When I typed the last chapter of the translation, I did not want to finish it. It would mean there were no more stories to share.
J who’d been here most frequently said we didn’t need to pay for the armed guards. We’d just trail behind the groups that had a guard with them.
The colonial-era club was supposed to replicate the private gentlemen’s clubs in England, where the wealthy and privileged nurse their gout.
I had long pestered my mother to teach me how to make ciondo.
You call everyone who is not near you—and that is, well, everyone.
Even a cursory glance at mainstream Kenyan discussions reveals that the Report on Devil Worship became the dominant frame through which to understand state and society.
In Nairobi, we found a community of fellow urban refugees we learned to call family.
When people ask if I’m Walalo, I never know what to say because it doesn’t sound like something I should own.
While the year passes in the strict way of clocks, there are always other ways to structure your time.