All Kenyans do is run. If we are not running towards gold medals in European cities, we are running away from our problems and failures. We are running towards the Kenyan Dream, a hastily concocted thing that involves mostly, quails and their little spotted eggs, and once in a while, a Lupita.
Every once in a while when I can get off my lazy ass and finish the tens and tonnes of research snippets I have strewn all over, we sit by the camp fire and exchange stories of yore.
The sun at the coast rises too fast and too early, so you have to be up and awake by 5 am to catch it at is most beautiful. Places like Lamu might even need you to wake up earlier.
Lamu Tamu. This whole week, I will be shadowing Migz as he takes photos for Safaricom’s 2014 calendar challenge. Safaricom always finds a way to shine in its branding and for next year’s calendar; five of the best photographers in the country are tasked with capturing Kenyans in their day-to-day hustle.
I’ve only been conned once. By an old man. An old senile man. Not 60s old, older, that guy was really really old. By the time I realized I was the sucker in the transaction, he was probably on his deathbed, dying of natural causes.
When I saw images of Abdul Hajj, I automatically knew he was not a Kenyan cop. There was something about him that told of affluence, a man who gyms in a proper facility and eats well.
Aircraft accidents are the Grim Reapers buffet. But sometimes some people just refuse to die, some of them dont just stare down death in the face and wag a finger at it, they also swim for miles or feed their infants whisky.