We get on a small plane. We land in Lamu. A smiling, diminutive swahili man with a stubble loads our luggage onto a kart. Twenty minutes on motorboat we dock at Majlis Resort. I whatsapp a picture to a friend whose husband is turning 40 and asked me for romantic place to take him.
When the rain starts to fall it doesn’t seem so serious. It doesn’t look like it will turn into a deluge of water, gushing in alleys, sweeping debris, twigs and later trees, felling walls,
Wamuyu, a 22-year architectural student from a local university emailed me and asked me what I thought about smoking weed and if weed helps with creativity. Apparently his peers who are “super creative” [his words] are potheads.
We go for our children’s sports day, not because we want to run balancing eggs on spoons stuck in our mouths, but because we want our children to remember that we went. That we showed up.
Have you been to Kericho with those squatty but quaint tea worker’s houses on the hill. The endless greenery with rolling hills and Kalenjin hawkers with their checked jackets selling tea and roast maize and trucks that bellow and meander up virgined hills.
A few weeks ago I wrote about showing up at the Pearly Gates and God asking you what you did with your talents and you drawing a blank. Then I got an email from a 48-year old lady,