A wondering wordsmith searching for the contours of the absurd spaces in which we live. The fog of it all is both my gruelling adventure and my unending passion
Inchlolo hung there, swaying gently in the wind. His body limp, his blackness faded, his eyes that had so long reflected that poetic violence of revolution, vaguely starred at a space beyond this reality. I searched around me for some evidence of a murderer, despite knowing full well that none would…
[Chest pump] My name is Inchebe, [chest pump] and I am the descendent of warriors. My ancestors, their courage known, their bravery tested, their spirits undeniable, their blood flows through me. [chest pump] I am Inchebe, a son of warriors.