Every Friday we’d gather around the counter at Pitcher and Butch and trade war stories. There was Jamo, a mechanic, ex Baraton University, Bachelor of Technology in Automotive. Boisterous, loud, carefree. He worked in a garage in Westlands as a garage manager.
I got a call. The man on the other end of the line said. “Professor Ngugi wa Thiong’o is coming into town next month. Would you like to sit down with him?”
The chap I was to interview for this week piece emailed that he didn’t think it was “a good idea anymore.” He said that after reading last week’s piece he felt that he didn’t want to “expose himself too much to the public”.
I’ve never met anyone whose father went to prison. Actually I don’t know anyone – friend, acquaintance, neighbour – who has been a guest of the Government Of Kenya. Wait, my cousin Farouk went to prison.
In the long echoing corridor, a man leans his bicycle against the wall. He does it gently, like he’s afraid to bruise it. Like you would lay an infant in its cot. It’s one of those waif,
An insurance guy is coming over to our office. He’s coming to sell an insurance policy because that’s what an insurance guy would be coming to do if they were to come to your office.