Very few of us will ever find ourselves on the sharp-elbow of Somalia, spending hot musky days lying on a mat under a sketchy thorn tree waiting for unspoken peril. We might never know the smell of fear on our skin.
When I think of Josaya Wasonga I think of a lone and embattled wolf separated from the pack. We worked together for the same publisher in the late 2000s. We were both features writer’s;
I perch at the end of the bench at Java, Aero-Club – Wilson Airport. The air is cold and crispy. It’s 9:17am – I’m 43-mins early for my meeting with Lydia Wanjiru Kiriti.
I’ve wolfed down my breakfast and I’m now nursing a small tree tomato juice.