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There’s a tiny colonialist inside me.

I have no right to write about Africa, for her children have done so with a poignancy I couldn’t begin to touch (even if my skin were brown and I knew the secrets of perfect ugali). But from my beginnings … Continue reading

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How could I ever begin something So ambitious As to presume to put roots in a heart That is sun-drenched and Rain-streaked and Bathed in afternoon coffee Caked in mud Star-shine enchanted Embedded with chips of fool’s gold and So … Continue reading

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