Jalada Girl & other weak stories written in the Friday jam


A yellow flame burning the tip of Anne’s cigarette.

Smoke. Glowing yellow tobacco embers. Paper slowly burning. The transparent flame. See right through it. The dog is flat dead on the road.

The cigarette leaves her lips. Anne blows out such small clouds. From her mouth. Nostrils. The Cigarette Dragon.

The dog’s head lies on the road part. Rest of the body on the footpath. The dog was looking at traffic in the Mlolongo night. Now the dog can see through the dark. Better than Anne. She imagined him looking at the headlights. No night now. And some car comes and knocks him on the head and he goes flat dead on the road.

Look left, look right but don’t look into the headlights.

She puts out the lighter.

Her breathing is shallow. Snakes of cigarette vapour rising lazily in the stale car air. Lips sucking kissing the cigarette. Her cheeks dimple, go inward and touch her teeth. The molars.


Nisha is taking off her earrings. She is about to put them in the drawer when suddenly she stops. Her lips are curving into a smile, and we see in her eyes she has come up with an idea. She looks at her earrings.


In the garden, Richard hears a shout.

“Richard! Can you come in here!”


 Nisha is standing in front of Richard. Her fingers are twining around each other. She is obviously nervous. She comes closer to Richard.

“Can you go get my earrings from top?”

“Yes, Memsahib.”

Richard goes up the stairs. Nisha looks at how his trousers bring out the shape of his buttocks. She waits for Richard to come back down. She is biting her nails. Richard comes down the stairs.

“I cannot find them.”

“They are right on my bed!”

“I looked everywhere. You may have put them in the drawer.”

Nisha begins expressing herself with quick, sharp hand movements.

“How do you know I keep them in the drawer?”

Richard’s eyes are showing confusion. His eyelids are blinking.

“I don’t know madam, I am just saying…”

Nisha puts one hand on her hip, leans forwards slightly and sharply points an index finger at him with the other. She shouts.

“You know because you have been spying on me! You have STOLEN my earrings.”

“Nuh..noh..I..I dee..deednoh.”

Nisha grabs Richard by the shirt. She gives an impression of a lion having a rabbit in its paws.


Richard, in a moment of desperation finds some energy to say –

“No, no! Memsahib. I am not a thief.”

Nisha throws her head back like an operatic heroine in the middle of a poignant aria.


Then just as dramatically brings her head back into normal position.

“Let me check your pockets.”

Nisha quickly puts her hands into Richard’s pockets. She moves her hand deep inside it. She takes her hand out. We see a pair of gold earrings in her palms.

“Memsahib…it can’t be.”

“It can be. IT IS!”

Nisha grabs Richard by the crotch. Richard is frozen in his posture. An extreme confusion has come over him. She leans in.

“You know, I can report you to the police.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

Nisha now has her whole body leaning on Richard. Her eyes now look dreamy and her lips are pouting. Her bosom, nestled on Richard’s chest, is heaving rapidly from quick breathing. She says in a lusty, low voice –

“I will make you a deal.”


A certain human tribe living deep in the heart of the Sahara Desert, a tribe that has never had contact with other humans before (or after), never seen a camel or oasis, who hydrate themselves by simply imagining what water is and water becomes real inside their throats. When one day a boy asks his mom why the world is only sand. The mom tells him why. That God was once a boy like him. And God lived in a world where he had imagined fantastic things – solar panels, fast Subarus, buildings and cities, headphones, 3D movie theaters, Sarakasi Dome rock concerts, heartbreak in Konza city, Maputo Maporomoko, billions of humans walking this world – and so these things were real for God. But God went crazy in this world. He lost his own soul in a dream one night when he found out he could never fall asleep because the lights would never go out. He lost himself in his own mind during the wakeful nights. And then he dreamed with eyes open one night. In his dream he started collecting the furies and angers and hatreds of all the billions of people. A girl would get angry with the ice-cream man because he gave her a smaller Choco-ice than her friend. A small anger to collect. A boss got angry at his accountant. A Robben Island inmate hated Mandela for fifteen seconds because Mandela farted inside a crowded room on Robben Island. God collected the smell and hatred of that fart. God mined the memories of the billions of people for these things. When he had collected these from everyone, he woke up. Our God is an angry God. In that instant he realized he didn’t want all those things to exist so all the anger and hatred and bitterness and furies he had collected were put together to create one uncontainable emotion. And the whole world blew up. All the rockets in the silos were launched. A man would look at a woman he hated and she would vaporize. All of Liberia was mobilized for Civil War. Cannibals and open heart surgery in Monrovia. The hutus came back from Congo to finish the job. The jews herded the Arabs into the gas chambers of Tripoli. The locks at Mathare Hospital were picked and all the madmen set on fire. Fire everywhere. Uhuru slept with Ruto in an affirmation of gay rights and televised the porno live on NTV. The jews who watched this porno on the 172 inch LCD screens at Artcaffe whilst munching croissants. The Kalenjin and Kikuyu going to war. Wrestling in bed as Eldoret goes supernova. Kissing beards as the parents bring the baby with the football size head, born free of charge at pumwani, back home to radioactive Kiambu. And a virile boy like God sees a Makueni girl, short hair and defrocked, the ambitious girl lying supine in bed, she waits for the boy, her body is ready, God wants it, the carpet bombing of Kethi Kilonzo. The missiles went to and fro like shuttle cocks over the Rift Valley. Uhuru and Ruto were macheted in their room at State House Mombasa. Mandela is pregnant with North Africa at Pumwani Hospital. The hens inside their prisons at Kenchic warehouses went mad and gave birth to live chicks who pecked their mothers in the cunts and ass. Libraries of Ginsberg were set ablaze. Boy and Girl love affairs died in the bonfires. The trees and grass and leaves and all the plants crackled in the heat. The stones atop Mt. Kenya glowed red. Bipolar bible men on the Aga Khan Walk became sane and saw the world in its crystal clear horror. That was the end of God. Live life simple son. Imagine water and food. The rest is sand and mirage and heat and sun and history.


