Tales of Trails


I am a slimy snail, slugging away indolently across a wet piece of wood in the month of April when the rains come down hard and washing away January and February’s transgressions.


I leave a trail behind me which contains pieces of me, my DNA and tales of my mistakes and misfortunes with human beings.


There was Alex, then there was Ted, Frank, and James. Before all that there was Ken.


Yet I loved them all but couldn’t keep either. The longest was Ken, who was also my first and in Alex, Ted, Frank, and James I was looking for Ken.


He was left with the biggest part of me and I need it back. I’m fading out, my shadows are whispering and my heart keeps knocking. I need all these pieces back before the mist clouds my eyes, my skin becomes grey, and my soul lifts off.


I tried my best in all these unions but trying is always never sufficient. Made supper, nursed their egos and gave them a good time like a lady is supposed to but like everyone else, I was inadequate, I was possessive, I was a crazy bitch and I burned Ted’s ex-girlfriend using hot water.


Maybe we try too hard when we are just supposed to live.




Photography: Mukiri Gitiri

Words: Dennis Peters

[Mukirivity– Ingenious art and text made comparative]

Green in your Eyes

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It begins with a nibble at the tip of a cookie, a tiny puff at the edge of a lit cigarette or a pinch of a powdered flour into your whisky glass.


First, everything is noiseless, perhaps too silent. Then the edges start to fade off into an approaching mist on the horizon. Just about when you have begun settling in, your heart starts to beat faster and faster and it is like you have been racing a medalled athlete or like you just had sex, good sex.


Then you are uncertain of the future. You cannot find home and the green in your eyes starts to cloud your sight, reason and judgement. You are unequivocally scared. All you want is to go home, but where do you find home when the green extends beyond the skyline and meets the blue in the sky at a distance edge?


You feel alone and you renounce the nibble, the puff and the pinch. You pray to God that he gives back your sanity, you promise him never to put yourself in such a situation over and over but he watches you from his righteous seat leaving you at the hush absolution of experience.


Finally sleep takes you home and you lie still on your bed, nothing is certain anymore, not even waking up the next day.



Polite Advise: Please don’t do drugs!



Photography: Mukiri Gitiri

Words: Dennis Peters

[Mukirivity– Ingenious art and text made comparative]

Three Figure Confession- Part Three

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Three Figure Confession- Part One

Three Figure Confession- Part Two

Father, somehow I have learnt from the school of life, if you really need something and you are determined enough, then nature always conspires to give you your desire. A man like you would call that God. Well, there is this other part when you do not actually need something at all, when you are just minding your business and then BAM! You get text saying that ‘I’m pregnant’. A man like me calls that Satan.



After I started writing, I built a brand for myself and many knew dennispeters from dennispetersblog. With such kind of an advantage, girls came easy. I quickly learnt the art of confidence and luring a girl to come over for the weekend. It did not take long to get Cheryl to notice me. We walked on the green gardens of Dedan Kimathi University at night and told all kinds of stories, she told me about her Ex-boyfriends who unsurprisingly were rich and older. I was not surprised that she had fallen prey to the rich and elite hyenas of the town just like all the others but I did not care. Cheryl was my redemption, she gave me peace and let me play with her hair. Beggars are not choosers, I had to be contented.



God was faithful, I asked him for just a girl to spend a night with, and instead he gave me a girl to spend my life with. Cheryl was studying nursing in Dedan Kimathi University. Regularly when we met, she was in those long white coats they have in labs. She was not invested much in her course though, her desire was modelling. Every weekend she had a place to go, somewhere to be and a story for me whenever it ended. I love stories father, and even besides the fact that it is almost an hour since I started telling you mine, more than telling, I love hearing stories. All kinds of stories. It seemed Cheryl had just found all the right buttons to punch, therefore she spoke and I listened.



She told me about boot camps. You probably do not know anything about a boot camp but just like you guessed, in boot camp there is a lot of naked booty. Boot camps are held the week before a beauty pageant. The models go for a retreat at some expensive hotel both male and female models and they have good food, gym, good time and new seasonal boyfriends as I came to learn much later.



In one of those events, Cheryl met Mr. Paul. Mr. Paul worked in the county government offices when he was not busy chasing young girls. He drove a Toyota KCE X-Trail during weekends and drunk Johnny Walker Red Label at White Rhino’s lounge during lunch breaks. I never met Mr. Paul. They had an arrangement with Cheryl, my Cheryl, which involved money and sex between the two of them therefore none worth my apprehension. I was not brought to the light about this arrangement until earlier today when I took Cheryl to Outspan Hospital to deliver our new baby girl when she got all teary and mushy.



