Thoughts of a manuscript. wish I could save The pristine hood. The county is going to put it down. Like a terminal patient. They are going to wipe out a history, history yet to be fused in the paper. The old blocks. Time-worn statues that was home to us. Development is a mad king, but only stories of victory will justify its reign.

Will the bottle old guy ever slant by, with his bottle brimmed kart, literally pushing on his sorry life, spit shine shaven head hanging desperately above his shoulders? Happy as shit. Dances like a thespian. A horde of kids dancing to his quackish delight.

Kipara ngoto

Maji ya moto

Ukipata

Mtie ngoto.

Maybe it will be the end of him. These thoughts creep me out. How my old hood is gonna die. There's a warehouse where they build coffins. A dude polishes the edges of the casket. In it are just a sponge and purple silk. Bless my soul if I ever get buried in purple. I will not take a step more. My blood sugar is not looking too good.

My hood is a love story, my hood is a war story, my hood is a Dorian Gray, floating on the present in a sea of the past. There is an offer of 500k for my hood. If I could give an ounce of wisdom to the Governor of Mombasa. I'd tell him my hood is priceless. And there are no amount of storied buildings can match it's worth.