The Accusation

We are all guilty of sin, error, and moments of sheer stupidity; none of us should be casting stones. The occasional arced pebble might be overlooked.
-Richelle E. Goodrich

‘Mwizi! Mwizi!’

The cry tears the early Saturday morning air. A battle cry. A victory cry. The beginning of a dirge song. A call to action. It is all about perspective. Even a man standing at the back of a mirror can imagine what his reflection looks like.

I hear the cry loud and clear. It sends chills through my entire body. The light from my phone screen is almost blinding as I stare at the clock. 3 am. Even the birds have not begun their rehearsals. Only crickets and evil can be found at this ungodly hour of the night.

It can only mean one thing. My skin is becoming numb from the cold and the uncertainty only works to make it worse. The commotion is getting closer to where I am. I stare up at the cloudless sky. The stars seem dim. Reluctantly like a moth attracted to the light I start walking towards the commotion. Are you nuts? What are you thinking? We will be fine. What assurance do you have?

A small crowd has already built up. I stand a safe distance. The death penalty.

I am heaving. I have no clear plan or destination. The air feels heavier and I feel as if I am wading. I am certain my legs have conspired to betray me. They are not carrying my weight as fast as they are supposed to. Choices. Life serves you bitter pills and the only option you have is to swallow.

I hit the ground with a thud. The heavy blow on my forehead spins me back to the ground as I struggle to get back on my feet. Confusion. I cry out. My chasers also cry out. Pain, and mercy. Victory.

Someone roughly picks me up from the ground and shoves me forward. I can taste soil on my tongue. I implore them to spare me. I want to speak to their humanity. Sell them my plea. For a second I wish I had taken up a Marketing course in school(skills to sell ice to an Eskimo. Cliche).

My body is working on overdrive now and the kicks and blows seem to be doing no harm. There is no escape for me. I wish the ground opens up and swallows me whole. Deaf ears. I want to tell them the reasons why. Negotiate on behalf of my beating heart. They can have my stupid brain and burn it at the stake. My captors are oblivious to my pleas and are hell bent on marching me to my death.

The heavy object dropped on my chest has me gasping for air. From the noise I can tell the crowd is growing. I writhe as whips land all over my body. I hit another lifeless body near me. They have caught a counterpart. Who could it be? I cannot make out who it is. Even the Lord was not crucified on his own.

We have to rid the streets of such pests who only steal what is not theirs. Have you considered their rights? Let us be done with them once and for all. Who made you the judge and jury? But they… Who gave you the authority? Dilemma. My conscience is divided. One part stands as the accuser, the other inclines towards the accused. The latter dominating as I watch the whips mercilessly land on them.

Where did all this people come from at this time of the morning? Majority of them are wielding crude weapons. I could almost swear I had seen a knife. Are they always this armed for war? One faction is now asking for building stones. For what purpose? Towards the building of what? They are currently tearing down lives piece by piece. Apparently, if you drop it on a person’s head you blow their heads and be done with them.

Another faction is opposed to that. Sweet. Hooray!. Wait up! There is no party yet. You thought there is one? Hold your horse. Their only interest is the location of the stolen merchandise and the other gang members. I clench my fist as all the muscles tense imagining the pain they are going through as the anger choking the air is meted out on them.

I slither. The pain is too much. Make it stop. Anyone. I heard them ask for our secret hideaway. I would lead them to the gates of heaven at the time if I was the custodian of that secret. The blows and whips seem to be coming from all directions.

I protectively hold my hands over my head. Someone grabs at my pants. Oh Lord let them not strip me. I try to hold on to it. The ringing pain paralyses me for a second. A stone had hit right at my temple. The cold water on my naked body is the most brief moment of reprieve, deep down I know my agonies are about to get worse.

The cry for petrol sends utter terror throughout my whole body.

Pilate himself asked to wash his hands when his people crossed the line. I was now ready to also wash mine. The crowd is asking to burn them. Is this the right step to take? Don’t they know after crossing some lines there is not coming back?

I want to reach out and speak to them. Implore them to now stop this madness. Is this the only way to solve the issue? Do they know that life is precious? I see no humanity written on their faces. They had suddenly all turned to beasts. They had lost all compassion.