Cheryl had a confession. There was a chance the baby was not mine. In fact there was also a chance that the baby was not Mr. Paul’s but I was not listening to that when she lay there on the delivery bed telling me of the four guys who could be the father to our Daisy. I had named her Daisy, Daisy my little pink flower. That did not matter, then I was looking at my life for the past nine months since Cheryl announced to me through a text that she was pregnant. I received the news with a confused mind and a disenchanted soul. How I quit school to make money for our daughter and her lovely mother with gorgeous hair and a skin that reflected the sun like a silver mirror or the moon during Ramadhan. Looking back, she never said, ‘we are pregnant’, she said, ‘I am pregnant’ and I just assumed that I was the father.



So now father, my confession starts after her confession to me earlier today. After I had heard enough from her, I left my sinful angel on the delivery bed and started walking towards here. On the way here I might have burned Cheryl’s stuff and mauled a Toyota KCE X-Trail. Regrettably, I might have also buried my very large kitchen knife in the throat of a county government worker who usually have shots of Johnny Walker Red Label during lunch breaks at White Rhino’s exquisite Lounge. More than that, I might have painted the exorbitant couches at White Rhino with the distinct color of blood.



These are my sins father and most of them happened today so there might also be police sirens outside this church hunting for a certain blogger from Nyeri town. Police cannot get me out from confession so let us make them wait a little longer.



Forgive me father for these are my transgressions.


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri


The Writer:


Dennis Peters

Three Figure Confession- Part Two


Three Figure Confession- Part One


A short period after joining campus, I realized that my dream was not only getting laid. Among all other things I wanted to write. Write better than Paul’s letters to the Thessalonians, Philippians and Galatians. I have to say father, I really adore the writers of the Bible especially because they had the patience to write using a feather from a bird.



As we came close to the terminus of the first semester, I had written a few poems and scribbled something long that was supposed to be a book.



What was that father? You would like to see the book? I am sorry father, that book and many other things I am going to be telling you about are things I would love to leave in my past. Eventually, I begun writing on a blog that used to belong to a club, Bloggers Association of Kenya Dedan Kimathi Chapter. I must have been good because I caught the attention of many others and therefore the birth of dennispetersblog. I have been thinking however, about dennispetersblog and father, I think I should change the name of the blog, you see, I do not like the word blogger thaaaat much, therefore having it on the name of the website somehow beats the logic. Do you have any suggestions for a name for my website?



Okay, no problem. You are probably not the best person to ask that question anyway. I have come to learn that gloom places often make gloom ideas nonetheless, you need to do something to this place father, add some flowers or some party lights just something bright but I am no interior designer.



Where was I? So after the blog, I was not done. I felt the need for a bigger audience, people who would be silent when I spoke. Slowly, I started skipping my Computer Science classes, the calculus became a nightmare that haunted me in the middle of the night and the algebra and statistics classes weighed heavily on me. I was an artist dealing with the consequences of choosing a bad course. That was entirely not my fault though, I blame my high school teachers. Koelel High School was not a place for artists, it was said that failures go to university to do bachelors in arts. Engineering was glorified and commerce applauded, medicine worshiped and information technology extolled. When it came to arts, we made fun, bachelor of anything and that kind of unfunny shit we said back then. But there I was, wishing I had studied something that related to my passion, I would later come to leave School of Computer Science just a single year before graduation.



That was when I met Mose, a videographer in Nyeri town. He was a business man determined to make money and I was eager for a bigger audience. The two combined formed a symbiosis friendship. We came up with a magazine, Tamal, I am sure you might have heard about it father if you read magazines around here. So I worked on the magazine, gathered all the kind of content I thought people wanted to hear. I was a man with a calling just like you father. I wrote proposals to large business owners in Nyeri town, had lunch with big men with big cars on big tables. Some were mean, some were nice, some giggled at my inexperience.



