Maralal, don’t say you were not told!

I peep from the rough tank in Ng'ari, overlooking the dust-choking town of Maralal, enjoying the aroma of lost coins... the aroma of laxating khat from the wet side of Lowua Keri. I widen my nostrils to clear my gut of another morsel of lies and feigned loyalty. I light my pipe and shove some ash... a piece to my ancestors... and make a dash to dodge the fiery rage from the men that ate.

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The Maasai of this generation and why I refuse to praise him

The Maasai of this generation does not explore… he does not go out of his comfort zone… being born in Olkejuodo, schooling in Olkejuodo, Marrying in Olkejuodo, Dying in Olkejuodo and being buried in Olkejuodo, next to their forefathers… as they would like to imagine… forgetting that their forefathers were wrapped up in skins and laid to rest outside their homes, which varied from place to place.

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