I met two interesting folk this past week. I say interesting because they both showed me their broken parts. (That sounds mad, but stay with me) And I like broken parts. I like to nose in there,
Mc Opondo smoked his first cigarette at 15-years of age, behind a block of toilets at Kakamega School. He wasn’t a brilliant student, Mc Opondo. Neither was he particularly sporty. He didn’t play rugby because he didn’t possess the quintessential big thighs of Kakamega School boys who played rugby.
My class five teacher was called Weje. As the name might suggest she wasn’t really a teacher who smiled. You know the phrase, “to put fear of the Lord”? It was meant to be “to put the fear of Weje.” You wouldn’t describe Weje’s style of discipline as subtle.
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.
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.