Ecce Homo

 
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Andia Kisia

Art by Eric Tenorio

 
 

Jonny the faggot wakes up to the sun in his eyes and a song in his heart, suffused with the mild contentment of a night of successful faggotry. Unbridled, athletic, imaginative, tentative, gentle, vulnerable (tantric) sodomy. The kind of faggotry one can rarely accomplish except with an up-for-it athletic twenty-four-year-old who had announced his love of fat men and proceeded to demonstrate it. And so this morning, the bridal sheet is caked in subversion and he steps in a small pool of it on his way to the bathroom.

The fallen giant is sprawled across the landscape of the bed, his head cradled in the alps of a pillow. Jonny raises up on his elbow and studies his recumbent face. His is the simple beauty of a young man in fine fettle: clear skin and clean lines. His mouth though, is full and expressive. He stirs and Jonny exits the bed and then the room.

He draws the curtains against the sun and then follows the spoor of two adult males from the front door, sweeping up shoes, socks, underwear, overclothes. All the accoutrements of the sodomite: lube, enema bags, condoms.

Outside on the landing, the washerwoman is talking to the maid from across the hall. Their quiet voices float down the landing. He opens his front door and the conversation stops dead. They turn to look at him. The maid greets him gaily. The washerwoman gives him her slow, assessing once- and twice-over. He leaves the door ajar and retreats to his room.

There, he hides the shame under his clothes. That monster of his naked body, that monster of desire (under his clothes). The song sinks like a stone to the bottom of his belly. His stomach rumbles softly.

When he comes out again, she is washing dishes in the kitchen.

“There’s someone in the bedroom,” he says, “don’t wake him up,” and bolts from her accusing look, out the door and down the stairs and into the street. Out into the country that loves and loathes him.

Jonny the fag walks the way of the cross down the quiet street, keeping his hands in his pockets, the soft insides curled up like a millipede. Those traitorous hands!

Some years ago, the twinks of Mombasa had learned to firm their wrists and still their hips as they were hunted down in the villages. For a time thereafter, the town was full of crestfallen queens muttering darkly in the coffee shops of old town.

But here in the heart of the country, the air is tight with expectation. The year winding down through a balmy December, with its festive air. The sun rakes the roofs and kisses him gently.

At the café, a new waitress regards him archly and drops the menu on his table. He bristles. He dials Ajema-Faghag, but the phone just rings and rings.

 

Jonny the faggot considers seizing the day. First, he must deal with the boyman in his bed. Girding himself with a coffee to go, he marches home, filled with a fell intent, bursting clamorously into the apartment. But the boy is gone. There is of him except in the rumpled bed and the trace of something secret shared between them.

The washerwoman is on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. He goes to the bedroom and strips the bed, tearing at the linens. He emerges bearing the sheets aloft, like a sacrament. The washerwoman bristles. She drops her eyes back to the floor, she scrubs in soapy rounds.

He treads a measure across the small living room, through the kitchen and into the dhobi, she follows behind him. He hands off the soiled sheets of his perversion. She receives them as a penance and bears them away as duty.

With her bare hands, her holy hands, she will scrub at the blemish of sin and santorum. With her hands and her suds and her water, she will wash him clean again. Though she hates both the sinner and the sin. How she hates the sinner, how he loves the sin.

She scours the transgression from the sheets, pouring in her own furtive libations, murmuring her obscure incantations.

God curse you. God bless you. God curse you. God cleanse you. God hates you. God loves you. I hate you. I pray for you. I pray and pray for you. Be healed. Be freed. God loves you. God hates you.

“Will your holy water stain my sheets?”

Her face, like a portent turns toward him. He escapes into this room, into an hour of Auden.

When he ventures out later, the floors are gleaming, the dishes are washed and put away. His clothes are ironed and piled on the kitchen counter. The door to the dhobi is shut, behind which her voice is singing something churchy.

When she comes out, she is no longer a scullery maid, but a woman in a pretty skirt down past her knees, and a bright blouse. Behind her, the sheets are hung up, like a backdrop, dripping onto the floor.

He counts out her day’s wages and watches as she recounts the money herself, as she always does, slowly, with relish.

A woman, inscrutable, and about whom he knows so little. In five years, they have said very little to each other. The sudden urge to connect to her, to know her. “Where do you live, Abigail?”

She looks up at him in surprise and snorts but does not answer.

