Last summer, my mother began the burning right after my father choked to death on a chicken thigh.
Mwela has a lot of theories. He tells you about them each night after dinner, after the fish fryers have cooled and the last of the ugali is scraped from the tabletops...
Jack slowed the orange VDOT truck, lurching to a stop in front of the carcass on the side of Route 603.
The pineapple was flying! It paused at the pinnacle of its arc, weightless, and then began its descent—slow, sinking, faster, faster—finally landing with a thump into the tall grass beside the road.
You make the first move, a vague email saying something to the effect that you’re around and bored, and if he’s free, you might be free, too.
When your mother refuses to talk to you after your marriage, you will turn to your husband and say, “She’ll come around to us in time.”
Sickle cell is not just a black disease. Though this fact has been public for decades, people still startle when they find out that I have it.
I’m holding my seat with both hands here, we’re hurtling along the motorway, nose to tail, towards the set of a student film we’ve both agreed to be in...