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.
Continue Reading Maralal, don’t say you were not told!
Last Sunday, I was in Maralal, a town I have seen so many, seemingly, or truly, crazy people. One shines my shoe and for the shining cream, applies a white…
Continue Reading A sad day in Maralal