“Will you vote tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she says. “Of course.”

“Who will you vote for?”

She laughs, with a rare gayness. “My vote, my secret,” she crows.

Combing out her hair in the hallway mirror, she meets his reflected gaze.

“Will you vote?” she asks, hands pausing at the top of her head.

“I don’t know.”

She nods. Accepting this without demur, as if to say, of course you won’t. Of course, you wouldn’t.

When she leaves, he is free and reclaims his space, only cleaner, neater, better than before. He reads at the spotless table in the spotless living room. He reads indifferently, haltingly. But he is unsettled and finally, he dresses and sets out for the middling amusements of downtown which could be counted on to hold his attention at least until the evening.

 

“Blessed is he. Blessed is the faggot l’ouverture, for only the faggot can show us what is truly possible. What lies beyond imagination, beyond stricture, beyond indoctrination, beyond limitation. What is longing what is loss, what is courage, what is love.”

 

O, to be reviled. To be despised. To be scorned. To be spat at and spat upon. To know that the country hates me, how much it hates me, loathsome creature that I am. And still, I am here. It has chewed me up and spat me out, indigestible. An unsettling of the stomach. A pain in the ass. Living is subversion. Breathing is insurrection. Existence is revolt.

He walks on down the street. Fat and femme. Fat and femm-y. He is a beacon. He is a lightning rod. A voice calls out the faggot, sneeringly. Across the street, the man stops to watch him go.

He is holy. Holy of holies is he.

Down Uhuru Highway. Cracked paving stone and open gutter, battered railing and rutted road. The marabou storks sit hunched in the stands of acacias, cawing disapproval.

Thin lip and slit eye. Wrinkled lip and wrinkled nose.

He stops at a red light. The mild man on the Rongai minibus regards him consideringly, then makes his assessment and turns away.

This is Kenya the bittersweet. They know each other too well and familiarity has bred contempt, but he walks on.

Blessed am I, he thinks, this stain upon this country. This finger in its eye. This scarlet letter. This immodesty. This depravity. This slap in the face. Blessed is the curve of my shoulder, the curve of my ass, the heft of my crotch, the depths of my mind from which have hatched these words. Blessed are all these.

Blessed is he. Blessed is the faggot l’ouverture, for only the faggot can show us what is truly possible. What lies beyond imagination, beyond stricture, beyond indoctrination, beyond limitation. What is longing what is loss, what is courage, what is love.

Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be the faggot in his faggotry.

He walks on, animated, illuminated by the spirit of contradiction. On to Town, the land of enchantment, the center of the world, the heart of the country.

There he stops by a gallery, wandering desultory through the cool hallways, looking on the collection he already knows so well. He has his first coffee of the day in the shady garden.

 

Like the rest of their countrymen, the queers of Nairobi are underemployed or unemployed, and so should be available for company, but the phones go unanswered. He browses a small bookshop and then another. Crosses Kingsway to the university. To the bookshop which is both fascinating and disappointing. He cruises Jevanjee, considers the yeoman-like charms of the proletarian.

At the respectable hour of 5 p.m., he permits himself his first cocktail on a balcony bar on Kimathi Street. He calls Ajema-faghag. She does not pick up.

Out on the street, the world is giving it its all. He stares at the tops of the milling heads and the darting feet. Politicians with their fundi smiles look down from a dozen billboards.

He waits for the promise of darkness.

In the evenings the men come out, wearing their wanting on their sleeve. He was never more grateful for the easy wanting of men. How they slid gratefully to their knees, the whole of them there, all of their wanting in their eyes.

Two drinks in, out of habit, rather than need, he goes to the bathroom and insults the bowl with a pinpoint stream. Out of habit, rather than need, he washes his hands slowly, dries them more slowly, waiting. A pair of old plain lace-up oxfords is still in the last stall. They do not move. At last, he laughs ruefully and heads back outside. Anyway, he thinks, they were rather dustier than he would have liked. He does not have the patience for coaxing some tremulous middle-aged husband from his shell.

At six o’clock, Tony darkens the doorway, already disheveled, his coat in his hand, his tie pulled loose, harrowed by a day spent practicing the dark arts of the law.

“I see you already started,” he says, slipping onto his stool and looking over his shoulder for the waiter. He rolls up his sleeves. “Hear, hear.”

“Oh, look,” Tony exclaims. “The bankers are here.” Jonny makes a face. He does not like the bankers.

