Tequila. That’s how it starts. And that’s how I end up in hospital. Two Thursdays ago I attended a Mexican Gastronomical shindig at the Intercontinental. Tequilas flowed. Now, I’m not normally your suave tequila gobbling urbanite,
Someone emailed and asked why I don’t write about Tamms anymore, did we break up? (Ho-ho-ho.) It’s because she’s 10 years now, a few months shy of 11-years. And it’s a big deal. I know you must think,
“Should I take off my clothes?” I ask.
I’m standing against the wall. She’s standing across the table. She has glasses on. The room is small and bare and functional, a place you could sustain any form of ritual.
Somewhere down a damp, patchy-grassed, walled corridor separating two blocks of houses in a South B estate, a man bangs on a metallic gate in the shadows cast by the early morning sun. It’s 7:25am,
The first time George Kevin Jeki Jnr got married it was in a small church, in downtown Phoenix, Arizona. It was one of those small chapels they have in hospitals, like the one at Mater Hospital.
The millenial sticks her head around the door to my office. I have headphones on, which is the universal sign for “do not disturb”, but this is a millennial; they care not about the universe.
Enter your email address to subscribe.