All the Old Gods

By Franz Owano, Wanjiku Irungu, George Gathiani and 3 more

A feminist's unrivaled desire for freedom beyond the shadows cast by society and the shame
accompanying unbridled self-expression. Defacing parallels drawn between femininity and weakness. A
Cyborg's quest to discover what it truly means to be human in a journey spanning centuries. Uncertainty
gives urgency to this tale as an artificial intelligence masters human emotion and the potential dangers
it exposes to mankind. An analysis of the most practical financial model capable of liberating Africa from
the shackles of poverty into the dawn of economic prosperity. A family afflicted from the wounds of an
absentee mother and a young woman's great expectation of forgiveness, resolution and healing.
Identity, race and the systems of control experienced through the eyes of a young man grappling with
the ills of modern-day power structures. In a bid to comprehend how some men came to be unequal.
Folklore from a bygone era, exhuming an age-old question. What does it profit a man to gain the entire
world at the expense of his soul?
Compiled in a thought-provoking collection of essays and short stories. Providing crystalline
observations of life at large and the transcendent nature of the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wanderer's Path Publishers
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223932260

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

All The Old Gods

A collection of essays and short stories

––––––––

Contributing authors

Basil Ibrahim

Wanjiku Irungu

Nelson Omech

Franz Owano

George Gathiani

Daisy Okoti

The short stories in this collection are works of fiction.

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

ALL THE OLD GODS

Second edition. November 8, 2022.

Copyright © 2022.

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

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

Oscar Wilde.

EDITOR’S NOTE

By Franz Owano

I challenged an unlikely quintet to accompany me on this literary journey. Formerly strangers yet presently irrevocably bonded as friends. Writing a book is indeed a grand task. Largely believed to be an esoteric accomplishment reserved for a special caste. I sought to debunk this myth by empowering those around me to take a leap of faith and embrace the possibility that we are all writers at our core; waiting to exhale.

To that end I convinced a doctor, mathematician, journalist, social scientist and filmmaker to write a book with me. And thus, this collection of essays and short stories was born.

Sometimes darkness creates genius. Rejection begets magic. To all rebellious hearts hungry for expression yet silenced by conformity; chant an ode to All The Old Gods and find your voice.

Table of Contents

Shades of Red...............................................................8

Being Human...............................................................40

Still Waiting .................................................................73

A Faster Horse..............................................................100

All The Old Gods............................................................110

Let’s Call This A Work of Fiction...................................157

Shades Of Red

By Wanjiku Irungu

Alias : La femme fatale

Depending on what day it was, Tiwani would give you a different insight of what person she believed she was. For example, if you met her on an early Sunday morning, dishevelled, half asleep and half-awake standing outside the liquor section of her local supermarket she would tell you that the government was borderline communist for regulating alcohol consumption hours while priests and even Jesus himself, freely turned water into wine to great admiration. And anyway, it took much less preparation to drink wine in the house than queue for a shot handed over by a glorified paedophile.

In that moment she was a champion for freedom of choice, a perfect embodiment of how to live your life on your own terms free from the shackles of the expected Sunday morning norms. Of course, no one asked her what she thought of herself as she quietly weaved passed the isles riddled with bright banners advertising deals to save money in an already crippled economy. On this Sunday every stride was more purposive, directional, and defiant.

Still, even in her zombie state she hoped her athleisure would mask her obviously tired face, after all she might have been coming back from an early morning jog. Tiwani knew the drill. Heck, the whole store knew the drill. She would stop by the book section, carefully positioned opposite the entrance of the liquor store, and go through enough back covers as time would allow. It always impressed her every time how the book section would be placed strategically opposite the liquor section... with massive television screens glaring down at both sections simultaneously. What are the odds that one would suddenly decide to impulsively purchase a book, a pack of cigarettes, some bourbon and decide to grab a 60-inch television set just because? Her thought process, however, was cut short by the clanking of chains hitting the sides of the clear sliding glass doors and like a horse suddenly released from its buggy she shot right into the store, paying little regard to the attendant struggling to get his till operational for his first customer of the day. Usually, it took her less than 5 minutes to complete her mission. It was simple, get in, grab two bottles of Malbec 2018, two packets of menthol cigarettes, pay, nod politely and leave with the swiftness of a pickpocket.

But this was no usual Sunday. Which was made very clear by the sharp ping on her phone as it glared with a stark reminder; MEETING WITH LAWYER– just as soon as she engaged her reverse gear in the parking lot. 

