Stories of K

  By Kevin Kogo Ian Herdason thought he was immortal. And that his father’s 3,000 acres of Kahawa in Nyeri were all the world needed to survive. So he taught himself Kikuyu and spent his life building what would become today’s National Intelligence Service. While Ian was busy smearing mud on his face to blend in with the locals in Mathira, Dedan Kimathi's impatience had morphed into full-blown paranoia. He was a man trying to glue together an army that had given up the cause. It was too much. Jomo Kenyatta had been gone for three years now. Everyone Kimathi had started the fight with was dead. Even the legendary Stanley Mathenge. The spirit was broken. Dedan was now a man pointing a gun at anyone who dared disagree. It was August 1955—three years since Governor Baring declared a state of emergency. When the gun didn’t work, Dedan turned to the only two things a lonely man can cling to: Religion and cigarettes. A General now self-declared Prime Minister, spending six hours a day on ...

  By Kevin Kogo Is the Ballot the Solution? Daniel Moi is dead. He’s been dead for five years. He died peacefully, surrounded by family and friends, his final years a golden sunset of great-grandchildren’s visits, state-of-the-art doctors, and honorary awards.   Unlike his victims—bodies dumped, maimed, rotting in thickets and riverbanks, broken by unlawful detentions, trumped-up charges, and torture chambers—Moi slipped away smiling. Retired by the ballot to his vast estates, he faded silently into the night, untouched by his past: 24 years of absolute terror.   Then came Emilio Mwai Kibaki and his Rainbow Coalition, promising to save a drowning nation. Kenyans roared into 2003, hungry for change. But within 100 days, the cracks showed. Scandals. Corruption. The Coalition MoU collapsed. Tribalism festered. Authoritarianism slithered back—exiles, enforced disappearances, media raids, extrajudicial killings.   Kenyans, refusing a refurbished KANU, voted...

  By Kevin Kogo  They came with hired hands,   not signs, but switchblades—   smiles like split receipts.   The state’s dirty change   jangling in their pockets,   each coin a betrayal.   "Make it ugly," someone whispered,   so they did.   Broke windows we didn’t own,   threw stones we didn’t throw,   set fires we didn’t light.   All while grinning,   like this was just another gig—   another day, another bloodstain.   They wore our struggle like a cheap suit,   ill-fitting, borrowed,   stained with someone else’s agenda.   Cops hugged them like brothers,   then turned and clubbed ours.   We saw it—   the way they checked their phones   mid-chaos,   waiting for mobile money confirmation   before throwing the next brick.   Traitors don’t alwa...

  By Kevin Kogo Silence Is Betrayal.   To know, to see, to comprehend the grotesque injustice the state and its machinery inflict upon its own citizens and still choose the cowardice of fence-sitting is to admit that your education, however expensive, has rotted into nothing. You are a collaborator in your own oppression.   A young man—a father, a husband, the only son of an aging parent—was torn from his humble home 400 kilometers away. Dragged onto a bodaboda, hurled into unmarked Subaru, beaten, tortured for hours, and finally strangled to death. But the monsters weren’t done. They paraded his grieving father—exhausted from a night-long journey—onto a cold bench at Central Police Station, left him to wither for hours, then spat in his face with a lie: "Your son banged his head on a wall killing himself ."  Albert Ojwang’s death didn’t just break the camel’s back—it shattered our faith in this system. We were the obedient ones. The ones who marched with f...

  By Kevin Kogo Happy Madaraka Day 13 years.   A whole decade choking on smoke and silence,   bare feet splitting on thorns,   unarmed—just fists and fury,   untreated—just wounds and whispering spirits.   200,000.   Not numbers—   bodies stacked in the mud,   mouths stuffed with forgotten names,   bones left to bleach under government sun.   The forest remembers.   The trees still hum with bullet holes,   the mugumo roots cradle old screams,   the dirt hoards the weight of dreadlocks   shorn and scattered like cursed seed.   They called it victory.   But what is a victory when the hangman’s rope   still swings in the wind 62 years later?   When the generals’ ghosts rot in unmarked soil,   and the new masters wear their faces?   Today, we scrape your memory from the dirt.   W...

  By Kevin Kogo    We never kissed.   Just stood close enough in the chaos   that your sweat mixed with mine   when the police trucks came.   You had that look—   not the kind that makes poets write shit,   but the kind that makes men stupid.   The kind that makes you charge armored vehicles   with nothing but a rock and a prayer.   I remember how you held your sign   like it could actually change something.   How you screamed yourself hoarse   for people you’d never meet.   (How I wanted to be one of them.)   Then the stun grenades hit.   You grabbed my arm—not romance,   just survival instinct.   But for three seconds,   I was yours.   Afterward, we shared water from the same bottle.   Your lips didn’t touch where mine had been.   I watched you walk away ...

 By Kevin Kogo I woke today and realized   I have been building a house inside a machine.   The walls are made of unanswered emails,   the floors—worn thin from pacing   between what I owe and what I’ve lost.   Every morning I oil the gears with my silence,   let the conveyor belt of expectations   pull me through another day   of assembling a life   that isn’t mine.   I saw my face in the bathroom mirror   at 3:17 PM—   a stranger with my eyes,   hollowed out by fluorescent lights   and the weight of pretending   this is what living looks like.   They call it "work"   but I know it by its real name:   a slow excavation of the soul,   shoveling myself into piles   labeled efficient  professional  disposable.   One day I will stop   and the machine won’t no...

 By Kevin Kogo Your eulogy was beautifully written, Grandma, in the exact tone and charisma of your most distinguished character: the storyteller. I have read it many times, in your voice and warmth, and every time, you are still seated in that recliner, with a space heater on, cruising through Nollywood films and calling out for Cherobon to serve us tea. Memories—how awkward it is to call them that because many times it's 2021 and you are counseling us on the importance of education, or it's 2015 and we are gossiping about Lenard's reckless drinking habit, or 2009 and you are taking me and Lelan for our first swimming lesson. It's too many personalities, too many places, and too much love to compress into one word: memories. Jeff says upstairs doesn't feel the same anymore. There is no "Karibu/nyoo" voice to welcome you in, there is no Nigerian movie playing on the screen or an unfinished crochet somewhere on the couches. There is no Bobby barking on the ...

  I never meant to lose her,  but somewhere along the way, I did  she sat across from me,  her smile soft, waiting for something  I kissed her cheek like I always did,  the gesture was there,  but I wasn't.  Not really.  My mind was elsewhere, cluttered, distant,  trapped in a thousand thoughts I couldn't untangle.  She asked about my day, and I gave her an answer that sounded like words,  but felt like nothing.  I could see her waiting, searching my eyes for something real.  But I couldn't find it.  I couldn't find myself.  I wanted to reach to her, to pull her closer.  Her eyes so full of hope, so full of love,  were starting to look like they were seeing through me, not to me.  I wanted to hold her,  but I couldn't even hold to my own thoughts.  When my phone buzzed, I glanced at it without thinking.  I saw her reaction in the corner of my eye, a glimpse of disappointment, ma...

 By Kevin kogo           A young man was buried today in our village.  He lived by the famous sword and died on the surgical table.  His eulogy was short with half the pages filled with hymns.  Birth, Christianity, death. Three paragraphs summarized his 31-year story.  His father didn't attend the burial; his uncles came wearing long coats and gumboots.  His mother, burying the second child, seemed defeated, maybe sorry, not sad.  There were no speeches, just lectures and warnings.  The sermon was hurried up; the pastor had other events scheduled.  The soil was red and wet, the casket quite light, and the framed picture too grainy.  His friends dug the grave, and his friends filled it up.  His siblings stood longer by the grave.  There were no flowers.  His chapter had ended, and he didn't need roses, a public address system, or eulogies ... just rest.

