On our way home, we drive past the never ending Kibera slums, speeding down the shiny, new Southern Bypass—a gift from our new Chinese friends that had come with some unintended consequences (but such is the price of development). I am forced to look away as the minutes go by and the shanties do not. Later, when I sit down with two former high school friends and they tell me about the Kibera tours handed out to eager tourists, I cringe even further. A city teeming with new housing while housing one of the largest slums in Africa.Read More
Like any writer, I spend a lot of time procrastinating the things I need to say because ultimately, writing requires vulnerability. There is also the balance of writing things that can be monetized versus the things you want to talk about. The collection of essays here represents the latter to its truest form. It is my hope that as you read them, you will allow yourself to be as vulnerable as I permit myself.
Do leave me a comment if something particularly strikes you. Happy reading!
(TW) There are many of us who have learned to forget to remember. To speak with mouths closed, burying the resurrections of the past.
Only when the space feels safe, and rarely even so, do we reveal the hideousness that lies behind our eyes in those darkest of rooms. We have been called liars, drunk, careless, told that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or more often that it was our fault (or at least partially so). In our official records (where they exist) we are often nameless victims, our identities concealed from roving eyes.Read More