History, they say, is written by victors. I am not a victor in this story. A few minutes before 8:00 p.m., I finally drag my broken body past the front door. Not broken-broken. Broken.
Dishes. Laundry. Lunch. I know what to do. I have done it many times before. But I could care less today.
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Civil Disobedience is a seminal text. That, I hope, is self-evident. Whoever you might call a revolutionary since 1884 has been forced to read it.
The light on my Samsung Galaxy A6 is flashing. My friend Jackie is calling. She is on her way to pick me up, she says.
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Running. The sting of teargas making my eyes water. Running.
The pain I feel for those my generation lost is
The sequence of events of 25th June 2024 fails me.
Once, on the intersection of Kimathi Street and Mama Ngina
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