Kenya Love Quotes

Violence was a slippery slope, lubricated by a lot of blood, if history had any lessons to teach.

The spring breeze felt like the warm breath of a child on Kumiko’s face. It played delicately with her hair like tiny fingers, and made the trees whisper a breathless song.

Hungry stomachs growl the same tune.

The optimism was like the sun after a long spell of clouds and rain, a euphoric rush which produced both envy and awe in anyone who had become jaded, resigned, who had given up on their dreams.

Even adults who were stiffened by the starch of their miserable lives, for whom breaking the stony discipline of austere and judgmental intolerance was usually off the table, melted in the magical luminescence and energetic charm of the pre-pubescent Ruka.

It was the fundamental bifurcation of the masses of human meat into two starkly opposite classes: the haves and the have-nots. The have-nots had barely anything. The haves had it all. The haves had everything except concern and compassion for the have-nots, who they regarded as little more than cockroaches.

The regular choreography, entrances and exits of blooms in stages such that the garden looked like an ever-evolving carousel of swirling rainbows and radiant butterflies, seemed condensed. All of the flowers still obeyed some silent urgent command to make their debut. But this year, it definitely unfolded more quickly, as if racing to meet a new compelling deadline.

Let’s talk about why I’m naked and you’re not.

...my desire for him exploded into a great hunger. I was dizzy with it.

I believe in all human societies there is a desire to love and be loved, to experience the full fierceness of human emotion, and to make a measure of the sacred part of one's life. Wherever I've traveled--Kenya, Chile, Australia, Japan--I've found the most dependable way to preserve these possibilities is to be reminded of them in stories. Stories do not give instruction, they do not explain how to love a companion or how to find God. They offer, instead, patterns of sound and association, of event and image. Suspended as listeners and readers in these patterns,we might reimagine our lives. It is through story that we embrace the great breadth of memory, that we can distinguish what is true, and that we may glimpse, at least occasionally, how to live without despair in the midst of the horror that dogs and unhinges us.

We learned a new way to consume each other, without the need for any drug or conflict. We smothered each other in kisses and dreams of our future and poetic wishes that ended in moans. Our addictions shifted to our obsession with us.

I could fall in love with you and have no regrets... I want you so bad. You’ll never understand how much.

Your arousal is like the sweetest perfume I’ve ever smelled... I can sense it all around me — tingling against my skin, thickening your blood and shoving me off the edge of insanity.

They were posted to a country neither knew much about beyond the space it occupied on the map of East Africa between Kenya and Rwanda. After four years working in the remote Usambara Mountains, they moved to Moshi, which means “smoke” in Swahili, where the family was billeted by their Lutheran missionary society in a Greek gun dealer’s sprawling cinder-block home, which had been seized by the authorities. And with the sort of serendipity that so often rewards impetuousness, the entire family fell fiercely in love with the country that would be renamed Tanzania after independence in 1961. “The older I get, the more I appreciate my childhood. It was paradise,” Mortenson says

I've always loved being gay. Sure, Kenya was not exactly Queer Nation but my sexuality gave me joy. I was young, not so dumb and full of cum! There was no place for me in heaven but I was content munching devil's pie here on earth.

Blood is no longer flowing in my brain right now. It’s somewhere else.

I think I could have loved you.

She wants her freedom.

His gaze drank me in and he made no attempt to conceal that fact.

…he grabbed my hand again. That same warmth hit me, seeping into my skin. I bit my lip and forced myself not to relish in the tingling heat. Samuel’s eyes widened. Fangs erupted from his gums. His nostrils flared as he inhaled me.

Would she flee if she knew the thoughts I kept in my mind? My hands went to her flat stomach. My fingers sank in the soft tan flesh around her waist. One day her belly would be full of my children and her mind would only be focused on me.

I'd loved for five long years, where pain had mingled with kisses and Michael's hugs suffocated me so much that I wasn't sure I could wriggle away enough to gasp for air. It was purple love, ugly and endearing, passionate and bruising like the tiny plum marks one left from sucking on a lover's neck. After loving like that, one needed a break....