I remember vividly a certain meeting I had with a certain CEO in Nyeri town, White Rhino Hotel, a guy with a serious face, a big cheque but a fucked up lifestyle.  I could tell because all through the meeting he kept on yawning. The meeting was around forty-five minutes but he had ordered four beers and emptied all the bottles during those forty-five minutes. He looked hangovered and I could barely get anything helpful from him. He looked at his beer bottles more than he looked at me. My proposal was that he would buy the last page of the magazine each issue for a period of an entire year. With this page we would publish marketing content for his company. The guy seemed amused at my age first so he asked me how old I was and I think that was where I lost the bid, I was nineteen years old. I could not be trusted, I was so inexperienced and to him, young people lacked consistency. To be helpful, he said, he would sign the proposal after the magazine had been running for a whole year, which was when he would invest in what he called ‘newspaper’. I was disenchanted.



The CEO was right however, Mose and I broke up when we could not agree on the amount of shares each board member would own. He wanted 60% and I was offering him 12.5%. The company was a sinking ship and not even a lawyer could save the fragments of its existence. Again I was on the streets with burning school grades and no company. Father are you still there?



When Tamal reached an untimely culmination, I was broken beyond words. A relationship that had taken so much from me and screwed up my grades suddenly wanted a divorce leaving with all my savings, decency and innocence. Your God had abandoned me and I had a new lesson – in business you have no friends.



Be it as it may, I had Cheryl, Oh Cheryl bless my soul!


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri


Three Figure Confession- Part Three



The writer:


Dennis Peters

Three Figure Confession- Part One



Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been three years, four months and five days since my last confession.



It’s funny father that you call me child and I call you father, soon someone is going to be calling me father and I will be calling him/her child. So you see father, we are not all that different. Anyway, grab a cup of coffee or take five to the bathroom, I would like you to be prepared, my story is rather a long one father.



What was that father? Did I hear you roll your eyes? Is that even licit? I know you have been listening to stories all day long and you are undoubtedly bored and full of other people’s crap but I swear my story is a thrilling one.



Okay I won’t swear again father. Can I proceed with my confession father, I should first of all put it forward that I do not like your attitude and you cannot keep on interrupting me, this is not a parliament seating it’s a damn confession!



Okay, my story begins the day I left here from the last confession session I had. I was a virgin then and I say this to you because I know you can relate. Virginity was a precious flower that I longed to stumble my foot upon and get rid of. It was a yoke upon my back and I was tired of bearing it. It was as if I had a tag on my forehead and every time I engaged in a conversation with my friends I felt the desolation grip me by neck and slowly suffocate me into the ground. My friends Tim and Biro did not make it easy. Tim was naturally appealing and likable so he did not have a problem getting countless girls to his bed, what bothered me was Biro who even to me was my friend but lame. He too had managed to trick a girl to remove her clothes for him. Therefore father, your advice during my last confession about preserving oneself for the right one and all that kind of crap went down the drain, in fact it did the opposite, I was a motivated man looking for a hole to dispose my virginity, bury it deep into a place it would never be recovered. I did not want to end up like you.



You are uncomfortable father? Is there a problem with your seat father? Now a few months later I joined campus in Central Province Nyeri town. On the first day, the day all the first years reported to school, was astonishingly one of the most overwhelming day of my life. Father, there were beautiful girls everywhere, it was no longer like the usual Koelel High School where female teachers on practice had to quit moment after the other because the boys could not hold down their excitement for skirts. There was this one day we had a teacher on practice from Moi University with a big ass, to cut a long story short, that poor girl probably had to sign up for therapist sessions after the first week teaching C.R.E. in my class. I really do not understand why they have to separate girls and boys in high school, I mean, in our school, they made us feel that a girl was a god. We worshiped girls in our sleeping cubes and drew their nakedness in the toilets. Our stories were full of made-up stories about our imagined encounters with girls with pretty names like Nancy, Risper and Doris. We were so innocent we did not even recognize if we were boobs or ass people, we just knew pretty names. I digress.



Now on this first day I swore to myself that I would stay longer than a week before I had a girl in my bed. I was wrong. In Dedan Kimathi University, I had to stay in a cube with three other first year males. Getting laid in that kind of environment was close to converting water into wine the second time. My hostel was named after a county in Central Province, where surprisingly, I come from – Nyandarua. I had three roommates, Kamau, Edu and Franko. Edu had a girlfriend from Jomo Kenyatta University who visited every weekend and the three of us had to look for elsewhere to sleep when she was around. Franko got a third year girlfriend during the first week of campus and he moved in with her, we only saw him during exams. Kamau was a football fan and seemed to gather no appeal from girls at all. He spent time with his niggas playing poker and betting on sportpesa. Then there was me, with eighteen years of inexperience of handling or talking to girls leave alone getting them to date me.



