There are readers who don’t comment. They email me thoughts. Some are long emails, others are short emails. Some make sense to me, others only make sense to them. Some become e-friends, others become real acquaintances.
I tipped the porter then stood at the balcony staring at the ocean now a sinister shade of blue, almost black. The sun had only just set behind the flat line of the horizon dotted with boats drifting home.
A friend of mine – Jo – whatsapped me one morning and said, “My daughter died today, four years ago.” I saw this message when I was coming from the gym, endorphins thumping in my ear.
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.