Meet Gesengei. He’s Samburu. The thing with Samburus is that everybody mistakes them for the Maasai. It pisses them off, and rightfully so. It’s like someone who keeps calling you James when you are Martin and you can’t muster enough nerve to tell them that (cue: shouting) your name is freaking Martin!
They shot Boniface Mwangi’s breast with a teargas canister. I can’t imagine anyone shooting my breast with anything, let alone a teargas canister. It must be mad painful. Anyway, he called me and said,
A man at the end of the bar lights a cigarette then shakes the fire off the burning matchstick. We are at Tatiz Bar, restaurant, barber and car wash, seated outside on the curved verandah overlooking Muthangari Drive.
What do men do when darkness beckons? When winter closes in on them? When their unhappiness starts making their fingernails grow slower and their pillows get harder? When their wedding rings become hollow metaphors,