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Manasse Ndonga

The name i was given is Manasses Ndonga. But Just Manoe is still fine. Usually am that smallest man at the corner opposite the door. Fact, look around, spot the smallest man. That’s me. I am that guy you will forget as soon as you lay eyes. What you will not forget is the story. I have left marks of ink on books, magazines, blogs, and many other fancy platforms. But these are not as important as the mark i leave in your life. As you come in, i will tell your story; why you’re sad, why you’re giggling, just why you are everything. I will tell you yours here, but first, i want to tell you a story. The story of a village boy, who has arrived in town with a steadfast accent and a strong opinion… My story
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There’s that face of a lady, in a matatu that your mind drifts to, to escape the bedlam and clatter of traffic . It’s an island of emeralds, marbles, hazels, roses, Fuchsias and sweet williams. Beautiful butterflies, buzzing bees, on year long springs with sprinkles of autumn. Home to flying fairies and fresh faced elves. Additionally, friendly green mambasbunnies and puppies . That face from whence spring floods of childhood fairy-tales. Particularly a village by a meadow in a green glen surrounded by pine, whistling pine in the arms of gentle breezes.

At dusk

Crickets pour their hearts out. Moreover, the birds rest their tired cords. Thereafter from somewhere at the heart of the glen comes the voice of a violin. Suddenly all crickets are silent, all whistling pines cock their leaves taking in every ounce of the delicious tunes. Tunes, like honey lingering upon your tongues taking its time on your taste buds, stick to your ears. Then comes the silken voice, washing over your soul. All the glen is silent, all thoughts lost to the beauty of a voice. The moon is pushing apart the clouds to see for itself such beauty in a mortal;revealing her face to eyes on craned necks, and pine branches. She is the lady in the matatu, now staring at you with a knowing smile.

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