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There Were Birds, But They Didn’t Sing

What does human flesh taste like?

Everybody I tell this story thinks I should have asked her this question. At some point I began to think that maybe I should have asked her.


I lived in a little shanty-like neighbourhood called Kiwafu while in uni in Kampala, with a roommate, Gasirigwa, who was from Tanzania. A room. One window. A mango tree outside the window.

Babies On Planes

Up the aisle, a bony man struggles to shove his luggage into the compartment above. His elbows look like a branch off a yellow-bark acacia. If you walked into his elbow by accident you would die from excessive haemorrhage.



I wrote a good chunk of this novella in a treehouse in Elementaita. It’s called Pinklakeman Eco-Lodge, where a gorgeous treehouse teeters from a gorge (the gorge makes it gorgeous) of a seasonal riverbed.

Long Nights

Nights means dreams. Mostly I dream of the little girl in the coma, lying there, her small fragile hands in the hands of her mother, her face impassive, the face that lost a body.

We are back up

For the past week we have had some problems with the website. It kept going up and down. I’m no IT guy, so I was lost. It’s like going to the hospital and telling your doctor that you have this pain in your hip area and he makes you lie down and he presses your hips while looking deep in the eye (hopefully to see if you wince in pain not because he likes the colour of your eyes) and he says you must have strained it while you were jumping a fence or climbing a wall.