It’s easy to moan about Nairobi. Moan about floods. Moan about traffic-jam and “matafakas” cutting you off in traffic. Moan about the drainage system and about Sonko. (Those two are not related.) It’s easy,
I don’t understand jazz. I just don’t get it. All the trumpets, the blowing and sweating and sighing. And puffed lips. I don’t get the expressions jazz artists have either – especially those far-away looks on their faces when they are interviewed about their music.
There is something about Kisumu City. When you land at Kisumu International Airport (You have to say that in full if you are going to say it at all) and you walk out squinting into the bright sunlight,
So there was a massive snowstorm across Istanbul last week, which prompted our Turkish Airlines flight – and a bunch of other flights – to divert to Antalya instead of Istanbul, which should have worked out well for us since that was our final destination where we were going to attend the Samsung Forum which showcases their latest in innovation and techie things.
Remember those days in primary school when they made us write about our holidays? A whole one page foolscap of it. You wouldn’t believe how I would embellish mine; half-lies. Tales. Lores. Then they’d send you off with 37/40 and you’d be elated,
Remember those old men of Lamu? Them with the long white beards and faces carved by the sea’s tough hands? The ones who used to huddle by the seafront at night, sipping kahawa chungu from steaming tiny tin mugs and staring out into the sea with faded nostalgic grins?