By Their Fruits

By Franz Owano, Wanjiku Irungu, Nelson Omech and 3 more

The portrait of a family coming to grips with the complexities of mental illness. A tale of metaphysical passion in which greed, acceptance, and denial are powerfully juxtaposed. An in-depth exposition into the evolving nature of globalization & the dynamics beckoning it to its deathbed. A young woman emotionally calloused by the trauma of her undistinguished past. Outrunning the sins of her mother. Determined to outwit the stalking shadow on her trail. Dueling with the kind of conflict only drugs can create; a social worker is caught between helping the needy and feeding his own ruthless need. A critique of Africa's lag in comparison to the developed world. Expounding on a fundamental flaw in her ability to amass and transfer generational wealth; with a bold mindset alteration proposed. A reminiscence of love and loss accompanying the encumbrance of compromise. Crowned by an uncalculated betrayal of trust.

Compiled in a unique, appealing, and timeless collection of essays and short stories. A potent intellectual cocktail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wanderer's Path Publishers
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215564059

Franz Owano

Franz Owano is a medical doctor by profession who lives and works in Nairobi Kenya.He boasts of a body of works.He has penned 6 plays,a journal,2 novellas and a collection of short stories. He enjoys reading,writting and travelling in his free time.

Book preview

BY THEIR FRUITS

A collection of essays and short stories

Contributing authors

Wanjiku Irungu

Nelson Omech

Franz Owano

Judy Kaaria

George Gathiani

Wesley Omondi

––––––––

C:\Users\SPREINNET CYBER\Downloads\WhatsApp_Image_2023-02-14_at_14.05.36-removebg-preview.png

The short stories in this collection are works of fiction.

Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BY THEIR FRUITS

First edition. February 17, 2023.

Copyright© 2023.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission.

––––––––

Design and Typography by James Kungu

Published by Wanderer’s Path Publishers

Email;[e-mail]

P.O Box 5232 – 00200

Tel; 0726311659

Nairobi Kenya

Until the lion learns to write, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.

Chinua Achebe

EDITOR’S NOTE

By Franz Owano

I convinced an amalgam of diverse personalities to contribute to this worthy cause.  A doctor, filmmaker, mathematician, economist, and linguist harnessed their seeming eccentricities with the motive of producing a literary work of art. Crafted to each author’s passion and strengths uncompromisingly. Expressing their opinions boldly and without apology.

Their ideas may be disputed, glorified, at times even vilified. But the one thing you cannot deign to do, is ignore them.

In their quest to leave behind an enduring legacy; echoed defiantly into the universe- may you know them By Their Fruits.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FULL CIRCLE

80 CHAINS OF GOLD

BY THEIR FRUITS

A GLOBALIZATION REBIRTH

THE SILENCE

WALKED A MILE

FULL CIRCLE

By Wanjiku Irungu

*

Madam! Madaam, Noah projected. Without a word, Mira rose, robotic, as if activated by voice command. She blinked twice, looking lost and startled as her arms remained firmly planted at her sides. To an observer, this might have looked like a signal for rescue, a silent cry for help. The bishop will see you now. Have you carried all the requirements asked of you? Noah inquired as he leaned closer, his rancid breath watering her eyes.

Mira nodded in affirmation while maintaining her machine-like demeanour. Sweat began to line her mules as her head bobbed uncontrollably like a wind-up doll. She rummaged through her pockets, eventually revealing a crisp white envelope. Her fingers trembled as she handed over the white receptacle, now punctuated with five bronzed and oily fingerprints. Noah seemed unbothered, not that he smelled like one who would care for hygiene. Mira's gaze followed his hand, greedily receiving the package; he appeared well-versed in determining the value from simply convulsing the envelope to gauge the weight of its contents.

Nonetheless, he split it open to be sure. The notes were tan and crisp, all in one denomination– the highest. A satisfied Noah beamed, the shine on his dark face punctuated by a row of gleaming white teeth; how ironic, considering the halitosis. Meanwhile, Mira's face remained solemn and dull, juxtaposed against the Cheshire cat-man who stood before her with little regard for personal space. She sighed inwardly, recalling how she broke the bank to gather the 'requirements'.

Now, the bean stew that would remain her staple would likely do nothing to bring colour to her face. But that didn't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Earthly possessions and physical beauty were things of the world: greed and vanity. Deadly sins, ungodly, discouraged and frowned upon. And she needed to save her soul desperately. After all, didn't He say that it was worthless to gain the whole world but lose your soul?

Her eyes glazed over Noah's shiny fat face. It was not a bad day for Noah and the Bishop to make KES 300 000 from a prayer request and an exorcism. The good fight did not come cheap. All right, Madam Mira, you are all set. Please follow me this way. Noah sauntered along the brightly lit corridor, the relaxed strides of a rich man who had just struck gold.

Behind, Mira struggled to sturdy her steps, her toes sliding in her mules which clunked hard on the sterile floor, her long skirt choking her ankles and shortening her steps. Her insides were a mess, with knots and butterflies and perhaps due to the legumes she so fervently consumed. Before Mira could swallow the lump of gas ascending her oesophagus, Noah proclaimed that they had arrived rather theatrically in a manner typical of Pentecostal religiosity. Before them was a large mahogany door with a gold plaque that exclaimed, Dr Reverend Bishop Peter Karaihura. She uttered her first words of the day; a feeble quivering thank you. And then Noah pushed the door inside. It was time to tame the demon and save her soul.

*

Of the many words, one might have chosen to describe Mira, timid and robotic were not on the list. She was more of a fighter than a lover, although she preferred the term passionate or spirited. Throughout her twenties, her extracurriculars mainly comprised physical altercations.

For instance, there was the slap she served a friend of a friend, whom she accused of looking at her the wrong way at a party. She seemed to relish in the shock and bewilderment that followed: the sudden hush that filled the room and the confusing stares from the audience. Instead of walking away, Mira stood, firm, superman-akimbo and watched the young lady stroke her smooth cheek to ease the reverberating sting, mouth slightly ajar but lost for words.

Then there was the choking incident at a colleague's birthday party—strangulation of felony proportions, the scene in the kitchen ensuing into a kerfuffle. A small crowd split in half. One half descending on the poor fellow's throat to unclasp Mira's fingers, the other half tugging at her waist, pulling her from the magnetic polarity that seemed to attract her rage to the lad's voice box. Finally, with braids flailing about and obscenities tumbling out of her mouth, Mira understood that she was outnumbered and let go. The two small crowds now merged into one, ignoring the poor lad who scampered to the living room, spluttering as he stroked his neck, face contorted to hide the tears coursing down his face.

Luckily, a few rounds of alcohol provided anaesthetic and amnesic relief to the aggrieved, mellowing the atmosphere and providing a reprieve for the aggressor. 

*

Mira thrived in chaos. After all, dear pandemonium first introduced her into the world, having been conceived weeks before her mother was hauled into the back of a police truck. She might have been a bunch of cells, but she absorbed everything. Like, the softness of intricate tissue as the sharp blade incised the skin and the strong metallic odour that followed. Later, she would discover this was the smell of blood. And then the screams, gut-wrenching primal sounds that imprinted in Mira's developing brain and haunted her nightmares.

This was the story of how Mira’s mother eliminated her father. 

The media christened it the crime of the decade. A pregnant woman at the centre. Diabolical and calculating. She waited for