Obviously, she had to make an exception. So, with a great sigh and exasperation, she made a beeline for the supermarket and got another bottle of wine. Tiwani reasoned, it was justifiable. As fearless as she purported to be, she surprised herself when she told the attendant that she had a party while smiling sheepishly, trying extraordinarily hard to avoid eye contact. As she left, swift footed, head low, she murmured to herself that it was best she rotated her liquor stores or probably moved to another town.

Christ! You are already drunk at noon on a freaking Sunday, AJ said as he walked in. Tiwani expected him to be more surprised that she had opened her door and let him into her house rather than her obvious inebriation, as far as she was concerned, she still owned exclusive rights to her liver. Besides, she was in no mood for a lecture from a man on a high horse. As AJ bent over to untie his laces, Tiwani suddenly realised how big his feet were. He was a relatively large man, slightly over 6 feet tall, and bulged in all the right places.

She had always passively noticed his striking features before, but this was during her relatively sober moments. Still, they preferred to meet in public eateries where open spaces and perceived public scrutiny would help them contain any irrational emotions or trigger regrettable entanglements. Today however, in her space, he seemed more human, less constrained by the tight noose of a tie or the buttons of a rigid suit but rather, flexible in his white t-shirt and sweatpants. Afraid her thoughts would spill out of her mouth, Tiwani asked to pour him a glass of wine to tone down the tension and possibly distract him from the fact that she looked like she had just arrived from out of town on a broomstick, given the state of her general grooming.

As she channeled her inner sommelier, Tiwani wondered how easily AJ had embraced her duality. Her ability to shift from the most confident and sophisticated person in the room, commanding attention, and admiration effortlessly to a borderline narcissist who would tick all the boxes as an eligible candidate for studies on sociopathy. Tiwani and AJ had a long history and were generally perceived as an unlikely duo.

While AJ relished in being the stereotypical African gentleman who adhered to all expected gender roles, Tiwani was the opposite. Often feisty, a spitball with sex appeal and the aggressive arrogance of a Silicon Valley technopreneur. She took enormous pride in her radicalism and non-conformist approach to the world. Logic was everything while emotional thinking was a double-edged sword; a weakness to those who practiced it and a weapon to those who realised its power to puppeteer. Despite this, the grapevine whispered that they were involved in closed door dalliances even though they preferred to call each other friends. Whatever that meant to each of them or to others was considered no one’s business. In any case, they always maintained a reasonable distance between each other, choosing sparks and tension to occupy the space between them undisturbed.

Tiwani liked to consider him the kindest person she had ever met, and even though from time to time she would feel intense physical attraction towards him she quickly banished the primal thoughts from her mind. Feeling an attraction towards AJ resembled admitting you occasionally ogled at modern day Jesus’ abs when looking for carnal inspiration. It felt borderline blasphemous. Furthermore, logic dictated that there was a greater benefit to having him as a friend. With subtle hints of its potential to morph into something more than to engage in an outright relationship. She could smell his need to be around her and used her presence and feminine defencelessness as constant bait akin to the proverbial carrot and stick.

As was the norm, she strategically positioned herself at the furthest corner of her living room. Next to her large rose gold and white bookshelf, with books arranged so meticulously, arranged in a way that reminded guests that they were to be seen and not touched or borrowed. They were her babies. Next to her wine and her pills, these were her second most important possessions. She would die lugging that giant bookshelf downstairs in a fire or God forbid an earthquake. No book would be left behind. There was palpable silence and awkwardness. Each wondering who would be the first to break the silence which was sporadically punctuated by a gulp of wine.

AJ was quietly reprocessing the news Tiwani had shared with him a few days ago. She rather nonchalantly informed him that a man she had been involved with had committed suicide, right after transferring over 5 million Kenyan Shillings into her account and his brand-new British machine to her name. AJ genuinely thought he had lost his mind. Or she had lost her mind. Or the whole world had lost its mind. For a split second, his mind lost focus on the death that could potentially be associated with Tiwani, perplexed at the irony of knowing someone while simultaneously knowing nothing about them. What shocked him the most was not the monetary transactions. For centuries relationships between men and women have been transactional, even before the invention of modern currency. Don’t we still give cows to get a woman’s hand in marriage?

Tiwani had a secret paramour for two years, right under his nose without the slightest whiff. And now, the so-called lover was dead, by apparent