Betapa sulit mengejar cinta yang dititipkan pada pelari Kenya.

Go deeper, deeper than you'll ever know. Swim inside of me, baby, I’m loving the way you flow. Go deeper, I love the way you stroke, and I’m dripping baby, soaking wet—

I may need to stop reading Benny’s journals. That was a bit too gangster just now.

I didn’t understand what was supposed to happen from our swinging, but the need to make her happy bloomed in my chest.

Nothing is bigger than art.

We all came to watch her die.

I couldn't stay away from her.

My love, one day, you are going to be my wife.

You're going to ruin me.

We filled the night air with light and shone brighter than all those millions of glittering stars watching us from the sky.

He’s not going to stop this. He’s really going to kill himself.

Fine, I’ll live. Just give me time to fill the void you left.

Compliments like that are only going to get you everywhere.

Say it for me, Rainy. No other man.

Don’t ever try to leave me again.

And you’re absolutely breathtaking.

Lay down, please.” Samuel’s voice stroked my ears like a man seducing his lover after they’d suffered a long absence.

The very thought of him coming so close to tasting you makes me want to split his head in two.

His power sings to your blood. I witnessed your reaction to him just now. He’ll be a king in a few years... And you’ll be his queen.

You’ll be my queen.

He growled. The noise echoed through the area. Birds flew from the trees. They appeared like dark dots in the starry sky.

1) Everyone nodded in silent agreement, and then one by one disappeared into the castle’s dark shadows where night met blackened air and creepy things whispered the most haunting words into the wind.

Ever since I drank your blood, my head has been crazy... I won’t lie. The connection gives me a lot of power over you. I could read your thoughts and speak to you wherever I am, even several miles away.

Are you both drunk?” I headed up the ladder and propped myself on a swing with no problem. “Correction, dear brother.” Hex held one finger in the air. “We’re exquisitely tipsy. There’s a difference. Drunkenness is done at a shady bar, in ugly clothing, surrounded by the mundane. While exquisite tipsiness is performed in an art setting among geniuses.” “Thanks so much for the distinction.” I rolled my eyes.

Kenya, Kazakhstan and K Street too? Yes...that all of God's people might love and serve him with gladness and singleness of heart, in our various vocations taking the wounds of the world into our hearts - the heartaches and longings, sorrows and disappointments, and sometimes evil - and finding in that calling that our own hearts are healed too. In N.T. Wright's theologically rich image, becoming healed healers. May it be so.

I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.” I raised her off my shoulders, lowered her to me, and guided her legs around my waist. “Why did you take so long to come to me?” “If I knew you were here, I would’ve come so much sooner.

…I craved to stroke that delicate skin and run my fingers through her tresses as she moaned with hunger. I would grip a thick section of her hair in my hands, wrap it around my fingers, and take her from behind. And she would scream my name.

The Whiteman told of another country beyond the sea where a powerful woman sat on a throne while men and women danced under the shadow of her authority and benevolence. She was ready to spread the shadow to cover the Agikuyu. They laughed at this eccentric man whose skin had been so scalded that the black outside had peeled off. The hot water must have gone into his head. Nevertheless, his words about a woman on the throne echoed something in the heart, deep down in their history. It was many, many years ago. Then women ruled the land of the Agikuyu. Men had no property, they were only there to serve the whims and needs of the women. Those were hard years. So they waited for women to go to war, they plotted a revolt, taking an oath of secrecy to keep them bound each to each in the common pursuit of freedom. They would sleep with all the women at once, for didn't they know the heroines would return hungry for love and relaxation? Fate did the rest; women were pregnant; the takeover met with little resistance.

I’m impressed you left to keep everyone safe.” He tenderly massaged the area above my hipbone with his right thumb. “I’ve seen vampire men cry and piss their pants after one hour in the sewers by themselves. You’ve been walking most of the day and all alone.

