Flying is generally messy. It’s like ordering a burger on a first date. Because then you have to open your mouth so wide there is a danger of your date seeing your epiglottis, which would be showing too much too soon.
I didn’t post anything last week because I was thinking. I was seated at my desk at home, leaning all the way back in my chair and staring out the window dreamily. I have a massive wall to wall window that overlooks the verandah of the neighbouring apartments.
I lived in a little shanty-like neighbourhood called Kiwafu while in uni in Kampala, with a roommate, Gasirigwa, who was from Tanzania. A room. One window. A mango tree outside the window.
I hope this missive finds you well.
I’m writing from the land of the white man, a place called Barcelona, Spain. It’s got churches and cathedrals, monuments and statues,
Warning: Long post ahead.
I reached out to Joe Black. Remember him, the prodigy boy from the slums of Kitui who came here with his dazzle and muzzled his way into your hearts with his lively prose?
On our way back to Entebbe from Kampala last weekend, we had to stop as the President of the republic, His excellency Yoweri Kaguta Museveni himself, was about to pass by, headed to Kampala.