P.J Register

I could feel the handgun, it was hot and lighter. Perhaps I was running out of bullets. It was not possible to eliminate the hostiles with few in the magazine. I slid the barrel and checked the chamber for any rounds. It was empty...one was left, not in the chamber but tied around the caliber diameter with a string to form a necklace and hanging from my neck. I remembered it was a souvenir from a luscious woman soldier sparking one of my lascivious moments from which ensued a quickie or a plethora of them. My dominant left hand reached out to hold it from where it hid in my chest behind my blood stained vest. I held it close to my face and noticed how beautiful it was. It was gold plated then a thought hit me that I was so drank the night before to appreciate its beauty. My mind waved away from my predicament to the events leading to acquisition of my last bullet. She came from the back door of the rather stuffy bar at the barracks in Eldoret. The mood set by slow country music. Th...

SHE held my left thigh, checked the hamstring, sides of my face behind my ears, my calf and said, "when will you ever learn how to apply jelly like your age mates?" I was seven years old who didn't understand the reason for applying jelly after all it was a matter of moments before I could return home with 3 kilograms of dirt especially in the regions mum insisted I had to apply jelly properly. I couldn't blame me: hyper, adventurous and kiherehere, she should have thought of an appropriate time to scooch me and wash me amidst protests and finely targeted pinches in my soft areas like the groin and buttocks.  Kenyan mum,  why wash a child at 4 O'clock then expect them to come home like you sent them out to go play, well put "aya sasa enda ukacheze nje" (okay, go play outside). Outside! Back when we were growing up in the suburbs, these fancy bricks streets never existed, it was all about dust, murram or mud...so when mum hands you the keys to the kingd...