The crowd is growing bit by bit. The people seem to just keep coming. Most are more than ready to grab the whips and join in. The words of the savior play my mind, ‘Let he with no sin cast the first stone.’ I am a sinner. They are probably all sinners. I cannot see an end in sight.

I had always been told that when something happens over and over you become numb. Those liars. The pain is unbearable. I feel my whole body is on fire. Is this what hell will be like? I can feel blood oozing from open wounds on parts of my body. How long can I bare this? There is only so much that any man can take.

I want to beg for mercy. I want them to spare me. I only manage a howl. My voice is failing. A cry for help. The beating gets worse. They have not asked for my reasons. I want to tell them of my allure to quick cash that had led me to this life. Who judged my case? When was the verdict passed? Hypocrites.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. I have completely lost my sense of time. The crowd is still baying for their blood. The disgust rising within has made me oblivious to the cold. They have almost become lifeless. Occasionally they wince out in pain and this seems to rejuvenate the crowd. Heartless souls.

Madmen. Every market was said to have its own. Someone grabs a whip and wants to attack the crowd. He is screaming for them to stop. They want to turn their anger on him.

‘He is one of us haven’t you noticed that?’

Divide. I am floating between the land of the living and the dead. In and out of consciousness. The whipping and blows abruptly stop. The cold wind on my open wounds send a painful(almost pleasurable) sensation through my body.

The ringing in my ears prevents me from making out what is going on. From the movements I can tell there is a scuffle that is ongoing. The calm before the storm. I brace myself for the worst.

Shame. Guilt. The crowd has scattered miraculously. They heard it was one of theirs and they all ran for the hills. Cowards. Suddenly they got some sense. They got their humanity back and cowered in light of their actions.

The ambulance is on its way. I cross my fingers that it makes it here in time.

I am being dragged by the legs. My sore back drags along the changing surface beneath. The pain is immense. I am not sure I could even walk either way. I feel numb allover.

I try to open my eyes. They are bloody and sore. Have I been blinded? What is the last thing I saw? What will it be like living in darkness? In the stillness I can make out sounds of what seems to be singing birds from afar. Hope.

I watch in awe. The small crowd is now angry. They want to know why the ambulance is taking too long. I see some of them have grabbed whips and are demanding vengeance against those that ruthlessly attacked their friends. They want to attack the purported masterminds.

The door to the ambulance is flung open. I want to scream out in horror. The guy at the door only a moment ago I had spotted him with a whip among the beasts that were baying for blood. How is he at the front line to help. Atoning for sins. What has the world come to?

I can feel my heart almost failing me. I have to be really still just to feel it beat. Don’t give up on me. Is this the end? Maybe help is coming. Or have we been left out in the cold to die like stray dogs? Or have they gone to get the petrol?

‘Dear Lord, forgive m…’ 

Teiya Oloilole


Chaos in the Calm

‘Struggling writer.’ Remember that phrase? Jane? No. You don’t. My bad. So, I did this post on the struggles of a being a writer, to read it click here. She raged. The writer it was dedicated to. How do you throw me under the bus like that. Couldn’t you at least have used an alias. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Luckily, for me the fury was that she finally got around to finishing the below post that makes it as my first guest post. Leave a comment and tell her how amazing a writer she can be :


Isn’t life grand?? Sherbatsky was sitting there on a Sunday night,sipping some tea, trying to do what normal people do on Sunday nights. Do they sit around watching local distasteful shows? Do they watch the news? So, she tried to fit in with the mainstream by not switching channels when the shows were crap. It was hard, so hard she figured this is what death row inmates went through when they were electrocuted. Well the whole lot of local TV shows did not work so she opted to get good chi through meditation. She had these exotic electric candles that she lit so she could have a moment with her inner child. She got lost into this new world where she was questioning everything around her to get some perspective. It went a little like this.

‘What are we really looking for in life? What values matter the most to us? What makes us tick? What makes us stand out from all the endless masses that occupy the earth? Sometimes it feels like there is an alternate universe somewhere that people of your species reside,a place where you don’t feel like you’re an alien because where you are now  feels as if you do not understand where all these people begin and where you end.

