If we are elements moving in a galaxy, I think death is a furious asteroid headed our way. The moment we are born the asteroid that will destroy us starts to move and it continues to build momentum and a rage of mortality as it approaches us.
When I get to City Market I don’t know where stall number one is. I linger at the entrance facing Muindi Mbingu street like a pickpocket. It smells of fresh roses and Maasai carvings,
We now have bluetooth and microwaves we can control using our phones yet we continue to crane our necks looking back at the past. The allure of the past seems to seduce us, keeping us enticed.
Picture The Boy – no older than 20- rolling a blunt on a wooden coffee table. He’s in a bedsit in Roysambu; small windows, cheap curtains, wooden door. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans,
What’s the lifespan of chicken? Well, it doesn’t matter because all of my mother’s chicken are gone. The chicken-pen – a small wooden structure that the local boys built as my mother sat on the verandah sipping her tea in the bright midday sunlight of shags- now houses new chicken with a new mistress.
I am involved in a project where I interview artists – singers, sculptors, painters, dancers, virtuosos in the form of children who play the hell out of a violin, animators – a project commissioned by the Godown Arts Center.