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Sometimes people ask me why I travel so much, and specifically why we travel with Henry so often. I think they think it’s easier to keep the kids at home, in their routines, surrounded by their stuff. It is. But we travel because it’s there. Because Capri exists and Kenya exists and Tel Aviv exists, and I want to taste every bite of it. We travel because I want my kids to learn, as I learned, that there are a million ways to live, a million ways to eat, a million ways to dress and speak and view the world. I want them to know that “our way” isn’t the right way, but just one way, that children all over the world, no matter how different they seem, are just like the children in our neighborhood—they love to play, to discover, to learn. I want my kids to learn firsthand and up close that different isn’t bad, but instead that different is exciting and wonderful and worth taking the time to understand. I want them to see themselves as bit players in a huge, sweeping, beautiful play, not as the main characters in the drama of our living room. I want my kids to taste and smell and experience the biggest possible world, because every bite of it, every taste and texture and flavor, is delicious.

Life expectancy in Kenya increased by almost ten years between 2003 and 2013,” Norberg writes. “After having lived, loved and struggled for a whole decade, the average person in Kenya had not lost a single year of their remaining lifetime. Everyone got ten years older, yet death had not come a step closer.

Nervousness from earlier surged back into me. Goodness. He was honey poured over an athletic body. Short, sandy-blond curls outlined his face, which boasted full lips, high cheek bones, and long lashes that any woman would envy. Even with those soft features, his face appeared hard and sculpted by an artist.

He carries home in the way he walks: an elegant, loose strut. He wears home on his skin in the form of attar, a delicious perfume that makes me dream of Somali coastlines, places where children play football amidst colonial ruins, and young men like Korfa flee in darkness on boats to Yemen and Kenya, determined never to look back.

This is just a form letter,” Jules pointed out. “And as for the test, maybe she went in for a checkup. Women are supposed to do that once a year, right? She’d been in Kenya, and suddenly here she was going to this health clinic with Molly, so she figured, what the heck. Maybe this place gives pregnancy tests as part of their regular annual exam.” “Yeah,” Max said. “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Okay. Let’s run with the worst-case scenario. She is pregnant. I know it’s not like her to have a one-night stand, but . . .” Jules said, but then stopped. His words were meant to help, but, Hey, good news—the woman you love may have gotten knocked up from a night of casual sex with a stranger were not going to provide a whole hell of a lot of comfort. It didn’t matter that the idea was less awful than the terrible alternative—that Paul Jimmo had continued to pressure Gina. And he hadn’t taken no for an answer. Which was obviously what Max was thinking, considering the way he was working to grind down his few remaining back teeth. “So,” Jules said. “Looks like our little talk didn’t exactly succeed at putting you in a better place.” It was clear, when Max didn’t respond, that he was concentrating on not leaping through the window and flying—using his rage as a form of propulsion, across the street and blasting a body-shaped hole in the wall of that building where Gina and Molly were being held prisoner—please, heavenly father, let them be in there. And Jules knew that if it turned out that Paul Jimmo had so much as touched Gina without her consent, Max would find his grave, dig up his body, bring him back to life, and then kill the son of a bitch all over again.

Moaning, she melted into my arms and molded her body against mine as if giving me permission to take whatever I yearned for. And I will. I can’t think of anything else. The ocean waves crashed against us. That cool water rose up to our knees. All was forgotten in those sweet kisses—lips gliding against lips, wet tongues twisting and exploring, hungry hands and taunting fingers. Fireworks of lust and need exploded inside me.

