Wanjala Njalale

Don’t get me wrong, there are ramshackle structures on Avenue Street, but they are so cramped they appear like one huge crumbling mass. I will admit though that the air was fresher and the tarmac neater. I even lowered the window so I could enjoy the fresh breeze better. My father, a retired civil servant, is a man who loves a good book and his whisky. I went to the book section of the supermarket, examined a few titles and settled on three Penguin Classics and a Winston Graham.

KICKING THE BOYS out of the house felt like turning against my own men on the battlefield. A strong element of betrayal and dishonor projected itself. Seeking redemption, I fled down the road to the bar, a dim one-story building nestled between a drug store and a meat shop. The interior flashed with new paint and light. Over bottles of Tusker and soccer, we yelled and drew blood from each other’s eyes and cheeks. Brutal jokes are like spears.

In December of 1997, I was eight. It was the first time I was traveling to Nairobi, the capital city of Kenya. I was in company of my maternal uncle’s family. We boarded an old Stage Coach Double-Decker bus at the main bust station in Bungoma town. The journey would last all night. I fell asleep, woke up, and fell asleep again. I saw zebras defecating on the cracked tarmac.