Last year I sat next to my dad’s cousin, Ross, at a funeral in shags. Genius of a man and a recovering alcoholic. He’s been clean almost eight years now. We were seated on the stoop of a house,
It’s the motorbike you heard first; a Yamaha Super Tenere, 750 CC. Its thunderous roar filled every room of the unremarkable building we occupied at Wilson Airport. No matter how busy you were at your desk you wouldn’t pretend to ignore the fact that he had arrived.
I choose Sarova Stanley’s Exchange Bar because it’s a Sunday and I want to drive into town and feel the absence of humanity, the open-armed parking slots and the absence of incessant blaring car-horns .
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.