I am seated on my usual chair in the living room typing this. My brother makes fun of me about this chair. He says it’s like I was cemented here, on the dining table. Anyway, it’s been a quiet weekend. I wanted it that way. I was rather irritable at the end of the workweek. It was a crazy one. I just wanted to shut everything out and move on to February. So far, so good. I remembered to write after reading Murithi Mutiga’s piece today. It’s been a minute since I read him, or anything in the newspaper for that matter. I like how he argues his points. Very legit. He will say something you disagree with and somehow you will just nod your head along. He wonders why there is no street named after Jaramogi in Nairobi. The other piece I read this weekend was pushed to me by B, this week’s piece by Ciku Muiruri. It’s about her name or rather our names. Names. Names. Names. Continue reading
