What do you discuss with a decidedly blank 21-year-old Nairobian girl on a mildly cold Tuesday morning in July? I asked myself as I mindlessly read Dambudzo Marechera’s House of Hunger. She was running late by over 30 minutes and she had done the very Kenyan thing of calling and telling me “running a few minutes late…” She failed to show up for the breakfast on Monday morning because she was nursing a vein-bursting hangover.

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I had just received my first ever fat cheque, and when I talk of fat, I do not mean those skinny HELB disbursements that we used to receive back in campus. I mean, a cheque that would require an instant recruitment of security detail, complete with intelligence experts to guard and protect me around the clock.   Immediately, a 24-hours’ surveillance on yours truly was installed. 

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 There is a point in a woman’s life, usually at the age of 27, when she transitions from a girl, to a full-grown woman. If already holding some good job, earning the right perks to guarantee her the poise that comes with money and the confidence that comes with banishing the youthful insecurities of her early 20s.

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Anyone in the freelancing business will tell you that there are bad days and good days. Bad sucking days boring and greasy, that you find yourself working on some project for more than twelve hours straight, with calls and emails from the other end.  I tend to think about freelancing as a self-imposed slavery where one changes bosses every single day.

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