Their faces showed beautiful smiles boasting magnificent teeth. Their skin gleamed in the perfect lighting. Even their scarred flesh seemed to hold its own intricate designs, as crazy as it seemed. Luscious curves still decorated their hips and the swell between their legs. They were striking and endearing like a tribe of taunting sirens on top of a cliff in the middle of the sea. I gazed at them for longer than I should have…

What are you doing here?” “Coming to pick you up for tonight.” “I’m not going.” “Would it help if I lowered to my knees and said please?” He started to go down. I hit his shoulder. “Stop that. You’re embarrassing me.” He dragged his gaze over my body. “You look beautiful.” “Whatever.” I wore black yoga pants and a shirt with Star War’s Yoda flipping the bird on the front. “I love the way your clothes hug your body.” “I love the way you continue to invade my privacy.

When I arrived at her door, with the weight of the entire world on my shoulders, she drew me into her arms and eased all my stress away. She comforted and spent time with me when she didn’t have to. She didn’t know me at all, had no idea who I was or what I intended for her, whether passion or pain. But her heart led her forward, that beautiful heart I wanted for myself. So when the moment came to kiss her, as we stood in the water at the beach, I seized it like a desperate man. I was a mad one on the edge of insanity and she was the tonic I needed.

Don Chrisantos Michael Wanzala "Don CM Wanzala" (born April 13), popularly known as Don Santo (stylized as DON SANTO) is a Kenyan singer, rapper, songwriter, arranger, actor, author, content producer, Photo-Videographer, Creative Director (Blame It On Don), entrepreneur, record executive and Leader of the Klassik Nation and chairman and president of Global Media Ltd, based in Nairobi City in Kenya. ​ The genius of DON SANTO rests in his willingness to break from traditional formula and constantly push the envelope. He flips the method of the moment with undeniable swagger and bold African sensibility. As a songwriter, Santo revisits simple, but profound aspects of the human experience – love, lust, desire, joy, and pain that define classical art and drama. He applies his concept to rich, full vocals that exude his intended effect. It is this uncanny ability to compose classics and deliver electrifying live performances that define everything that is essential DON SANTO. In 2015, Santo won the East Africa Music Awards in the Artist of the year Category while his song "Sina Makosa" won the Song of The year. A believer in GOD, FAMILY & GOOD LIFE (Klassikanity).

The other boys came up to me and complained, “Lopepe, you never pass the ball to your teammates.” I did not listen. After all, the point of soccer is to score more goals than the other team, not to pass the ball. I kept playing the way I always had. Eventually the other boys had enough. One day I walked out on the soccer field and one of the older boys who ran the games told me, “From now on you are the goalkeeper.” At first I hated being the goalkeeper. You cannot score from the back side of the field, and I love scoring goals. But what could I do? Instead of sulking, I told myself, Okay, you are now the goalkeeper. Make yourself the best goalkeeper in all of Kenya. And I did.

Mom, what about the story you were going to tell Katie?” “Oh, yes. Queen Elizabeth. When she came to Kenya for a visit in 1952, she and Prince Philip stayed at Treetops. It’s a hotel not far from here. The rooms are at treetop height. She sipped tea on the open veranda while the elephants and other wild animals came to the watering hole below. Her father, King George IV, had been ill but seemed to have recovered, so the trip to Africa didn’t pose a conflict.” “Was he the one who stuttered? I remember seeing a movie about him,” Katie said. “Yes, that was the same king,” Eli answered for his mom. “What happened is that he took a turn for the worse and passed away while Princess Elizabeth was at Treetops. Since communication between England and Africa was so slow, she didn’t know her father had died until after they had left Treetops, and they stopped for lunch at the Aberdare Country Club, where we just ate.” “Really? The queen of England ate at that same restaurant?” “Yes. Only she didn’t yet know she was the queen of England. Word hadn’t reached her. The great statement about Treetops is that Elizabeth went up the stairs to her room that night as a princess, and when she descended those same stairs the next morning, she was the queen of England.” “I love stories like that,” Katie said. “I mean, it’s sad that her father died while she was in Africa, but what a rite of passage that moment was. She was doing what was on the schedule for that day, and by the time she put her head on her pillow that night, everything had changed.” As