What’s wrong with the bankers?

They join the table. There is nothing obviously wrong with the bankers. They are functional, intelligent, gainfully employed, well-read, sardonic men in their thirties. Ordinary men. And this is what is wrong with them.

Tony wants to go to Tacos. Jonny says no to that unbeautiful space crammed full of tables and nothing else. A location only for Olympian drinking.

“What’s wrong with Tacos?”

“I don’t go where they don’t appreciate fag custom.”

“No one cares about that shit,” says Tony.

“Everybody cares about that shit,” says Jonny. “You cared about that shit until you met me. And you still care about that shit. You like me obliquely, out of the side of your fucking eye.”

Tony looks away. “Fine,” he says. So, where then? Since everywhere is so fucked up.

Jonny drains his drink and puts on his jacket to go. “The straights can be so exhausting,” he sighs.

 

They go to Tropikana, where later the boys will be boisterous and unbridled. So very unrestrained that Jonny himself will blush for shame.

Outside, the air is touched with something electric. The whole country is hot under the collar and the air is tight with the tamped down expectation of the vote. The prospect leaves him cold, but the club is close and warm.

He calls Ajema again. This time she appears, emerging out of the clamor of the street in her pristine white tee and boots and leather jacket and a severe haircut.

They stroll the streets, a study in contrasts: the twink and the bulldagger. She, solemn with squared shoulders in the white T-shirt and boots, and he a study in femininity. Tony trails behind.

They end up in the small room at the back of a larger bar which is the closest thing to a gay bar that the city has to offer. At the threshold, Jonny relishes the feeling of safety and possibility that nothing else has ever given him. The press of queer bodies. The beautiful boys and the solemn girls. The alchemy of their presence queering the air. Their hands. Their mouths. Their bodies. But especially their barbed minds.

He watches it all from a remove he calls age, feeling a bit of a louche, surrounded by big-boned, rawboned, slim-hipped youth.

How he loves them, he thinks. He loves them all. The ladyboys and the butches and the bois and the queens. But most of all, he loves that limp-wristed, swishy, tight-hipped boy. That most beautiful, that most vulnerable, that most unloved, that most hated of all men. That most human of us all: the twink.

The drink slits his eyes, and he leans back against the bar, surveying the room. He gives in to the feeling, gives in to the drink. The chant mounts inside him.

Blessed be the ladyboy. Blessed be the ladyboy and his lady hands and his camp. Blessed be his hidden strength, blessed be his tempered soul. Blessed, blessed be the twink.

As if in response to the incantation, Joseph, of the plush ass, Joseph of the cocksucking mouth, Joseph, twink of twinks, twink without compare, sidles onto the stool next to him, bearing with him that wide smiling mouth, that famous cocksucking mouth. That mouth and that ass which have fed a multitude of younger brothers and sisters and helped build his mother’s church in Nyeri. He scoots his legendary backside closer.

“Darling,” he blows him a dozen scented kisses. “However are you? I’m just dying for a drink.”

The dance floor pulses with energy and Jonny looks on through the veil of nostalgia, of his own constrained youth. “These young guys these days,” he sighs. “They’re so spoiled. They can’t imagine that singularity, that terrible, crushing solitude.”

“No, they can’t,” Joseph agrees, fanning his face. “Is that progress?”

“When I was their age, it was a life sentence to be queer. Back then, I thought I was the only faggot in the republic. And so of course I thought that I was depraved and that it was not just sin, but the fruits of sin, if that makes any sense.”

“I wish I had grown up in a world without judgement, without AIDS,” sighs Joseph. “I mean, it isn’t, but you know I mean.”

 

The animal pulses, more slowly now, swaying to slower tune.

“I do know what you mean,” says Jonny. “These guys today, they’re so matter-of-fact about it. They don’t even know what shame is. Sometimes I wish they did.”

“I know all about shame,” says Joseph. “I don’t recommend it.”

“Like the very first guy I was with, and that was not so long ago, by the way. I was in my thirties before I so much as touched a man.”

“God bless the older homo,” Joseph raises his glass.

“So, there was that first magical, fantastical night with this guy. But the next day, I’m picking the animals out of my pubes and laying them on the bathroom counter, and he is still swearing that he has no clue what he’s looking at.”

Ajema giggles in remembrance.

“Shameless, that boy. Stone cold liar. But the dick on him.” Jonny shifts in his chair.

