As I write this, the Nairobi Women Rep debate is on. Four ladies are on the stand and one of them is really bringing it. She talks in clean cut Swahili, taking jabs at her opponents and raising her voice all over the place. I forget her name, but the one next to her has legs for days.
I haven’t showered yet, and it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.Read More »
It is now a few minutes to 10pm. Sunday. There’s a hot soupy plate of githeri next to me and balls of meat are floating on the broth. I can count the number of beans in this thing. I can hear the fridge hum and the microwave is drowning out the voice of Yvonne Okwara on TV. It’s a slow and chilly night, the kind that makes you want to snuggle up in bed, light incense, and write some dark poetry in a blue notebook. The moon is a sharp crescent and I don’t like how cold the floor feels against the soles of my feet and I’m too lazy to go grab a pair of socks.
We have a new house help, by the way. Read More »
My last year of primary school was a tumultuous one. It started with me transferring to a new school. A boarding school. A school tucked safely away in Kiserian’s shirt pocket. A school called St. Pats. My parents had decided I needed some ‘boarding school’ experience before I went to high school, which to me sounded like they telling me I was soft or something. Like there was the slightest chance that my sheltered existence of going to private day schools all my life hadn’t toughened me up. But I didn’t mind. I absolutely loved the idea of boarding school.
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