The Musings of an African Writer
Mrs. Fatuma’s magical sweet shop appeared on the quaint cobbled setting of 14th street Lickity Lane once every year. All the children of Wooloon heard the distinct ringing of the confectionery shop’s bell as Mrs. Fatuma opened her doors for all the children in town. Then when all the candy was gone, the bell would ring …
The little girl stared as she licked her cracked lips. “You’re famished grandma. Go on. Have a bite to eat.” She said as she ladled some more soup. “Yes of course, as soon as Jack is done. You too should taste this sumptuous lamb. ” Anita said cradling the bowl on her lap. She was …
The door flung open as its fur splattered against the wall. It drew a long gurgling breath and lunged at the fluorescent bulb, breaking it. Darkness fell in an instant. I could barely make out its decaying form; what was left of it at least, as it dripped down the wall, peeling the wallpaper and …
Denyeko froze where she stood watching the shadow move beyond the threshold. The locked door had hardly fazed her before now. Like the manor, Lord Lanka’s study stood resting in pious vintage glory at the end of the corridor; the forbidden room. In spite of her rank and title, Lady Lanka was the only one …
There once was a lion, so tall and grand, with glossy eyes and long ochre mane. Beloved he was, the golden king, with his thunderous roar and mighty claws. The king would rise to escort the sun. He beat the wind from right under his paws. His lapping tongue stirred the seas; they churned, erecting …
I lay sprawled out naked and languid, wrapped in the drunken stupor of euphoria glistening in mirrored reflections through his copper hew eyes. Watery and searching they blinked down at me, reiterating my thundering heart that roared untamed and free. It beat hard, screaming longingly for his arms; sweaty and brazen, to dalliance my wraith-like fantasies.
The drapes fluttered open as the sunlight flooded her, his rays rippling and warmth kissing her fingertips, face, and lips. He took her, devoured her, and swallowed her whole. Brazen he was as he flowed over her, brushing through raven hair glistened with olive sheen and loose curls. His molten graze seared pleasantly on her …
Mrs. Makaka boasted of being the cleanest head cook House Lanka had ever seen. Deep down in the dressed stone walls and spotless floors of the kitchen, she brooded over the greasy pots. Pascal, the second footman, was off nursing a terrible case of athlete’s foot and Miss Ng’ang’a was a no show as always. …
Without them seeing, he quickly wrote a note, scribbling as much as he could remember from the blabbering behemoth in the black suit. It was a long shot, but he had to at least try and leave breadcrumbs just in case things went south, which they’d done within the past hour. The giant of a …
Inside were musty old rooms stripped of all but dusty old books, peeling paint, and treasures under stretching old iron roof sheets baking in the African sun. But it was home and it had been for ages. It kept me away from them, away from those that hung by the rafters, building their hollow nests …