“What do you mean,” asks Tony. “What animals?”

“Crabs,” says Ajema.

“Pubic lice,” says Jonny helpfully to Tony’s astonished face. “Pthirus pubis. Vicious little things.”

“Is that some kind of gay thing?” Tony throws back his drink and stands up to go. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, my good man.” Jonny wags his finger sagely and shakes his head. “Pubic lice are for all mankind.”

Tony sees his hetero outrage out, stumbling slightly.

“I liked that boy,” says Ajema. “In spite of myself. And in spite of himself, if I’m being honest. There was something about him.”

“This is the thing about adult-onset homosexuality,” says Jonny. “You do all your drama at the wrong time. And it’s not pretty.”

On the dance floor, a beautiful boy is winding his lean waist. He closes his eyes, one hand on his hips, the other outstretched. They watch him wordlessly.

“I guess I like sissies,” Jonny begins.

“I love sissies,” giggles Joseph.

Ajema gives Jonny a look, part warning, part rebuke.

“I love sissies too,” he ignores her. “Who doesn’t? But there’s something else. I can’t help feeling contempt for them too.”

Joseph meets Ajema’s gaze and rolls his eyes.

“Look at that boy. Look at that blouse. That is a blouse, am I right? That blouse and that purse.”

“What about them?”

“You just know he’s seen more ceilings than a construction worker. You take that guy home, in five seconds flat, he’ll have his ass in the air and his dick in his hand.”

“Sounds hot,” Joseph giggles again.

“It’s hot,” says Jonny. “And contemptible.”

 

“Jonny only fucks woodsmen and morans you see,” says Ajema, her eyes on a small-framed woman dancing with her friends. “Ma-mbanga na ma-dingo.”

Joseph sighs and the attempts to laugh it off. “The whole world needs bottoms. But the world sneers at us. Sneer not at the bottom, he is the very soul of the world.” He gets up to dance, twirling a passing boy around, taking his legendary behind with him.

“Now why did you have to do that?” Ajema is still watching the woman, who is watching her back.

The room is close and warm. And Jonny gives in to the mood. He hovers just outside the scrum of bodies, then moves more firmly into the slipstream of desire, everything forgotten.

 
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Election day dawns like an omen. Through an easterly window, a reproachful sun looks down on Jonny sprawled on the sofa. He straggles to his room, slipping between the crisp sheets with their hospital corners. When he wakes again, it is past noon and the sun is looking askance at him through a westerly window.

To his harrowed body, he administers the curative of a hot shower. In the bedroom, before the full-length mirror, he anoints himself, that body, that human animal, fat and femme.

He drinks three glasses of water and dozes off while the drumbeat of duty beats an anxious tattoo against his skull. The polls will close in two hours. He is just dressing (grudgingly) to go out, when he cocks his head at the knocking at his door.

He swings it open to find the boy standing there, with a sheepish look on his face.

“Can I come in?” He has the good grace to sound unsure.

Jonny all but licks his lips at this buttload of fun delivered to his doorstep. He lets him into the front room, onto the threshold of their own sacred ritual. But when he makes his way back to the rocky shore, nothing has changed. The world remains stubbornly itself.

The boy is asleep again.

On the balcony in stillness, looking down on the quiet town. In the distance, the tin-can town of Kibera sprawls up hill and down dale.

The boy comes up behind him, and they look on the emptied world.

“I should call you ‘eats, fucks, and sleeps.’ ”

The boy laughs. “And sometimes I go to school.”

The silence that follows is almost companionable.

“Did you vote?” Jonny asks at last.

The boy laughs. “Fuck that.”

“Young people don’t vote?”

He shrugs and stretches his long form on the chaise.

“You really don’t care?”

He makes a blah blah blah motion with his hand. “No. Now what?”

“Now what?” Jonny agrees.

“Can we go out?” he asks.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Just out.”

They walk in the road, weaving among the parked cars, and the others traipsing home in their triumphal air. The day, drawing to a close, is still tight with expectation. Choler runs through the streets and stains the gutters yellow. The boy’s long stride fords the wide, uncovered trench.

Jonny buys a couple of beers and they sit in a dark corner in an emptyish bar. The boy drinks his beer down in three, four large gulps and grins.

“You want another?”

He nods.

 
 

He gets another round of beers and a bottle of Jameson. The boy skirts the Jameson hungrily, and then gets up the courage to pour himself a generous drink.

