I can edit into infinity. It's such a joy. I'd probably edit until the last word. Until there's only one word left.

I can edit into infinity. It's such a joy. I'd probably edit until the last word. Until there's only one word left.

Novel-writing is a settling, lovely space. I call it self-indulgent - I feel mildly guilty about it.

Dying away from home, away from the soil of your birth - and to do so unseen and unmourned - is a profound horror.

One day, I was running to the river. Along the way there was the most exquisite butterfly, a tiny little thing, on the pavement. I kind of jumped over it. And then two days later I woke up in the middle of the night with a character running, jumping over butterflies on the streets of Nairobi. After that, I followed the story. The story wrote itself.

In my perfect imagination, with stern discipline I rise with the first bird, salute the dawn, have a healthy breakfast of fruits, wander over to my faux-oak desk, tap the On button on my Macbook Air, acknowledge the muse, and skip into the world where the story flows over the day and into the night.

I don't think Kenya is the only country that tries to induce amnesia - it seems to be a global phenomenon. But offenses do not die. They do not disappear.