ever did was love her with all my life. She is all I have despite me not being AminasAmina’s’ biological father. Here in my death bed she grasped grasps my hand tightly as my face came comes in contact with her innocent face. I sophisticatedly closed my eyes to hide my tears from her. I wanted to confess to her the truth that I was not tell her of me not being her bher biological father but I couldn’t gather the courage. Especially because she is a product of rape. to tell her all this and she is a product of rape. What if she finds out that this priest standing before me to give me the last holy communal communion is her biological father? A secret her mother had asked me to keep on her dying breath.Her mother on her last breath asked me to keep this. secret and I promised not to tell Amina about this. ” Should I break her mothers’ promise?” “Am I really being just?” , Allowing her to continue living believing that she is an orphan when in fact her father is alive and standing right in front of her?” letting her living knowing she is an orphan and the fact is her father is alive and standing right in front of her. Thinking about this brings me to yet aAnother painful reality is that her mother had made an attempt to abort her. mother attempted aborting her. “Why has fate chosen this absurd game?” “And on her birthday?”Why could it be during her birthday date?” A day that when her mother passed away. It was on that day that my heart was cut both ways. I lost Jennifer and was blessed to have this bundle of joy called Amina.It’s a worst day

Chant! “Oyaya Flora soumbakho vindu.” Whenever this arranged lyric, rhythmically chanted in its original tune as it is poured out of the village soloist’s mouth while the instrumentalists spiced it with their instruments, it sparked ears and penetrated deeper into the to souls of the people of mlembe nation announcing to them with goosebumps that the season has come. A season to separate men from boys, chaff from the grain. A season to slaughter bulls and celebrate without forgetting condemnation of evil caused by people.  In the Bukusu community specifically, the line is sung on a special occasion of circumcision in August according to the Bukusu traditional rite of passage calendar, one of the Luhya sub-tribes found in the western part of Kenya. For anyone who had committed an atrocity, a song would be composed and be sung during this special occasion for condemnation (khuminya). Praise songs for warriors made part of this celebration. This celebration was a community mirror that shaped responsible individuals to reflect accountable morals and discipline in society. This was a ceremony of its own indigenous traditions that the whites brainwashed us to believe were demonic.  Atanasi, the famous Bukusu warrior, brought the initiation practice to existence during the early days of Bantus immigration to Kenya. He gained experience and skills when he single-handedly skinned alive a giant killer snake and thereafter chopped its head off at Mount Masaba with a well-sharpened machete. The snake had terrorized villagers for a long span of time. Praises were made of his bravery and his name was written on the hearts of many. To show bravery and maturity, it was a necessity for every Bukusu son of the origin of Mwambu and Sela to undergo this initiation by cutting foreskin. Elders sat

Do you really love me, Isaac?” Suzanna asked in a doubtful tone.  We had just reunited after a breakup. She had recently caught me cheating on her with her closest friend. We then decided to put our differences aside and be reconciled. Her insecure eyes projected directly into my soul as she spoke to me. We were at Woodland resort located at Standard Suburb near St. Joseph’s Boys Kitale. She was dressed in a flowered Kitenge miniskirt that clearly outlined her brown and well-fleshed thighs. Love birds always match in their dressing, so there I was in a pair of Kitenge shorts of the same pattern and texture and a white T-shirt which read the word soul. Suzanna’s read mate, so when we stood side by side you could read the wordSoulmate. “I love you so much Suzanna,” I replied as the light in my eyes came into contact with her brown eyes. All this was happening in a gazebo that we had reserved through the management. She had booked a Choma na Nyama get together reservation package. The gazebo was built of Bamboo and roofed withmakuti. Flower pots surrounded it with rose bushes growing from them,  promoting serenity. There was a fridge inside the gazebo full of all sorts of drinks. I took a bottle of red wine and served its contents into our wine glasses which already held little ice cubes. She took the glasses and handed one to me. ”Be my guest”, she said. Holding glasses full of wine enjoying the cool breeze of this sumptuous environment. We joyfully enjoyed roasting two kilograms of mutton. Burning furnaces of love were rejuvenating in us.  “Then come and see my parents,” she suddenly said. Those words almost made me c