I first met Arthur Mwai in 2013 on a Jameson familiarisation trip to Dublin, Ireland. It was organised by Pernod Ricard. It was cold – the tail-end of winter. Arthur was cool. He was dressed to the nines. He …
He is 20 years old and there is death in him. He feels it summoning him. Egging him on. Seducing him. In case you are wondering what that feels like; “it feels like dying is the only way,” he …
The night was off to a lousy start from the beginning. It wasn’t the sort of night you’d remember when you are old and graying and your grandchildren are holding your hand and studying the wrinkles on the back …
Look at that mane. That metaphor of youth. Of invincibility. Of bottomless faith in his capacity to thrive in this moment – even this unstable moment curtailed by a flu. You may not know it but this hair carries …
His landlord was a wizened 6’5” bushy-maned white guy with three dogs the size (and faces) of hippos. He rented his small wooden house built at the corner of his big compound in that strange area that isn’t Langata …