They keep a self-conscious distance, legs together, hands to themselves.

“Why did you leave yesterday?”

The boy looks surprised. “I had to go. And I thought …”

“I’m glad you came back,” says Jonny simply.

The boy smiles but does not reply. He drains his glass.

A pack of his friends joins them, brash and impecunious. With money in his wallet, Jonny is king of a Lilliputian realm. Another bottle of Jameson makes an appearance and then another.

Back at the flat, they make admiring noises, exclaiming over the lines of the couch, the paintings, the large windows, the view. They converge on a rough still life of a shirtless man reclining in a dark room.

“You have a lot of books,” says one of the boys eyeing his bookshelf. It does not sound like a compliment.

The boy, whose name is Clifford fingers the volumes lightly, touching those flights of fancy, those pages which have unfitted Jonny for this gruesome place.

“Don’t fuck a guy that doesn’t have any books,” says the boy.

Clifford laughs. “What book did you last read?” He squares up to the bookshelf and picks out a book. He turns the pages, wets his finger thoughtfully and turns some more. Jonny grits his teeth.

“ ‘The negritude which he thus affirms and celebrates is simultaneously the triumph of Narcissism and suicide of Narcissus, tension of the soul outside its culture, words and every psychic fact, luminous night of non-knowledge.’ ” He glances up at Jonny and then goes back to the book, licking and flipping.

“What does that even mean?” one of the boys is asking.

Jonny shrugs, watching the book ruefully.

“What does that mean?” The boy asks again.

“I don’t care what it means,” says Clifford. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Do you like it?”

Clifford shrugs. “No.”

“Go on. Take it. You can have it.”

“What for?” He puts the book back in its place.

Jonny lures the boys from the bookshelf with another round of whiskies. His bookshelf is more precious than his arsenal of sex toys. More personal than his immortal soul.

On the television, the ticker tape of returns.

Away from the closeness of the room, away from the mob, on the street below, the drunks of Nairobi West are straggling down the streets in great good humor. Someone is singing something loud but indistinct. The car engines roar to life and the lights feel their way through the dark. The whiskey is fiery and cold and the smoke is fire in his chest.

The boy comes up beside him.

The blood which quickens in the world below quickens in him. He bends the boy over the railing, unbelts him, grazes the smooth expanse of skin and the heft of him in his hand. He moves in him as something moves on the ground, quickly, urgently. The boy grunts and leans over the railing, laughing. He cranes his neck to watch him.

They look down on the country, shrouded now in evening. De profundis, there comes an answering cry.

 

At noon, the sun is merely scornful. He draws the curtains and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes, the boys are littered among the sofas, the air musty with sweat and whiskey, the room poised between sleep and wakefulness.

The boyman is at the stove. He looks up mildly. “I was hungry. I thought you might be too.”

“Eats, fucks, and sleeps,” grins Jonny.

Jonny watches him in his easy movements around the kitchen. His breath catches at the expanse of his chest and his muscled back, the play of movement under his skin, the cord of his hips under the jeans. He looks away and turns on the television.

The door to the guest bedroom is shut.

“Who’s in there?”

“Derrick and his boyfriend,” pipes up one of the boys whose name is Clifford.

“Who’s Derrick? Who’s his boyfriend.”

“Derrick says it’s his boyfriend,” Clifford offers conspiratorially.

The boys eat ravenously, devastating the provisions like locusts in a field. And he drank of the tea. And he ate of the bread. And he ate also of the fruit of the tree.

Ajema Faghag blinks on his phone.

“Where did you disappear to?” she grumbles. “I told you the fix was in,” she says glumly. “Can I come over? Let’s commiserate.”

He surveys the room.

“I don’t know. The homos have taken over my place.”

“What homos? Don’t we know the same homos?”

She shows up in the same T-shirt, same jacket and jeans as two nights before.

“And what gutter have you crawled out of?” Jonny muses.

The apartment is acrid with smoke and strewn with bodies. Ajema takes in the scene with distaste.

She escapes onto the balcony and lights a cigarette. Jonny follows.

“You know you can smoke in the house, right?”

She sniffs. “Who are those people?”

 
 

On the television, a mournful looking official is announcing the election results. The boys exclaim in astonishment. Instantly there is an explosion below. A cry goes up which grows into a howl of fury.

They peer into the gloom.