It was tough father, tougher than donkey meat. The first year beautiful girls I was so excited about rapidly ran out as some got fourth year boyfriends, others got working boyfriends who came to fetch them on Fridays after Communication Skills class in big luxurious cars. In other words, I could not keep up with the demand of first year girls in Nyeri. I held on to my peace father. I tried praying, asking God to land me a cute girl but then I realised that God would be the wrong person to ask for help when it came to getting rid of my virginity. I was frustrated. It also turns out that School of Computer Science was not at all engaging at all, the classes were rather few and the hours to burn were abundant, I needed a miracle father, I needed a hand from God himself, no arbitrator.



I wrote application letters to Red Cross Nyeri. I wanted to do volunteer work in their establishments whenever I did not have anything to do. I was in a new town surrounded by people speaking Kikuyu in weird accents. I do not know if you have noticed father, that Kikuyu from Nyandarua is pretty different from the one in Nyeri. In Nyeri when they speak, it is as if they are singing, they say ‘sai’ instead of ‘shai’ when they are talking about tea. Their accent contains some kind of mislead pride perhaps because they feel that they are the most modern of Kuyus. I do not like their Kikuyu at all, I would prefer they spoke Swahili to me than Kuyu.



You are from Nyeri yourself you said? Oh, well I will create an exception for you. To be honest I actually think you are a pretty cool guy father. Perhaps when we are on that topic you could enlighten me on the validity of what they say about Nyeri, about their women, how they love bashing their male partners and cutting their little engines off. If I was from Nyeri too, I would probably be a father like you. These women of yours will show us maneno!



Yes, yes… Let me proceed. So, Red Cross did not invite me to their offices. I offered to work with no pay and even then, was still rejected. At least when our days are done and we meet our maker on judgement day, my conscious is as clear as day, I offered to help the needy but the needy did not want my help. Nyeri had rejected me as well as university girls, my life was ended, but my story was just beginning.



It was during one of those sunny Friday afternoons taking a stroll alone after class, I remember it was Friday because we had just left the Communication Skills class. It was when I saw her for the first time, she was gorgeous, her hair fell comfortably on her shoulders, her light skin reflected the afternoon sun like a silver mirror or the moon during Ramadhan, and when she walked, she made calculated strides as if she was aware of her audience, she was a model, she was beautiful and the pink in her clothes accentuated every bit of a goddess in her.


Her name was Cheryl.


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri


Three Figure Confession- Part Two

Three Figure Confession- Part Three


The Writer:


Dennis Peters

Look at us now


The world was big and the days were slow. Days slowly unfolded and matured into weeks then into months and eventually a long incomprehensible year. We were in a hurry but the world we lived in was not and it was like trying to walk hurriedly on a narrow pavement behind a group of a strolling bunch of idiots who do not seem to notice your haste.



We read books with curious tiny eyes. We had questions, lots of question therefore we quenched out thirst with knowledge. When the teacher said look right, then left and then right before crossing the road, we did exactly that. We never questioned the world because we knew the conventions of this world were made of steel. Our duty was to follow the law without questions and it never bothered us. The teacher knew and we did not. Google was yet to be invented and Facebook was a distance future. Life was easy without questions and we had it all planned out.



We wanted to be doctors, and if it came to be that we were not doctors, then we would be pilots and soar to the skies. We only had to options in our tiny little minds and we did not see the chance of failing to hit either of the two. There for we studied our language classes hard, doctors must know how to speak to their patients and pilots to their passengers alike. We did math like our lives depended on how well we did it and the alphabets in algebra and calculus never bothered us. We were on a mission to be the best we could be. Those that loved us celebrated when we beat the others like us in the final exams. They rewarded us with toys, tri-cycles and cakes. They also insisted that we needed to better next time, particularly in subjects we had abandoned like Social Studies and C.R.E.



When we slept, we wet our beds and created floods beneath our beds. We slept hard dreamed of our bright futures or our secret fears. When it was too bad, those that loved us welcomed us to their beds for the remaining part of the night. On good nights, we still made other floods in the new bed and fresh sheets. It never bothered us because we only knew that the moment it was dark, it was time to sleep and sleep hard. Sleeping was medicinal and no matter the condition we slept in, we woke up refreshed ready to stand tall, fight off our fears and overcome our challenges. And when we made our prayers, they were sincere and candid. We spoke to our able, mighty God with conviction and total dependence.  We asked him to bless our food, our parents, out teachers and asked him to help us forgive our enemies.



