The men’s changing room at Muthaiga Golf Club smells like an ancient piggy bank made of wood. Because life continues to surprise me, I find myself standing at their urinal, taking a piss. Behind me two caucasian chaps are bantering about someone called Reggie who one of them doesn’t seem to remember.
Maybe out of my subtle intimidation or just pure strength of character, Joe Black decided to write something about his writer’s block, as he calls it. It’s vintage Joe; wonderful prose, scintillating sentences that rise out of paragraphs like a disgruntled landlord;
Warning: Long post ahead.
I reached out to Joe Black. Remember him, the prodigy boy from the slums of Kitui who came here with his dazzle and muzzled his way into your hearts with his lively prose?
Nights means dreams. Mostly I dream of the little girl in the coma, lying there, her small fragile hands in the hands of her mother, her face impassive, the face that lost a body.