Previously on Crows reloaded: Pete is a white journalist born in Africa. Mary-Sue is a black journalist born in Babylon, Amerika. Pete is telling – us? – the story of why he left Africa, and his encounter with a young Pokot girl, named Malaika. “So, mzungu (white man), will you marry me?” Malaika says. “No…
Previously on Crows: Pete, the narrator, is a young white journalist born and raised in Kenya. After covering tribal unrest in the North for a Kenyan newspaper he goes back to Nairobi. Needs a break. Maybe he will resign, maybe leave Africa. He goes to Lamu, a small island on the coast of Kenya, by…
Originally posted on Equinoxio:
Red heels? Yes! I happen to be an expert at walking in high heels. Very high heels… My new dress? Yep! Black dress can’t fail. Hmmm. A wide red leather belt? Hmmm. No. The red scarf I bought in Florence. Italy, not Miss’sipi. Tied around the waist. Good! A touch of…
Previously on Equinoxio: why on Earth do we blog? (Reflections in a blogger’s eye**) Now back to the original objective. As I mentioned, I wanted some “distribution” for my writing. How have I fared? Having worked in Marketing and Market research for most of my professional life, I do take a hard look at my…
Scotty to Captain: “Time-warp modules are down, Sir.” “What do you mean ‘down’? We’re in the middle of a tunnel in bl..dy Tlalpan!” “Sorry, Sir. The Orange man has blocked our main Canadian Time-warp supplier.” “Bombardier? I thought they only did Metro trains and stuff.” “In a previous time-slot, Sir. They have now extended into…
“Look! Tembo kidogo!” “A small elephant? A baby? Mtoto? “Ndiyo! A baby elephant.” “Wapi? Where?” “Over there. To the left.” Paul, the Kikuyu driver, warden, guide, etc. veered the Land-Rover inside the bush. There they were. Three females, facing outward for any possible predator, standing guard over a crouched form on the ground. “OMG!” Said…
Originally posted on Behind the White Coat:
He fell to his knees, gasping for air. A strange sensation at his fingers brought confusion and he glanced down at his hands. They were clutching a knife, his knife, sticky with blood.? A dark crumpled form lay a few feet away, its face buried in the damp…