When we thought of love or crushed on a cute classmate, it was honest love. We did not want anything in return but to be loved back with the same intensity. We made frank poetry and clung to other humans with faith and optimism. It was an honest world and there was no need to hold back what we had so we gave it on full amounts and expected nothing in return. It was a wonderful feeling of serenity. We wanted to meet people who we would make devout families with. Make babies pretty as their mothers and strong as their fathers. We longed for a ‘happily ever after’ scene and we celebrated moral values of those we considered our friends.



But look at us now, the days are fast and unfulfilling. We hardly notice the hours turn to days and the days to weeks then months, 2016 is over. We are still in a hurry but it appears as if we chasing after time and there is never enough time for anything.



We still read books but because we have no alternative. A degree is paramount in today’s world therefore we study. The difference is that we study a few weeks before a test because the curiosity is gone and it is replaced by unending desires and covetousness. We are unsettled because our friends are always doing better than us. We question the world and stress about our future. The law bothers us and we think we know better because we not only have Google but also Facebook too. Our lives are complicated and we cannot seem to get anything right.



We still want to be doctors and pilots but we are worn out and the yearning to get to the destination has the journey feeling like a yoke tied on our necks. We have doubts if we will ever fly because we cannot even drive. We are not sure if we will still be doctors or pilots because nothing is certain anymore. We hate the studying because it is all we have been doing since we became aware of our existence. Algebra is difficult and we constantly wonder why there are alphabets in math. We also deride what we learn because we are sure that the world does not lay a smile upon those who can solve algebra or calculus. We have new aspirations, to be happy and settled but most of all to have peace of mind.



Then when we sleep, it is at odd hours or fail to sleep all together. It seems our fears creep upon out existence whenever we close our eyes therefore we strive to keep them open. We are alone most nights and there is no one to speak to whenever we cannot sleep. So we keep whisky bottles in our cabinets and bed side tables to seep whenever we get too worried. We pray often but we doubt these prayers because we have learnt that the guy above is no always over-anxious to grant our requests. The night comes with absolute blackness, not only outside the window but also on our souls and it covers our entire existence and there is nothing we can do about it.



We still hope to love, but we have loved so many times and got an equivalent number of disappointments. We cry alone at night and hide a piece of cloth beneath our pillows to wipe of the anguish when the pain becomes too much and the melancholy starts to spill. We have learnt love is not easy and neither are people. We long to be loved the right way, we long to trust and more than anything, we pray that we do not have to go through the tough days alone. We are no longer certain we will have families and if we do, we are scared if we can live up to our parents standards. Besides everything, lies the naked fear of our children to be caught up in our strife and disappointments. Be it as it may, we applaud sexiness and disregard morals. Our love is sexually oriented and when it does not work we become wrecked likes pieces of cheap used crap.



Look at us now.


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri


Dennis Peters



Guilty at Birth

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The sad cub painting at the entrance of the door grabs your attention the moment you walk through the main door. It is an amazing painting but it grabs all your happy emotions and crushes them into a hundred pieces and there is nothing you can do about it. It is a sad painting. The cub in the painting looks unhappy and tormented, the eyes glare at your soul and your guilty conscious making you feel as if you are on trial for crimes against humanity.



Last weekend I met Caleb, Caleb is a happy chap, he laughs out loudly sometimes when he finds it appropriate. Caleb has no parents, scratch that, Caleb has parents who just do not give a damn about him, perhaps that is the reason they left him outside a church door about four months ago. Caleb is barely six months old now. His arms are tiny but masculine enough for a six months old. He is going to grow up to be a strong bright guy with one girlfriend and no alcohol in his fridge.



Caleb is just one of twenty-two. There is Katelyn, happy girl with a niche for dangerous swings and slides. There is Jackie, Jackie loathes humans but loves dolls. She sticks to the corners under the shadows camouflaging with the darkness and emptiness she found in the world. Jackie is one and a half years old.



Some of them laugh whole heartedly, maybe because this is the best life they know, some of them do not laugh. Jackie doesn’t laugh. Others look up to us, adults, with little inquisitive eyes as if accusing humanity of animosity and condemning the world for judging them for their first act in this world which was simply being born.  Some love to eat, heavens! Some can really eat while others just hate food, hate toys, hate playing and everything around them. Some like plastic toys while others just do not get the idea behind plastic toys so they just sit and contemplate. Such are going to be writers and poets. This group stole my heart.



