward to this day for two reasons:

  1. I finally get to share the second issue of Nilichoandika magazine.
  2. I can sit back and work on the draft I’ve written this week.

Writing has been a thrill, but what’s been better has been listening to new music albums and reading books. I haven’t stopped listening to three albums:

I have indulged some awesome books this week and from a funeral director, to an Assistant District Attorney, a well renowned Pastor, let’s just say that my week’s bee interesting.

Here’s to a lovely weekend and as I raved on about earlier, grab your free copy of the second issue of the magazine. Nilichoandika

A magazine…a maga-what?

That’s exactly how my friend reacted when I told her that I’d created a magazine.

Well, I am all for trying new things and using different mediums to share stories and insights and when I was scrolling through Canva, I thought why not use their templates and create a six-page magazine.

Grace saw it, read it and she loved it! It’s her job to love everything I do as a friend 🙂 and so, now, hello world…here’s a copy of the Nilichoandika Magazine!

Nilichoandika (2)

The Place You Call Home

Our journey started long before my feet could meet the ground. It must have been past nine o’clock at night when we heard the chants outside your parents’ house. Your Father, Omutete, stood up and approached the door but it was your mother who knew it before they begun.

She pulled me aside and said, “You have to promise me that you will protect our daughter, listen, I know people think you are lazy and a drunk, but she needs a Father and you are the only one I trust. Do not even mention my people, because ever since I came here they have not bothered to visit me or send their best wishes. My own mother has forgotten me, but what would you expect of them given that I married beneath their expectations? Now, listen, I have wrapped some ten thousand shillings in this lesso and packed a few clothes for Maria. You have to go with her and protect her. I will not ask anything of you again, and Juma, you should not come back here. These people will take everything away from you when you can have three meals in a day.”

She placed you in my arms and threw the strap of the bag around my neck and pushed me out of the house through the small back door that led through the cow shed. I stood there for what seemed to be my whole life, thinking of a cold glass of busaa and a few women singing my praise. How could I have told you the truth then? For years, I went back to that night wondering what happened but nothing comes to mind. So, I held onto you and walked away carefully making my way through cow dung and maize fields until I got to the road where I boarded a matatu to Kisumu.

They said that my brother and his family were burned alive and their property destroyed by cattle rustlers, but I know that those were not rustlers. They were Omuchai, my brother’s rival, and his men out to avenge a business deal gone wrong. Weeks later I heard it on the radio that they believed I was also killed in the fire because I had gone to visit my brother that afternoon. Maria, I told you that our journey began long before my feet met the ground, but I was never prepared for the life of bitterness that followed.

Excerpt from:

To read the whole story, download a free copy here


I always knew I would be a chair.

I did not know which kind-but I had the feeling people would sit on me for the rest of my life. I was seated basking in the sun when he walked in. He had a huge afro, brown patched trousers that barely scraped his ankles and an old silver Seiko watch. I was taking in the view of the town and hoping someone would take me home. His eyes, like everybody else, settled on Matiwa. Yes, even chairs have names. If you look up any directory you will learn that there are over one hundred and twenty four types of chairs. There are those made of either hard wood or soft wood. Now, the most common hardwood in Africa is Mahogany. It is the best and most expensive. Very few Carpenters get the privilege of working with this kind of wood. When they do, the finished product is always most expensive. Allow me to tell you about our names. Every Creator gives his product a name. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but just a right name for the product. Writers name books, painters name their paintings, musicians their songs and hence Carpenters their products. Matiwa is named after the owner. First rule of naming a product; give it some connection to its source. All chairs made by Otiwa get a name. Otiwa is the man who created me. So, since he made Matiwa using Mahogany-he gave him the first two letters to symbolize that affection. At this point you are probably wondering what my name is. Truth is, I don’t know and I never want to. It wouldn’t change the fact that I have been sat on all my life. When Michael walked in his eyes landed on Matiwa-just like all the other customers. He changed his mind when he heard the price. He walked around the shed for a while before settling on me. When I saw him, his thin dull face had this promising look. I knew he would be kind to me. See, the thing about humans is that they are visual. I have heard the women who come here complain that men go with what they see. But, with chairs-it’s not what you see but the skill that matters. See, a well crafted chair will be bought. But Matiwa was not just crafted-he was designed. He had a purpose that spoke of comfort, style and elegance. You would look at him and think that he could earn you prestige amongst your peers. A crafted chair has raw talent and blessings from his master. Every joint is in place and it fits just fine. It is one of those items you see at a show and immediately picture yourself seated on it- alone, reading a book or listening to music. If you stare at a chair and picture yourself with your friends having fun-then it isn’t well crafted. I say so because you had to picture yourself enjoying it with others. A designed chair on the other hand serves a purpose. I hear that humans call it ergonomics. It’s where a chair is made to fulfill a purpose. Out of those one hundred and twenty four types I have told you about, most of them are products of ergonomics. They sprang about because humans forgot what it was like to care for things. People just figured they needed things they could use. They never did the Math-and now you end up having a battle of the chairs in your house every time you go to bed. Yes, chairs do argue! We argue so loud that even the silent night cannot hear us. What do you expect when you have a couch, dining chair, lounge chair, patio chair, high chair, desk-chair in the house? It’s a battle that never ends. Take it from me.

Excerpt from:

Download a free copy on: Smashwords

Who knew a short story published in 2014 could still remind me of what writing felt like back then? 🙂 Have a lovely weekend.