I have a cousin, let’s call him Farouk. He’s about 5’6’’, slim, chocolate. Farouk is a people’s person. He is the kind of guy who gets along with anyone! The life of the party.
I’m in Mwingi, Eastern Kenya. I’m not here as a part of a fancy caucus to evaluate poverty. I’m not en route to Garissa town, up the road. I’m certainly not here for holiday either…obviously.
My grandma doesn’t wait for Kenya to turn 47. She doesn’t say goodbye either. She just checks out. She dies. Her heart halts shortly after 3pm on the eve of Madaraka day. Cardiac arrest,
“Forgive me father, it’s been one week since my last blog.”
“That’s okay son, what seems to be the problem today?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Shouldn’t you be worrying about writing instead?”
Of course I’m scared.
I’m scared because I’m human. I’m scared because I don’t know this woman even though she is supposed to be a good at it. Right. I hear that a lot but word on the grapevine is normally worth squat,