A higher purpose that you will get to understand in time, that is the most common phrase used to explain to you why sometimes you can’t make reality connect. Sometimes it feels like life is just a proverbial coin toss, no right or wrongs. You read the books, watch the shows and they are all so confusing ; On one hand,life is too short to not go after all the things you want. On the other it’s like when one door closes, another one opens. Sometimes there is this whirlwind of opposing emotions and your brain goes on overdrive, To be or not to be. Make your own path, be the captain of your ship and then there’s,whatever success or happiness that is meant to be yours will always come back to you.

It’s easy to get lost in all these theories which are served so generously in inspirational articles or in music lines. Whether it’s a decision regarding a career path or something to do with relationships, there is always stuff out there that we gladly gorge on.
I’m not telling you what you should do when you’re caught on the crossroads but you should definitely listen to your gut. Deep down I think we always know what’s right for us, we are just too full of ourselves and have so much fear to just be brave enough and go for it.

If you relate to this article, then I think you know that whatever it is you think you deserve, whether it’s a career path, relationship or need to have a fresh start, you need to go for it and dive in head fast. ‘ When she opened her eyes she could vaguely make out a dark figure that looked a little like samurai Jack (probably her sensei🔰 )whispering ‘The beauty of life is not about having all the answers, it’s about the journey.’

She then received a call from a friend of hers, Maggie, who told her that she had joined this book club where there were these insanely talented avid readers and writers that she should definitely get to know, and the guy who had introduced her into this world was called Clay. Sherbatsky was stoked about being part of the group.

Clay was easy at first so she told him that she was more into writing as a hobby, but then he got so insistent on her giving it a go it seemed like cramming all the metabolic processes in the body were easier to handle than him. Clay was lurking around, on her back that no amount of cover up with dark sunglasses and a set of wigs could keep him at bay. Until now he’s still convinced that sherbatsky is worth a try. Is she?

Teiya Oloilole

The Process of Art


Life is funny. A frown? A nod? The other day a close friend (I call her Daktari) of mine, texts me like, ‘I have a female writer friend of mine would you like to say hi.’ I love writers. I would never say no to a writer *wink.* So mama raised me right. I say hi and ask for an introduction. You will not guess what I got. Anyone? ‘A struggling writer.’ I screamed at my phone. I know writers are modest. But struggling is not a definition of modesty. She gave some excuses for the description but I was buying none of it. I did a small piece for her for my writing process just to show her that we all struggle but it is not a description we use on ourselves. Jane this is for you:

Nice…kesho I am expecting your piece but kesho starts from midnight right…but keep me posted as I also tell you about my writing process it is a funny story actually.

So I am usually seated somewhere (or just sleeping)…no one is really counting…then an epiphany moment occurs.

I get this crazy idea (I also write or get ideas when I listen to music. So we got something similar)…in my mind I play with it and how I can transform it into words and the good angel in my head is dancing praising me for being a genius…

So I plan how it is all going to be…the layout of the post (don’t forget all this while I am this genius writer…getting all this praise from the guy in my head)…I write down on paper or on my phone this pointers (call it a rough draft of sorts).

This process doesn’t necessarily take like a span of one day (sometimes it even goes to months)…now the genius me (hope you haven’t forgotten. Just in case) starts planning on how the grand idea will be written down and sent out into the world and wow everyone…so after some push n pull I get around to writing it out…don’t you hate disasters? You do? I thought as much. So I sit check…pen n paper check…computer or tablet check…I start writing and then boom out of nowhere…

The devil in me rises from the ashes…I am only five words in and what does he tell me, ‘that is crap you are writing,’ I want to fight it…Ignore the bastard I tell myself. Three more words and I am stuck. Does he have a point? Will it be any good really? I delete everything I had written and stare blankly into space. What am I trying to achieve? To wow hearts and probably touch some lives. Who told you you could do that? But I love writing? And some people love my writing? Yah they loved your previous works, what makes you think they will fancy this one you want to write? But? No buts? The turmoil in my mind is real. I am stuck. Hopelessness. Defeat. My inner demons are hell bent on winning. The prospects for my angelic side are anything but slim…