  Mkariri:Kevin Kogo Yule aliyesema haezi kubabaishwa na mapenzi Alikutwa amejinyonga na barua ndefu ya malalamiko ya kusalitiwa! Yule bwana mdogo aliyekua akiamini mtu mzima hakosei Leo amezeeka na ujinga wake! Yule kasisi aliyeshinda akiubiri kuhusu heshima na ndoa Jumamosi hii ilimkuta kafumaniwa lodging na mke wa mtu! Nani hajawahi kuishi Njee ya maneno yake? Mwalimu aliyetufundisha vyema swala la unyanyasaji wa kijinsia Nyumbani kwake haipiti siku bila kumpiga  mkewe! Mchawi na macho yake mekundu kuwakemea na kuwaroga wengine Leo amefiwa analia dunia haina huruma! Yule binti aliyemsifu mamake kwa kumlea japo ya shida na taabu Historia inamhukumu kwa kutoa mimba tatu sababu uoga wa malezi! Nani hajawahi kuishi Njee ya maneno yake? Bi Mkubwa aliyekua akimkejeli bi mdogo sababu ya tatizo la ugumba Leo  analia watoto wake wamefariki kwa ajali ya moto na ndoa yake inateketea! Aliyemtenga rafiki yake  baada ya kufeli mitihani Leo yuko kwenye foleni y...

 By Kevin Kogo We slept with water cannons cruising through our estates and tear gas canisters flying over our apartments. We heard the wails of massacre and blasts of the oppressors into the dead of night. We woke up to a timeline of gory images, 'Free so & so' hashtags, plus more bodies at the city mortuary. We quietly walked to work, kicking bullet casings and stepping over blood on the pavements, to meet fat apathetic bosses who dared question us about where we were yesterday. We are still staring at computer screens with black eyes and antagonized brains when the president gives a 30-minute press briefing saying only two words: "FUCK YOU." William Ruto - the devil we knew - has turned out to be a villain beyond any phrase. A deaf man with a twisted, reverse loyalty to his political friends, he has just hijacked this whole thing to dilute the self-serving cause. Honestly, WTF! Onesmus Kipchumba Murkomen, a flamboyant lawyer who wears a belt that switches ...

 By Kevin Kogo It went from Keyboard Revolution to the streets of Nairobi and now 'X' spaces. All along, as our banners and placards screamed leaderless, tribeless, partyless, we deluded ourselves from a simple reality: we marched to the gates of parliament as a result of online influence, advertised, mobilized, and to a large extent facilitated by popular online influencers. Truth is, tweets and stances of these individuals hyped, slowed, moralized, or demoralized the cause. All along, they have been the de facto face and voice of the Gen Z Movement. Faces that we can see and faces that we know. It catches me by no surprise that Osama Otero jumped ship at the 11th hour. He has been a victim of abduction; he was at City Mortuary to see the lifeless body of his 22-year-old friend lying on cold slabs beside twenty-something other protestors. He has seen the system with its masks off, the ugliness of injustice, yet all the same, he has chosen money over sanity. As Otero sits w...

By Awando Brandon I really never get the reason why we Africans  act as puppets I can shift some blame to the colonial system. The whites fucked us. but that was 60 years ago the trauma has to fade with the older generation, we have to accept,a blury past is a demon that will forever taint our free thinking and haunt our peace of Mind . Our traditional ways were stripped off and Ruthless capitalism enforced.It was a system full of faults with no transition tolerance Yet we are six decades into it,we have long adopted the faults and even created new ones for ourselves,we move on with our struggles. Poverty level in our country is tremendous, but who really gives a damn about it. I mean why should there be a begger near the church gate? What teachings do they preach? The word is clear ' give a hand to those in need' but  churches turned into enterprises long time ago,sundays are for business and beggars represent outlets. Thats bad for profit The decay is ever...

By Kennedy Kipchumba The first article I ever wrote on this blog was titled "fast Money,Fast cars,Fast Grave" Then, four men had been abducted in kitengela's Choma joint,totured, wrapped in sucks like potatoes and thrown to rot in different rivers around Nairobi A year later the internet is picking up a similar story again .This time bodies of Kasarani flossing boys  were found Dickless, with punctured eyes and deep toture cuts Cause: WASH WASH When you post CQ statements  like "I must make it legally or illegally"  "Chase the bag by all means"...Do you have the balls to die naked tied in a steel chair as someone drills a six inch nail in your urethra? People talk of fraud and scam games as if it's a child play.You just sweep  millions of shillings out of someones bank account to buy alcohol in 1824 and  expect him to go down silently? It's a war with Guns,hitmen,Rouge officers,spies, snitches and bodies floating in River Yala...

