The sights that greet your eyes as soon as you arrive at Lighthouse on Mama Ngina Street are breathtaking. The ocean breeze is refreshing. As you feel it wipe away the sweat that lingers on your forehead even though the sun has already set, you smile at the sights before you. They are marine sights of the marine city.
The last time that I had seen such dry, parched land was in my early twenties when I made my maiden trip to Kaikor village in Turkana. I remember how shocked I was when our rickety truck huffed on in land so dry that it felt as if it would crack open up any moment and swallow the helpless truck.
At that early morning hour before the cock’s crow rents the air, Xana cries. No one sees his tears but when the sun rises, everyone sees the resigned look in his brown eyes. Since the late 90s, he lives in a government resettlement camp on the edge of Botswana’s Central Kalahari Game Reserve.
Juvi felt dizzy. He wasn’t hungry because he had just eaten a sumptuous meal of tilapia and ugali, prepared by his sister Lola, who was without the best cook not just in the family but the entire country.
The bright green squeak and crack as the leaf is pulled from its staunch stalk never leaves me indifferent, especially when it’s being done in the name of a meal which I’m about to enjoy. The house was surrounded by them, so we never cooked too little.
In few months I will leave forever the sacred age of 20. I am therefore living the last months in this very special number, 20. Maybe it is a women's thing that we care much about age, and maybe it is a youth thing, and maybe neither.