You Can Call us Illuminati, Terrorists, or Kept Women, but we Work For a Living


the peculiar kenyan

By Munene Kilongi

Mr *Elias’ muffled footsteps padded softly and came to a halt outside my door as he bent to peep through my keyhole. But on this day I opened the door fast enough as he nearly tripped inside in shock.

“How are you?” he greeted me with a startled look. “I was just passing by to check if everything is alright,” he said as he sheepishly grinned.  “Can that machine of yours photocopy?” He inquired as he craned his neck looking past me and pointing at the laser printer at my workstation. The building caretaker had reason to believe I was up to something fishy.

Early mornings he’d see me walking off the apartment block to buy the day’s paper then chat awhile with the shopkeeper. Late afternoons he would see me hanging out at the nearby jobless corner next to the barbershop where idle minds met. Or…

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