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“I met my counselor, Riccardo,” David said. “Sometimes Richard. His mother was Italian. And this fucking guy. This fucking guy was beautiful. He was a maniac. Total drunk. Total drug addict. But that was the world he came from: drunk, drugged, full of maniacs. He told me a story where he and his br…

The last person David chatted with was my mother. It was strange for me. It was only recently, since my father left, that I had gotten into the habit of truly seeing her. What I mean is that for the first time in my life I was able to remember what my mother looked like when she wasn’t around. Befo…

While he is a regular on the betting list of potential Nobel laureates and the syllabi of classes on postcolonial literature, Ngũgĩ is often overlooked by the West’s leftist literati in their discourse about politics and fiction. Why does the revolutionary cast to his work go unrecognized? Perhaps …

Vavra widened her eyes in affected compassion. In the year since she’d let me, an online stranger, move into her apartment in Wedding, her tireless overtures of care and my circumventions of them had come to form a texture of cohabitation that could almost be called a friendship. [...]

Outside the door of the bank a young man appeared in uniform.

“You see that boy?” My grandmother pointed her finger at the guard. “Your mother killed him.”

Then she tweaked it. “Your mother sat right where I’m sitting and waited while people killed him. Waited.” My grandmother repeated the…