By Kevin Kogo I never knew why I found solace in the parting I always wondered why I thought of how the hurt would somehow build me to overcoming — a lost love, a broken part, a false hope, a fading friendship, and a life with holes and bare patches I always thought that there were no happy endings — only happy seconds, happy minutes, happy hours, and happy days. It always comes back to a state of longing, breaking, and emptying Life is no sappy movie with a reunited kiss and a touch of rekindling. It doesn’t stay at the pedestal of hoping. It follows the clock that keeps on ticking. It is a cruel yet beautifully continuous storytelling. It is a constant climbing and plummeting. It is not a chapter nor a tune made for stopping. No matter what you do, your limbs will carry you both to the fall and rising. So why do you still hope for a happy ending? There is only a marvelous moment, a millisecond of joy, and a short glimpse of the unexchangeable merriment happeni...

By Kevin Kogo We have uncles who make promises that will never come true,we also have school certificates that beautify the walls of our parents living rooms as life dry fries us in the city We sell our principles,our ideas,our time,our bodies and even our souls for survival We first hope,then we dream dreams that evolve to delusions and finally eat up our mental health At last we hit 40,fucked up and out of focus If I was writing about miseries of today's youthaman a blog post wouldn't be enough but the myths and miscalculations can be talked about 1.CONNECTIONS-A network build by guidance of street knowledge perceived to secure a link to success(urban dictionary definition) This term fell out of context a long time ago. Let's say You find yourself drinking with some big names,or having sex with them and in that moment of ectasy when brain cells are being boiled promises are made,promises that will forever be procrastinated Sorry to burst your bubble b...

BY owaah              Image source: quora We are broken, and we don’t know it. As individuals and as a collective. We carry trauma that has nothing to do with our personal experience, and we see our experience through it. We refuse to learn, even when we accept knowledge as a vital part of our experience.  We refuse to be afraid of the fact that the one thing that connects us is shortlived, and what will remain is not Kenya as a country, but its people. We are brave and strong, but we also willing to let the car crash because it’s bad manners to tell the driver he’s drunk, and driving us into a ditch.  We were raised well, and authority can never be questioned, even when it’s actively doing the wrong thing. If you are even a half-interested student of history, then you already know how this story goes. Soon, we will be distracted with shenanigans that do not bring our cost of living down or fix our economy or society.  The...

By:Kevin Kogo Screaming children, a few might be yours Fired again from a job I hated Dying parents, who linger until you are busted Broke, and broken, sisters and brothers Cheating spouses and naked pictures Risking it all for an urge never satisfied, no matter who is under the sweaty sheets with you The darkness in life shapes us Cuts away the clutter Leaves you lean in spirt, a soul like an old leather shoe Finally left with nothing but a murmur into the glass, a ‘now what, just get it on universe We all dance on the hot cement Music we never chose Written by a universe just wanting to see how much you can take Arms overhead, screaming into the wind shaking our asses off until the final notes leave us alone Nothing left but a memory of a man on fire It has been a beautiful dance Still is Listening for the final note Loving the feel of burning cement

By:Kevin Kogo Staring at the ceiling fan at three in the morning My mind a nonfunctioning pile of overloaded rubbish Worrying if I am worrying about the right things I need to worry about after a day in the life of someone who just cannot worry anymore Frustrated enough to cry because I cannot help them all Too many hurt people chased by too many demons Looking for a little light in a world slowly fading to darkness Overloaded to the point of a constant throbbing pain, gnawing at the base of my overflowing skull Wasted nights trying to understand what cannot be explained, wondering why hatred and intolerance are now proof of faith in God and a love of country? Not even good wine deadens a mind which has had enough, feeling too much of the worst we can be as humans, too little sleep to give me relief, too much disbelief my world has become a place where I no longer comprehend what we have lost, a world once good, now destroyed by ...