Ark-wired Tastes

  Why do we mourn yet so easily  forget the existence of those who left us? What about the existence of those who live among us but are dead within?  Why does life have to go on, despite their demise? Don’t we owe it to them to hold space for them a bit longer? Was their existence just but a speck of dust, blurring our vision? So easily wiped away in the face of their absence? I have tasted life and; I have tasted death Beloved, choose life -not because it’s worth living- but because even with your death, life goes on!

  The Nairobi CBD remains famous for being a buzz hive of activities. Ranging from the “mrembo salon!” calls along every Best Lady store in town, to the “mrembo nails!” chants to pants being randomly draped on your shoulders as you navigate Tom Mboya Street, to becks of   “twende Kakamega” as you hurriedly scuffle to make it in time for your 8am lecture.  Woe unto you if that happens to be the day that you decide to rock your natural 4C African hair. Woe unto you if your pace isn’t fast enough to get past the calls and finally, woe unto you aren’t strong enough to resist the firm grips that drag you to buy clothes that you most definitely don’t need. At the heart of all this chaos are street families, they remain quite distinct amidst all the buzz. The other night, I  was leaving carrefour and a small girl, roughly aged four years walked up to me and said “Aunty nibuyie unga” What might seem to be a normal request from a homeless person stuck with me for the rest ...