Guns blazing. The battle is fought. Tired and bloodied my angelic side manages somehow to win. Let us just produce whatever? If they love it or hate, at least we won one battle already. Hope they like it? Fingers crossed. Wait!!!..Before you hit the publish button. Are you sure that is your best? How do I know if it my best? At least I gave it my all. Fine then, if they hate it, that is on you. Here goes nothing. The wait. A little while longer never hurt anyone. They love it. Hooray! Hooray! We can party now. Where is the wine? Where are the glasses? Don’t forget the dancing shoes. A party you said? Are you sure? (The devil in me always asking the wrong questions at the wrong time. This guy needs a course on time. The concept seems to completely escape him). What now? You are here celebrating instead of planning your next post. Are you sure you will meet their expectations? Damn. He has a point. Nervousness. Doubt. Party cancelled. The cycle of being a writer. The end.

Teiya Oloilole

The Old Never Go Wrong

‘Let men be wise by instinct if they can, but when this fails be wise by good advice.’


March 2006,

The inside of the rickety matatu is sweltering. Passengers are trickling in slowly. James shifts for the umpteenth time in his seat. He can feel his armpits soak in sweat. It does not help that the fastened seatbelt is restricting his movement.

‘Damn this matatu, why is it taking forever,’ he mutters angrily to himself. The Michuki rules. All PSVs have now been fitted with seatbelts and speed governors as required by the new law. He imagines the prolonged journey to Murang’a. This half full matatu will probably stop at every terminus along the way. He pulls at the seatbelt.

‘Dad, do I really have to use this thing?’ he turns to face his dad who is busy reading the paper.

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because it is uncomfortable. Plus, I could just fasten the belt when we come across a police check point.’

‘My son,’ he looks up from the paper, ‘the seatbelt is not for the police, it has been put there for your own safety.’

James shrugs his shoulders and turns to stare outside his window.

23rd December, 2006,

Festivities. James is stoked. Christmas is only one day away. Even the air seems charged with excitement. Everyone looks happy and full of smiles. Christmas cheer he had recently had someone call it that. Who wouldn’t be excited about the birth of a child? And not just any child, but the savior of mankind.

He playfully strides back home with the paper bag in his hand fluttering in the wind. Kariba Estate in South B is now almost deserted. Everyone has travelled to the countryside for the holidays. The prospect of them going to Chuka to spend Christmas with the dad is beyond exciting. Packing is in full gear when he gets back home from the shops. They are to leave in the late afternoon.

The weather outside is confusing. There is a mix of dark clouds and blue skies. Uncertainty. You cannot make out whether the sun is about to shine or if there will be a downpour. The sun sometimes shines for the tiniest of moments, and even then on the skin surface you feel the heat but from within this cold rises and makes you shiver. Confusion.

He is the man of the house. James feels like thumping his chest. This mere fact warrants him the chance to ride shotgun. He gladly helps to load the luggage. It is now seriously threatening to rain.

The driver is struggling to switch on the engine. The car has come to a sudden stop at a junction as they are about to join the main highway. They are in a bad position since the front of the car is already on the highway. The drivers behind them are hooting furiously. The driver frantically turns the key on the ignition stepping on the accelerator. James turns to his right. He looks out the driver’s window and through the rain he makes out a matatu that has just turned the corner and is coming straight towards them at full speed. Panic.

‘Watch out!!!’

Split second. Lives have been changed. Wars have been lost. History has been rewritten. Hearts have been won and others shattered. Sound and light. One travels faster than the other. Or does it? The impact. Breaking glass. The car spinning and scratching the car on their left side. Landing in a ditch.

Slow motion. In a movie the purposefully serve to prolong the effect of a scene. This was no movie. In that instant as the car spun, James stares at the tarmac and holds on to the seatbelt that is holding him back from being thrown out through the windscreen. The words of his dad ring through his mind.


Image courtesy of Dr. Berenblit’s site

**Inspired by true events.

Teiya Oloilole

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