He screeched into a sudden halt and half jumped, half leaped out of his Toyota Mark X. The parking lot was almost empty, save for two staff vans, an ambulance and a couple of personal automobiles. From a distance I could hear the wailing of sirens, indicating the dire need for attention. The nurse in charge, I guess, rushed in to the corridor and took a left. The contours on her face were enough to detail how weary she was,  courtesy of the events of the day. Dusk was fast approaching as the second and third set of sirens hit my ears.
A grasshopper leaped on to the bonnet and my subconscious self seemed to have been captured by its elegance. I could hear his voice from a distance. He sounded sombre, disappointed and confused with some tinge of urgency.
He opened the back door hastily and grabbed my left arm, gently pulling me out of the car. I gladly obliged and set my tiny feet on the tarmac of the Ge Children’s Hospital parking. He placed my tiny palm into his which were rather sweaty. His grip was stronger than usual betraying his ex military status. He tagged me along as we entered the spacious and quite busy reception.
“Excuse me Madame,” he barked amidst the din, ” could you inform me, which room one Mr. Kisa Akisa is admitted?” 
I couldn’t help but notice the mosaicked and the cartoon coated walls. The whole place was a burst of colours, like a place washed with rainbows.
Room 4, ward 2 was what she said as she pointed to her left. The inscription ‘ICU’ was so evident that a blind person could well read it. Her voice was shaky and her eyes full of despair, a cocktail for departure. I had by now gotten  used to this, but the inner seemed to have missed this glorious memo.
We walked steadily on the marble floor, with seemingly well calculated and orchestrated steps. We went past a leukemic kid being wheeled to the other end of the building, past briskly walking nurses, past an abandoned wheel chair, past a stretcher with a lifeless body on it, past a “misplaced”, ever jovial kid… into a waiting room with two, rather soulless bodies sobbing their lives away.
Mr. and Mrs. Akisa knew the fate that awaited them, four doors down the hall to the right. The more they had tried to ignore the fact that the past seven years were the years worth Kisa’s lifetime, the more grief clouded their hearts. They appeared to have kept tabs with reality but tonight grief was their heart beat.
He stretched out his arm, allowing my left arm to drop to my thigh to my relief.
” Fr. Odunga Andrew”

His voice was coarse, faintly unstable. Mr. Kisa stretched his arm full length towards him and shook his hand. Mrs. Kisa hurriedly wiped off her ever flowing tears. They both stood up as she greeted him.
Their eyes were full of sorrow as they casted them on me.
“Your nephew is fast growing…” her voice trailed, before bursting into more tears.
“Shall we…” Mr. Kisa offered to take us to his son’s room while trying to calm his wife down. We all stood by the door as my uncle made his way into the room. Mr. Kisa’s hand was well woven around his now sobbing wife as I leaned by the other door post.

Kisa’s room was sky blue in colour dotted with flashes of joyful toons. The floor was also marble with a fluffy carpet to keep it warm. Out of the open window, the lavish green grass lawn stretched past some mansion cowering beneath towering trees, hiding its owners exotism and wealth. There were flowers, cards, untouched fruits his favourite short story collection and the Bible on the side desk. The beeps from the life support machine were the only constant reminder of life, save from the sobbing and the soft breathing of everyone in the room.
Fr. Odunga leaned by towards him and uttered some words  that left a gorgeous smile on his face. It didn’t take long before he slumped back into his old self. The infection had taken toll of him and what was once a chubby body was just a frame of bones. His cheeks were now hollow and had welled up some tears. His eyes were bloodshot and he constantly shivered like a Nokia phone on vibrational mode. His destiny was final, however much he tried to fight it. One could see the struggle in his sunken eyes.
The Priest said the final prayers as I followed for the seventh time now, the third of the year. He sought for God’s mercy upon His baptised son, who now had already turned to face his hero and heroin.

His parents broke into a cry at the face of their only kid on the verge of exiting this cruel world. They knew they could do nothing and this pained enough.
She raced to her son’s bed side and grabbed his cold palm. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as they made their way down my cheek, but made no effort to wipe them out. In solidarity with his parents, especially his mother who was visibly shattered and broken as his husband stayed strong for her despite the pain eating him inside.
She whispered to him, “Let go. Don’t fight it. Just let go. Jesus is waiting for you in Heaven.

The beeps aligned to a single constant sound. Then hush fell in the room.


Dear Wife to Be

Dear future wife .. I hope you read this.

