BY FLORENCE BETT-KINYATTI I’m writing this from the new Java on Lenana Road, Kilimani. It’s not really new in the sense that an establishment would be new. If I’m not mistaken, it has been here for longer than I’ve been rocking my short natural hair. Which is just about, what,
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA The gavel bangs. Six months in the slammer for five souls convicted of illegal mining. All rise. His lordship is departing. The court marshal leads the convicts down to the cells, where they’re to wait for a rickety van that’ll deposit them in prison. They look pale
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BY FLORENCE BETT-KINYATTI The question you’d ask me is, “Bett, surely, if your nanny is going on leave for only two weeks, c’mon, si you can stay home for those two weeks and take care of Muna?” I could tell you that you’re insane and end the story here. Laugh
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA “Never talk to my son again!” Those words knocked the stupor out of me. How dare I fill her boy’s head with such tales of debauchery? It’s like I was out to erase all her careful parenting with the stroke of my immoral brush. I was painting
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ERNEST TUAPE (Craft It’s new foreign correspondent in Kampala) #1. I’m writing this from the balcony of my room At Chobe Safari Lodge in the Northern part of Uganda, in the middle of Murchison Falls National Park. I can see the flow of water on the surface of
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BY MIKE MUTHAKA Beards are meant to be stroked. They’re meant to be touched and played with. They’re for quiet contemplation. They’re for having something to do with your hands as you stand outside your gate, looking at the busy highway, staring at a little boy riding a black mamba
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