Nisha and Kunali are seated by the coffee table on the porch. Richard is pouring tea into their cups from a silver kettle.

“Richard. You are leaving for home soon?” asks Nisha.

“As soon as you finish your tea, Memsahib,” replies Richard.

“Hmm..,” hums Nisha.

“That’s a nice aftershave you have on, Richard,” says Kunali.

Nisha giggles.

“Well…umm..,” hums Richard.

Richard looks to the driveway. He sees Boniface waving to him. Nisha and Kunali also look toward the driveway.

“I see your friend has come. Guess you want to go home now,” says Nisha.

“As soon as you finish your tea and I clear up, Memsahib.”

“I tell you what. Why don’t you invite your friend over and you two join us two for tea?”

Richard’s eye become big. Nisha is biting her tongue. A blush comes over her face.

Richard calls Boniface over. Boniface walks over.

“Have a sit you two.”

Nisha turns to Kunali.

“Kunali, you said you were in need of some house help,” says Nisha.

“Yeaahhh,” says Kunali.

Nisha turns to Boniface.

“Boni right?”

“Rrrr…Right,” says Boniface.

“You think you could help Kunali out?”

Boniface looks at Richard then at Nisha.


Kunali is looking at Boniface. A smile is forming on her lips.


Sometimes I would be sitting on the chair and get a hard-on which refused to go. Not because I was aroused but because my dick rubbed against my trousers. Or maybe half my blood got trapped at the barrier where my buttocks pressed on the hard chair. I had to hold my breathe and pray hard that nobody in class ever figured out what I was going through. The blood would get blocked below my buttocks and create a dam in my dick and it would be such a solid hard-on that I’d think it was going to be a hard-on forever. The worst times were when this would happen during English. The English teacher who was young and had some Somali blood in her, a Mrs. Abdi, and she was very cute. On certain days, when she was in the mood, she’d wear this really loose top and when she bent down at our desks to look at our books we would see her small breasts. She knew we were looking. Yet she would walk to the front of the class and smile at us all. She would come to the side of my table and lean or bend down, look at my English sentences, and I just wouldn’t know what to do.


“Coco’s? It’s in my slum.”

“Yes, Coco’s”


We are outside Coco’s Bar at night. A Mercedes parks. Richard comes out. All eyes are on him. He goes over to Nisha’s door and opens it for her.

Richard walks into Coco’s Bar with Nisha. He is dressed in an immaculate black suit. He could easily be mistaken for a big businessman. Nisha is wearing an Issey Miyake, there are diamond teardrops hanging from her earlobes.

The waiters, sensing VIPs, clear a table for them.

Nisha orders two bottles of Tusker Premium. She puts her legs on the table and crosses them, relaxed, showing off her legs and thighs.

“You could almost be mistaken for a regular here!”

Deepal laughs heartily.

Fimbo enters, wearing a suit.

Nisha takes her legs of the table and stands up.

Fimbo goes to Nisha and hugs her, gives her a peck on each cheek. Richard is taken by surprise.

“My lady, great to see you hear. Absolutely excellent,” says Fimbo.

Nisha adjusts Fimbo’s tie.

“It’s great that you made it. Thanks for the ride.”

Nisha turns to Richard.

“Richard, the car keys.”

Richard gives her the car keys. He is confused and his face shows it. His nose is flaring more than usual. He seems to have been confronted by a puzzling equation.

“Fimbo, as you can see, I was chauffered!”

“An excellent touch!” says Fimbo.

Nisha throws the keys to Fimbo. He catches them mid-air.

Richard is shifting uneasily in his sit. He feels out of place. Nisha takes a quick look at him and senses his unease.

“Oh by the way, Do you know Richard?”


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