From A Man's Diary

I hope when we get married, it will be just me and you, stars and the moon are welcome.

I hope there will be no multitude to please,

And relatives that I haven’t seen for years, that suddenly think this is a good time to drink up some beers.

I hope you and I will walk ourselves to the aisle, since only we, can tell the story of us better than anybody else.

I hope there will be no priest who thinks he knows us better than we, and his “word” will be the base that will help us not sink.

I hope there will be no “million dollar advices”, from people who spark no life, yet strongly believe they have something to say to my beautiful wife.

I hope there will be no vows, to be repeated on stage like we some crowns….just sober and rational-personal decisions.

I hope…

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blueband and silver shoes

Royal blue band and Silver shoes.
Sometimes open eyes don’t hide what’s vivid before us. A caring heart may oversee the worst, but when accompanied with a witful brain, you tread carefully.



​There are those times you wake up and try to hum the morning away. Regardless of how joyous the tunes are you cannot avoid the cloud of sadness in your heart. It disturbs you, reminding you that something is not okay. When you feel it tickle you cannot help but think, “why am I sad though?” then you remember. He is not talking to you and he hasn’t returned your calls from yesterday. Is he that angry at you, or is someone consuming the time you two should be having? You know things will get back to normal, but the sooner, the better. You feel it’s good to make the first move, after all, are you not the one that annoyed him by nagging him too much about the amount of time he gives you? The value for the relationship is bigger than your ego. He comes first. Always.


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By Martha Nderitu

Hey awesome people!

I have walked the face of the earth for

twenty years, ten months, fifteen days and an

undefined number of seconds (I am still

walking on it 🙂 ). I once lay on the evergreen

grass patch behind our homely Kiganjo house

feeling trapped.

I made a mental note to tell Daktari, then it hit

me that the conversation would be strange.

“What do you mean, “You’re feeling trapped?”

He would ask, propping his chin with his pen,

his rugged expression narrow with humor.

Where exactly would I start?

More like;

I need to stop being subject to the laws of

science, like matter and gravity. When I see a

wall, I want to scale it in my six inch stilettos

without landing hard on my gluteus and

cracking some vertebra. I want to dance on

the ceiling; moonwalk like Michael Jackson

and sway like Britney Spears. I want to climb

trees with the agility of a monkey and scare

away bad humans with my fangs, like a

leopard does. I want to walk through hills and

reach directly into mum’s snack cabinet

without having to break into it. I want to sit on

the runway whilst an Airbus A-380 is coming

in for landing without freaking out. I would

love to jump from the Everest and scream

through the eight kilometer drop without a

parachute and not bust my skull.

I wish I didn’t have to count the calories in my

food and eat no more than 1200 of them. I

want to eat fries, chicken, pastries, meat, salty

and sugary stuff without ever looking like a

walking display of the effects of what they

call a ‘poor diet’. I want to relax at the beach

in a bikini, look like a busted can of corned

beef or cheese and not give a damn. I want

to fit into any dress, especially those cute

high-lows and leather skater dresses made

for girls with 48% of my waist circumference.

Moreover, I want to go swimming with my

lovely and toned classmates and not feel like

I have an inbuilt floater on my waist.

I need to stop being subject to the concept of

time. I am not for silly unspoken rules like ‘Be

up by 0700hrs, attend that 0900hrs class and

within that time, jog, brush your fangs, have a

quick cold bath without getting a mild stroke,

consume 3 liters of stiff coffee to shoo sleep

away and brown bread for the Chromium

reserves, carry the right books and walk to

school. Why can’t I rise 0300hrs, jog, have

dinner, go back to bed…something

disorganized like that and be perfectly fine?

Why should I have to sweat all the way

instead of snapping my fingers and appearing

in the right class? (Most times I arrive on time

only to get late trynna find my class in the

wrong hemisphere of school).

I want to stop being shy. It is the only barrier

between me and the girls I would love to be

my friends, and the reason my crushes

remain just that. Crushes. For once I need to

stop being so subject to my emotions and

what people feel about me. Nothing would

please me better than to have a blank or

sleepy expression while facing this planet’s

bullies, instead of having my eyes melt

hopelessly. I do not want to be subject to the

cliché ‘No man is an island’. I want to enjoy

my own company and not feel neither empty

nor lonely.