What’s that?

“Go and make me a drink,” says Ajema, glum again.

The malcontents in the living room are glued now to the screen where a succession of angry men are yelling into the camera.

When he returns, bearing aloft a gin and tonic, the fire is a growing point of light on the horizon. Jonny can feel the noose tightening around the world. He laughs, giddy with delight.

But they are only straining at the seams and he knows that the whole will hold as it always has. What is he but a little strain on the seams? Each one of these boys, himself, and all the others. Joseph and his cocksucking mouth. Ajema and the small-framed woman. Tropikana on Thursday nights. The enema bag, the industrial-strength lube in a family-size bottle. Little tears in the worn sackcloth of the country.

He is giddy, filled with the headiness of the day and the drink. And the night is taut and filled with meanings and it squeezes his skull with a metallic coldness. The country is laid out before him like an enchanted land.

The boy is talking to him. “Come in,” he is saying. “Come in. Let’s go to bed.” In, to bed. In, to quietude. In, to silence.

A distant song pricks his mind.

“What I ask, is Kenya to me?

An ache, a stain, a thrum in me

A certain word, a legacy

A hate, a hurt a promise, a truth

A change, a turn,

A gilded tree I once saw.”

 

But out there, the hearts of the young men are on fire. The fire is in their hearts and their eyes and their tongues. Jonny the faggot can feel it in the boy, and he wonders how someone so young can carry the weight of it. It is looking at him through his eyes.

Jonny follows and Jonny reaches into him, clawing, turning up the loam of his mind. All those things unburied. He stops and moves off him.

“What’s the matter?” says the boy drowsily. But of course Jonny has nothing to say.

And so in the morning, the look the sun gives him is sheer mockery. It stings him awake.

Outside, the antagonists have gone to town with real intent, slashing and burning. Inside, Derrick is back in the spare room getting railed. Jonny bangs on the door. “Will you keep it down? Don’t you know world is coming apart?” The boys giggle. Sounds like it is Derrick who is coming apart.

The litter of pups is squalling in his sitting room. The bedclothes are strewn like ruins as far as he can see. The dirty dishes squat sullenly in the kitchen.

“Open a fucking window for fuck’s sake,” snaps Jonny. “You stink.”

Someone scrambles from the mattress and opens a window.

Clifford and Derrick slink out of the spare room.

“You’d better not have come on his sheets,” smirks the boy.

Jonny regards them balefully. “Party’s over,” he says. “Get the fuck out.”

“Hey,” says the boy, pulling on his arm. “Chill.”

“Where will we go?” asks Clifford.

“Well, where did you come from?” asks Jonny.

“Nimetoka Oyole,” says one boy.

“Roysambu.”

“That was a rhetorical question,” says Jonny.

“Is it safe to leave?” The boy turns to look at him.

“I don’t care,” says Jonny. “Just go.”

Derrick sucks his teeth and begins to gather his clothes.

“Tutapita tao kweli?” Clifford is pulling on his shirt.

“Si tungoje kidogo?”

“Si huyu shoga amekataa.”

The boys go, descending the stairs in silence. He watches them as they step gingerly into the raod, a band of young men, like the other bands of young men roaming the streets. They disappear from his sight.

The hearts of the young men are on fire. Their hearts have set the city aflame. “And they refuse to see themselves,” thinks Jonny, “they will not see themselves in this fire.”

But for now, the blood dimmed tide remains at bay.

Jonny the faggot turns his gaze skyward, to the thin pall of smoke, gray against the piercing blue of the sky. Watching the city burn, rapt, with a building joy, he reaches down some quiet part of himself and howls.

 
 

Fall / Winter 2023



Andia Kisia

Andia Kisia is a writer of fiction and theatre. Her plays include The Roosting, which premiered at the Phoenix Theatre in Nairobi and The Visit, which was adapted from radio. The Visit was published in the anthology African Women Playwrights (University of Illinois Press, 2008). Andia has been a writer in residence at the Royal Court Theatre’s international playwriting residency and at the Sundance Institute’s theatre lab. Her radio plays have been broadcast on the BBC World Service and her writing has appeared most often in the journal Kwani?



Eric Tenorio

Eric Tenorio (b. 1989) is a queer Filipino American whose photographs explore themes of isolation and physical connection through self-portraiture and portraits of queer men. He currently lives and works in the Inland Empire of Southern California.



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