Writing my Gikuyu Nation

I was socialised Gikuyu.

Growing up in the Kiambu of the eighties, all I ever wanted to be was a blinged out Gikuyu.

I wanted the Datsun twero, the ‘Godfather’ hat, the cowboy boots.

And when I heard that there was a Gikuyu, with a big bar in America called Kilimanjaro, I didn’t pause to marvel, just upgraded my dream. Me, two Friesians and a goat. Behind a picket fence in Dallas.

POLITICAL WRITING IN MY KENYA

I do not write. I protest.

Chips Isiyo Funga

For Bruno Schultz my private Pole: a lesson in translation; anticipating progress in your work.

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Well it is bye to strangers who might come back our way as admirers in the made up ‘bravura’ of our revolution. Those are what ifs… The demons we didn’t kill- destined to come back and haunt Nairobi. Unless we turn them into Goddesses on the eve of the writing of Nairobi Histories.


Goddess, meet Nairobi Nyap Technician. Comrade NyapTech, Insatiable Goddess. Go forth, Nairobi, and fornicate.

Trust me, you are free to sow vulcanised oats.

“Sixteen rounds,” Nyaptech Nairumours sms’d, “and the Malaya kips wantnG so… Nayo!!!”

Hapa ni Nairobi.