I want to be infinitely good. I want to be a

great hip-hop dancer, ballet dancer, model,

skater, swimmer, singer, poet and actress. I

want to run at 110 km/hr and not at 3 km/hr,

after which I flip out and feel my lungs

begging to crawl out my nose,where the

Oxygen bounty is. I want to be good in math

and organic chemistry and bioengineering. I

want to be a lawyer, psychologist, geneticist,

rugby player and sniper when I grow up.

More than everything on this planet, I want to

protect everyone and everything I love. I want

to be at everyone’s service. I want to protect

the young children in Baringo County, Syria,

ISIS held areas and other places from PTSD. I

wish I could cover their eyes from the horrific

scenes of their parents being executed and

homes being razed to the ground. I want to

heal everyone in hospital and at home that is

in severe pain and has no access to funds or

painkillers. I wish I could protect us from

rapidly mutating viruses, armed militia that

shoot us in the head without a second

thought, rogue police, rapists, bad teachers,

thieving politicians, illness and pain. I wish our

families would stay intact and we enjoyed

happiness and a pure and infinite peace of


In short, I want to be a free spirit, roaming

wild, naked and free. No barriers, no positive

and negative attributes, no meds. Just me.

However, time has not come for me to be a

free spirit yet. So I will remain trapped in my

imperfectly perfect body and will do

everything it takes to feel happy and okay.

Like eat healthy and avoid the beach.

Cheers guys!
Originally posted on http://www.blue radioactivity.co.ke


​Dylan Thomas

     Do not go gentle into that good night,

     Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

     Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

     Because their words had forked no lightning they

     Do not go gentle into that good night.
     Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

     Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

     Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

     And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

     Do not go gentle into that good night.
     Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

     Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

     Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     And you, my father, there on the sad height,

     Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

     Do not go gentle into that good night.

     Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



After the Top Ten Lists of favorite Christmas Songs past and present, I was thinking I could use a hit too.  Just one!  The following is reblogged from the Sunday Night Blog.

A Hit For Christmas

Where's Christmas? Where’s Christmas?

I need a hit for Christmas
To turn the season green.
A snappy little holiday tune
Is really what I mean.
If I could just find somewhere
In my memory tonight
A verse, a phrase, some words of joy
To the world I would write.

“What is my theme?” I wonder
As I wander here and there.
Christmas songs make lots of cash
And why should I not share
In monies green and silver
But oh what shall I say?
After all I’m thinking now,
“What’s not been said of Christmas Day?”

I’ll write a Christmas Jingle.
Bells of joy will sound –
A song about Kris Kringle
Or snow upon…

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They light up the sun by nightfall,

So bright that I couldn’t hold back,

Neither relent your value,

He said, ‘And above all is love.’

Much more than we could have,

Dressed not to impress,

But dressed to suppress,

My emotions that broke me intense,

And built us to be one,


In the midst of many we never walked alone,

Integrity, sobriety,

A view so serene,

Shaken but bound,

For we know friendship is a garden,

Tilled perpetually.


Dreadful! : The Beginning 01



Completing my PhD. presentation in Biochemistry in a successful manner, was a hallmark event in my rather young career. Well, no one, not even me, saw this coming. So I had to paste this young man’s smile on my absolutely surprised face, put on my game face  and get on with the multiple hand shakes ahead. Finally graduation was beckoning and time to go home for change was around the corner.

Three months later after my graduation -that was filled with pomp; yes, we partied like we were eighteen again, relinquishing our young days when we used to grind on twerking voluptuous ladies, drink (soft drinks) and just do what teens and youths do, you know! – I was back home to my country, WAZO. This is where the journey began, already foreseeing a successful career.

Another memorable event was one of my interviews in this wonderland.

I woke up one bright Monday morning for my second interview since my arrival. My schedule was all laid out clearly, from my departure, to my arrival, to the interview (which took lots of ‘Before the mirror talks’ and consultations) to how cute I’ll  have to smile, to my return back home. I know, I know, I nearly forgot mentioning my state-of-the-art suit from MABWENYENYE land, huko majuu*

Cereals were never part of my breakfast till lately, with some milk. I was running laye on my  schedule, so I had to hurry. All these in the name of by passing the Kathi superhighway enormous traffic. I thought the reason behind creating a SUPERHIGHWAY  was to eradicate traffic jams, however, Kathi superhighway had become the Mother of all congestion.

Back! The City, Ronai, was as usual donned with skyscrapers amidst tall and short buildings all together. nobody in Ronai – or Ronaians as referred to – cared as much as to what happens to the next person. Thuggery seemed to be the order of the day in the busy and packed streets…