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,
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.
“He’s rich and old,” I tell my friend Gina.
“You mean rich but old?” She asks from the carpet where she’s seated between my knees. I’m helping her undo her braids. She’s in this team natural group where they occasionally meet in a garden to drink rosé and talk about children and men,
What does human flesh taste like?
Everybody I tell this story thinks I should have asked her this question. At some point I began to think that maybe I should have asked her.