1- Karen. Langata Rd. A couple of years ago I said: I would never, never, never, live in Karen. Oh, this area is full of hollow people whose target is to eat death every five hours. Hello. Knock Out. I found a beautiful house in Karen. I mean, the typical house where I could be happy and wear shorts and lie under the sun and cook some pastries and arrange dinners with the white neighbours.
2- Makuyu. Thika Road. My work. What is work? Work is what is giving me all this hunger, all this grief which explodes in devouring sukumawiki like a fucking animal.
3- Love. Everybody in Kenya is looking for love as an accomplishment. (A degree, a job, love, get bored, new job, new love). This is the way the things are over here. The tourists say: Oh I really, really love Kenya. It is such a beautiful place. Oh these lions. Oh, hakuna matata. Oh, jambo bwana. Oh, I'm going to wear stupid brown clothes like If I were Vasco de Gama. The volunteers say: Oh I really really love Kenya. It is such a poor place. Oh these starving children. Oh, they are always smiling. Oh, I'm going to give them all my love during two weeks, full time. (OK, not full time, I need time to fuck a masaai and take a lot of lovely pictures with him.) Love. Here, in Kenya, we are the worst from each country. The grieving people, the failed people, the sad people. All of us looking for an acquittal. How can we warrant our stupidity. How can we act like happy white people, when we are just flayed souls. Just that.
4- Getting older in this country is not a bad idea. You can rip your dreams in a mall, maybe in Westgate, maybe in The Junction while you eat a supper-salad-with-tuna-and-eggs, and then you can go and puncture all your dignity taking pictures of the Kenyatta Avenue or Tom Mboya Street. In Facebook it looks like you have a great life. But the reality is that you are living in a hopeless place, fearfully, and turning slowly by slowly into insignificant cinders, exotic ones, but believe me my friend, insignificant in the end.