While some have found a home with the nurses and the environment of New Life Home Trust Nyeri, others cry in the morning, afternoon and evening perhaps expressing the gaps left by their irresponsible fathers and mothers who once had a good time but neglected their responsibilities. These kids have got no family names, their names are the once the nurses deem necessary to refer to them. So, they might carry their mothers’ pretty eyes or lips, their father’s foreheads, their mama’s Arabic hair or their grandma’s small feet but they do not have those family names. So, I will never know if Caleb is Luo or Kikuyu or if he was born in November or February. That will remain a mystery to even Caleb himself.



These kids represent a perfect history painting that disagrees with the present and even through the toys and open laughs and consistent cries, you can see these young lives struggle to create an equilibrium of the two timelines. So as the sun sunk back into its chambers and the evening breeze dragged the night along covering our entire existence with a cold dark blanket, Caleb and I sat on the floor marinating on few things. Caleb loves milk more that he loves food. So as he had his dinner I tried to interview him and find out what exactly he thought. There is only so much information you can get from a six-month-old because immediately I was done feeding him he let out a big yawn as a kind way of chasing me away so that he could call it a day and fall asleep.



I had questions for Caleb. How was his mother like when she held him in her arms immediately he came into this world? Did she smile, was she tired from labour? What did Caleb do wrong so as to be left at the gates of a church at dawn? Where does he think his mom is now? Does she wake up in the morning like everyone else and do a few yoga stunts to help her calm her mind? Does she check her Instagram regularly double tapping on Kanye’s photos holding his kid? What exactly goes through her mind when she walks along the streets and there are cute boy clothes all over. Does she exclaim ‘aaaaaaaaaw’ like everyone else? What about his dad? What exactly goes through his mind while watching soccer with his mates sipping cold beers? Does he have to be drunk to sleep because of the guilt his conscious tags along each time? Does he put a tissue beneath his pillow and cry himself to sleep? Does he even care?



I was born with both parents, I was born just about the same time Kate Njenga had begun being top of her class in pre-unit. I would like to assume my mother threw a party when he heard I was a boy and through the discipline beatings she gave me she knew that I was her responsibility. Therefore, I will not stand here and claim I know anything about Caleb, I can only imagine just like most stuff I write here. But one thing is clearer than day, leaving a small kid on the streets is not alright!



The assistant administrator New Life Home Trust smiled a practised smile when I asked her whether she felt sad when the kids she grew fond of were finally adopted to new homes and new parents. ‘It is sad’ she said, ‘but these kids deserve parents’. So, if you think your son is a headache try twenty-two children all looking up to you. I would like to assume she knows how each child cries and what exactly makes each one of them happy or sad. Does she have kids of her own? I was scared to ask her that so I held on to my peace and unanswered questions.



New Life Home Trust was established to take care of HIV-positive children who were abandoned at birth. Here there is no judgement at birth, every child has been accepted and given a home. This home is a family, the 9 months olds take care of the 4 months, they share dolls and toys. The share moms and rooms and no one is mean with their stuff. Often one of them leaves to be with a new family but that is no course for sorrow but celebration. Others join in all the time and they are accepted and taught the way of life with sharing being the main virtue.



Katelyn needs parents, so do Caleb and Jackie. Jackie will be a poet one day. She will be a beautiful career lady who writes poems. She will remember that her parents abandoned her but she will not give a damn just like they did not when they left her. She will speak and others will listen. Soon she will find new parents who will teach her entrepreneurship but mostly, how to write poems. I will not be the one to teach her now, but i will teach another in future. Many parents cannot get babies but do not know where to adopt one. New Life teaches them to chew with their mouths closed and to respect each other but not poetry because you cannot teach poetry to a group consisting of engineers and doctors.



We are a new generation where we get kids and get rid of them any how we feel like. We have smart phones and Facebook but it is paramount that we be ready to deal with the consequences of our actions. The only crime for these young lives is being born. The very first act of these young lives became their source of judgement their entire lives. Twenty-two kids at New Life Home needs food, fruits, medical and hygiene sundries, office and school supplies and human volunteers to go show these young kids that humanity is not as cold as the morning Caleb was left outside a church gate.


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri


The writer:



Dennis Peters