This piece was first informed by a slight altercation then spurred by bravado. A friend told me that I’m a “middle-class sympathiser” masquerading behind my yellowish rants as a way of “validating and lauding” the middle-class idiosyncrasies and that I should consider my modus operandi and “stop representing” the farce that this dated landscape has become.
Bullshit, I spat, I don’t representing anyone, and I only write about the middle-class because they are sitting ducks. “Sadly, you have become what you write,” she egged on, “and one day, when this middle-class skin has grown old, you will be left un-reinvented and stewing in your own reservoir of inoperable words.”
I asked her, “are you here to knock my head against a wall or is this going anywhere other than badly?”
“Get out of that shell, Biko.”
“By doing what?”
“Leave what you know. Go to the unknown,”
“Unknown? Like where this conversation is headed?”
“Close. Why don’t you one day show that you have the cajones to write about something challenging?”
“I actually like that.”
“What, the idea?”
“No, cajones. People don’t use that word enough.”
“OK, fine. What do you want me to write about that you imagine will get me out of my comfort zone?” I inquired.
“Write about Sabina Joy.”
Enter stage left, Wanjohi Githae. Reporter with The ...... Read the entire article