Military barbers belong to an entirely different category of human beings. Now if you have read the military chronicles before, then perhaps you remember me mentioning Safiya, a lady of Somali lineage.
Barbers
But there were children who carried themselves with the confidence of people who used fabric softener consistently. Their sweaters looked newer. They had magazines and comic books. Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys as extras versus us and our Moses in Trouble and Moses and Mildred gracing our home libraries.
The Bottle & The Boy
I still remember the image vividly. There was a slight slope from the shopping center leading back home, and these men would descend it shoulder-to-shoulder like a disciplined platoon returning from a successful mission. Spread across the road like an Avengers sequel nobody funded. Laughing loudly. Pointing unnecessarily.
Mr. Sugarcane.
Construction has taught me something uncomfortable about human beings: we often trust appearances more than discernment.
Lost in Murang’a.
“We are almost there,” I told him confidently. “The pin says fifteen minutes.” “Aah, hamko mbali, kujeni” he responded casually. That statement became the beginning of our suffering. You see, in my mind, “fifteen minutes away” meant one thing: