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Grieving over a boyfriend, she slashed her wrists and bled to death, leaving her only daughter
I drew the covers off her head. She was on her side, without a bonnet. Her hair, a pure human-hair wig, was covering her beautiful, soft face like a doll's. I pulled the covers lower, and that’s when the sight shot into my eyes. Blood! Blood was everywhere. It was dark red, caked on the navy-blue cotton sheets and mattress. Her hands, limp and lifeless, opened in ghastly cuts, and on the bed was a shard of the Tanqueray bottle that she had used to slash her wrists.
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The answer cannot be found only in courtrooms. It is also found in what happens when an ordinary Kenyan challenges an administrative decision, demands information from a public institution, encounters the police, seeks a government service or insists that the state treat them according to the rights guaranteed to them.
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Over the next few days, my husband started going to work late and coming home early. Suddenly, there were “interactions.” I noticed it and asked him about the schedule change. He said traffic was bad and he was trying to avoid rush hour. He said I was being paranoid and looking for problems where there were none.

Perhaps the Luo voter doesn't need another political messiah. We already had that in Baba. The tragedy is that after his death, the Luo voter has not yet learnt that losing a shepherd does not mean losing their ability to find their own way.
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“I have never wanted children. I did not know how to tell you, and I did not want to tell you to get rid of it, you know?” “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, STEVE?” I yelled into the phone as every emotion that had been pooling up in me broke the banks of my reserve.“I am sorry,” he said, like that was supposed to fix anything. Like he could feel sorry for the pregnancy away or my pain away or the fact that he had left me for months. Months! “Where are you, Steve? Where were you? Where have you been…?” I cried into the phone. I was still crying hours after he hung up. I tried the number again. It was off. He was gone.
We spend a great deal of time talking about how, when and why women should get married. We talk about dating, beauty, femininity, fertility, compromise, being a “good woman” and finding a man who is ready to settle down. We rarely spend the same amount of time asking what a woman is expected to surrender once she has acquired the title she was encouraged to desire.
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Down the corridor, where the shoe rack stood, was the main bedroom. There was no way I could wake her without waking everyone in the house. I was not even sure I wanted to. In fact, sometimes, I was certain I did not. She was old, ugly, and a house help.

