BY BETT KINYATTI Whenever someone on the street stops me and asks me that elusive question about passion, about whether it pays, whether us chicks have more chances at exploring its possibilities than dudes, whether someone’s age plays into the dynamics, I readily
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BY BETT KINYATTI It’s Saturday. I’m at a bar in tao with Mike and his two pals. They’re all millenials, Nairobi Millenials. They have a playful youthful energy about them that I secretly envy. It’s like they’re bouncing on the balls of their feet. (Well, except Mike Muthaka, my dear
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BY BETT KINYATTI There’s a secluded clearing of trees off James Gichuru Road. It sits in the valley of the road, where the dip from Westy and the dip from Lavi meet. You’ll find Charles Oyoko here – underneath the trees, the river behind him, going about his hand weaving
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BY BETT KINYATTI My pal, Vicky, doesn’t believe in insurance. I asked her why and she said, “Insurance companies are a rip off. Especially the life policies.” I don’t think insurance companies are a rip off, Vicky. I don’t even think Kenyans
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BY BETT KINYATTI I’ve been having a running tummy. It began Monday evening, in the digs. I’m writing this on Thursday, which makes it three days since – and counting. I’ve found myself in a
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BY BETT KINYATTI I don’t know how to say this gently so I’ll come right out and say it – I’m balding. Smack in the middle of my head, right here are the top of it, a few inches down from my hairline, the spot where the sunshine or a
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