There are houses you go to and you know they are just houses with no aspirations to being anything but a place where humans live. It doesn’t matter how palatial or expensively adorned or decorated they are.
How tough it must be to grow up in the age of the internet. To be a man in it. To form ideals in it. To lose yourself in it, find yourself in it and be yourself in it.
In a small room with 3 way mirrors at Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, three bulky and unsmiling American immigration officials stood over Solomon Wangwe’s open suitcases. This was after they had pulled him off the queue and scanned his bags and shoes and jacket,
Duma slipped and hit his head on the edge of the stair. He was 18-months old. It’s ironic. His dad, being the overly careful first-time father, had made the decision for the family to move to a bungalow to avoid their son falling off any high floors.
Sometimes you just know a good story when you see one. You know it a few minutes into the conversation. You don’t have to rummage to find its ambition. Or seduce it to see its heart.