You’re Gone

Silver songs,
whispering willows,
fireplace logs,
satin soft pillows,
apple cores
and country stores,
billowing clouds
and circus clowns,
love songs
and quiet talks,
pleasant places
in open spaces,
with dreams like leaves
that lose
their strength
and fall,
and now
You’re gone.



EXCLUSIVE: Interview with the 2011 winner of the African Playwright Project Oduor Jagero KOA by Gloria Mwaniga Minage

Literary Chronicles

Written by Gloria Mwaniga Minage Odari 

ODUOR Jagero, famously known as KOA is a young Kenyan man who recently scooped the 2011 playwright of the year award in the African Playwright Project organized  by Royal National Theatre Studio in London; Teatr Nowy, Poland; Artscape, South Africa; and Arterial Network, South Africa.. His Musical Play ‘Makmende Vies for President’  emerged as the best play from over 300 scripts submitted from across Africa  ,Gloria Mwaniga ,a freelance writer caught up with the young, enthusiastic photographer and writer just after he got back from his 10 day tour of  the Royal National Theatre in London for this exclusive one on one interview.


Above: Oduor Jagero-Koa(Right) with Sebastian Born, Associate Director (Literary), Royal National Theater in London

‘Drop from the race. Cite anything, we trust your judgment. Then we can…we can have you head Finance Ministry, post your fiancé’s sisters and…

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Lessons from a Master in Photography….@PAWA 254

Literary Chronicles


Chronicles of a photojournalist

the teacher appears

The boy gathered all the courage he could find within his tiny frame and opened the hardwood door.

Drawing in a deep breath, he smiled at the receptionist exposing a perfect set of white teeth. ‘I am here to see the Managing director, ‘he said staring straight into her well made up face.

The girl calmly put down her pen, looked up and gave him a long scrutinizing stare, ‘which of these men do you want so see?’ She asked in a not-so-convinced voice, pointing at large portraits on the wall,’

‘ that one in spectacles,’ the boy said, pointing at a big framed bespectacled guy with a camera hanging over his neck, ‘he gave me an appointment, I am a professional photographer,’ he added more to himself than to her.

‘Okay, go in, she said dismissively to the…

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The quiet clear Nairobi River flows no more,
A brown dirty pool ‘stead.
No green grass on the banks to walk
And sing the sunset songs of love
Just plastic polythenes polluting the place
Paradise lost?

No lions lined outside Lang’ata ,
Nor sweet chirps of sparrows songs at sundown,
Just big building of real estates,
And moans of juvenile lovers losing their bloom
Paradise lost?

No sweet lullabies sung,
Just empty bottles of ‘sapphire’ and cigar,
No sugary silence
Just a fright to get home fast,
And a loud scream downtown

Cathedral choirboys singing a Hallelujah,
Priests in purple robes and collars’ on every corner
Quiet sobs of sorry sinners turned saints’
Can a paradise lost be found?

The April that May come.

For grandmother.


You sit there, on the old sofa,
That creaks with age,
Your beautiful face besieged by crevices,
That tell of seventy plus seasons.

You stare outside at the falling rain,
And speak of ‘bonus years’
How hard and difficult they are.

You reminisce fondly of days gone by,
And even of the enveloping dark knight,
Whose coming you seem to anticipate.

You smile gently when I beat myself up,
And say I ought to be kinder with myself.
Then we make promises of visits ,
Of projects to complete,
During the April that may come,
Next year.