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Book reviews : momo the monkey arrives & momo makes a mess

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Suddenly, something did move. Peeking out from under the monkey’s tummy, a small pair of sad eyes looked up at the children. “Oh, look!” said Geno. “It’s a baby monkey!” she whispered to Alid. She eased the tiny creature from under the tummy. All the children gasped. The author Shariffa Keshavjee has two new books out, “Momo the monkey arrives : Momo the monkey Adventure series,” and   “Momo makes a mess,” a picture book that’s great for reading to children or having them read when alone or aloud in groups. Here, Shariffa   leads readers through the children’s imagination and feelings towards their new found friend and pet, The author blends the ideas of children basic instincts ,innocence and a mixture of   mischievous traits   on how to   get Momo into their home, how to care for Momo and the fun   and chaos that comes with having a monkey in the house. Drawn with a sketchy but confident pencil line, and painted in the clear, saturated colors and pictures,
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Plate V: The Last of the Four Stars

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A cleansing sword, a dove of the Black Continent! An enduring rose, deserving of unceasing compliments! Unlike his covetous contemporaries clinging onto the mace, He rides the vast African prairies, his spirit moves apace, Engulfing the African soul with long lost love, With a good natured smile, he stirs the intellects grove, Canonized in the eyes of men and held a sacrificial rood, Breathing peace, he is the tower of good; Where morals are taught, vengeance vanquished, Virtue rewarded, and violence admonished. Like an emblematic sparrow, in words and deeds, His wings scatter prosperous seeds, To save tomorrow from the mindlessness of yesterday, In retrospect humility, he leads the way, Holding the lantern in ripened wisdom, His white garb illumines, the paths painted in crimson, Denuding the barren land of barrenness, And concealing buttocks from ridiculous bareness, Wealthy with virtues, we are forfeit to extol: For his life is a path we adore and stroll.
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Father listen.

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         "Of course i can hurt you, simply with my point of view - Guru of Gangstarr"             Joe Mwenda where i shall breath in peace love and respect and out breath the same where i shall drink from a cup thats free eat from a plate thats just where i shall live from my means and not on promises the broken and yet to be broken ones where i shant suppress pain with pills postpone pressure with puffs and pints where virtue is embraced and vice is not known there father let me and mine exist.
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Namatsi

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I am the moving wind! Every aspect of my life is artistic, photographic, a fashion statement, poetic and rhythmic . Every aspect of my life is cherished, shared and sacred! Dear Pen, dear paper Take me to this lands planted in my brain by the images I see on TV and in pages of my magazines Elevate me and let me feel the breeze that a prisoner feels when he walks out the walls of prison as a freeman Bring me that joy, strong enough to seduce the pain of labour by giving the beautiful cry of a new born baby Make me a creator of words pen, a craftsperson of verses A  pro of metrical compositions strong enough to carry feelings and illusions Make me a king, a god of words Make me rule in this world, I think A sailor in this ocean of ink, A prodigy because it was only you from the start who really acknowledged me A warrior I hold you my dear pen as my spear,  loving paper as a shield come along Take me here to this place I have never been Come along take me ne
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roto (espania)

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©Kaffy Mwangi I take a bow to this world, a bow to wolves in sheep's clothing. tonight I rest my soles burn my heels and let my soul nurse the wounds of friendship.  
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Confessions of my Fears .::A short story extract by Kaffy Mwangi from the Story Confessions of my Nyctophobia::.

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© Kaffy Mwangi I would wake up in the middle of the night and I would gasp for air, My hands would shake my whole body was in a fit. You would hear my heart beat so loud, loud like a train grinding on its rails. My shrink said it’s just paranoia, Just trauma wound itself in the figment of my subconscious. It would get so bad my parents got me an inhaler, thought I was asthmatic. They covered me up in more blankets said the bad dreams will go away. I couldn’t breathe at night, my pupils would dilate, I was in a fever, hot and sweaty you could trace my veins to the heart Yet goose bumps  cropped from every follicle. ‘’you know when you are drowning; you actually don’t inhale until you black out. It’s like no matter how much you are freaking out the instinct not to let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel your head exploding, and when you do finally let it in, that’s when it stops hurting; it’s not scary anymore ,it is ac
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Written Notice

On more than an instance, When I’ve been idler than a broken lamp-post - Time weighing heavily on my hand, As pen and paper prove closer than a brother: I have taken written notice of slit eyelids upon a chocolate face, Accurately chronicled after carefully observing - Playful fingers twitchily twist a neck pendant, And spin a plastic band on a wrist’s axis Hands press down a dress’ length for modesty’s sake  by Kevin Orato (Notes) The slow-motion, almost rehearsed brush of the brow, Unsaid appreciation for the Viewer’s attention How seamlessly well she blends with the surrounding; Not merely part of the furniture but its mantelpiece Manipulating without earnest effort, events around her; Keeping in check any intrusion and mischief. As if by magic wand, conjuring up occurrences But like a skilled orchestra conductor, directing tune. Never really losing her ladylike comportment - Apart, of course, when acknowledging the Observer. I draw
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