Can I tell you a funny story?” Gina asked. She didn’t wait for him to say yes or no. “It’s about, well . . . You know the whole age-issue thing?” “The age-issue thing,” Max repeated. “Are you sure this is a funny story?” “Does it still bother you?” she asked. “Being a little bit older than me? And it’s more funny weird than funny ha-ha.” “Twenty years isn’t exactly ‘a little bit,’” he said. “Tell that to a paleontologist,” she countered. Okay, he’d give her that one. “Just tell me the story.” “Once upon a time, when Jones first came to Kenya,” Gina said, “I didn’t know who he was. Molly didn’t tell me, and he came to our tent for tea, and . . . Maybe this isn’t even a funny weird story. Maybe it’s more of an ‘I’m an asshole’ story, because I immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was there because he was all hot for me. It never occurred to me—it never even crossed my narrow little mind—that he might’ve been crushing on Molly. And she’s only maybe ten years older than he is. I remember sitting there after I figured it out, and thinking, shoot. People do make assumptions based on age. Max wasn’t just being crazy.” She smiled at him. “Or at least not crazier than usual. I guess . . . I just wanted to apologize for mocking you all those times.” “It’s okay,” Max said. “I just keep reminding myself that love doesn’t always stop to do the math.” He looked at her. “I’m trying to talk myself into that. How’d I sound? Convincing?” “That was pretty good.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Gina spoke again. “Maybe I could get a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m not his daughter, I’m his wife.’” Max nodded as he laughed. “Yet still you mock me.

I’m very glad,” Jones continued fervently, sounding like a card-carrying Colin Firth impersonator. “So very glad. You can’t know how glad . . .” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings, but your . . . friend was something of a criminal, the way I heard it. He had a price on his head—millions—from some druglord who wanted him dead. Chased him mercilessly, for years. I guess this Jones fellow used to work for him—it’s all very sordid, I’m afraid. And dangerous. He had to be on the move constantly. It was risky just to have a drink with Jones—you might’ve gotten killed in the crossfire. Of course, the big irony here is that the druglord died two weeks before Jones. He never knew it, but he was finally free.” As he looked at her with those eyes that she’d dreamed about for so many months, Molly understood. Jones was here, now, only because the druglord known as Chai, a dangerous and sadistic bastard who’d spent years hunting him, was finally dead. “It’s entirely possible that whoever’s taken over business for this druglord,” he continued, “would’ve gone after this Jones, too. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have searched to the ends of the earth for him . . . Although, when dealing with such dangerous types, it pays to be cautious, I suppose.” Message received. “Not that that’s anything Jones needs to worry about,” he added. “Considering he’s left his earthly cares behind. Still, I suspect it’s rather hot where he’s gone.” Yes, it certainly was hot in Kenya right now. Molly covered her mouth, pretending to sob instead of laugh. “Shhh,” Helen admonished him, thinking, of course, that he was referring to an unearthly heat. “Don’t say such a thing. She loved him.” She turned back to Molly. “This Jones is the man that you spoke of so many times?” Molly could see from the expression on Jones’s face that Helen had given her away. She might as well go big with the truth. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief that Helen had at the ready, then met his gaze. “I loved him very much. I’ll always love him,” she told this man who’d traveled halfway around the world for her, who apparently had waited years for it to be safe enough for him to join her, who had actually thought that, once he arrived, she might send him away. If you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—just say the word . . . “He was a good man,” Molly said, “with a good heart.” Her voice shook, because, dear Lord, there were now tears in his eyes, too. “He deserved forgiveness—I’m positive he’s in heaven.” “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for him,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be . . .” He cleared his throat, put his glasses back on. “I’m so sorry to have distressed you, Miss Anderson. And I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Where are my manners?” He held out his hand to her. “Leslie Pollard.” Even with his glasses on, she could see quite clearly that he’d far rather be kissing her. But that would have to wait for later, when he came to her tent . . . No, wait, Gina would be there. Molly would have to go to his. Later, she told him with her eyes, as she reached out and, for the first time in years, touched the hand of the man that she loved.

n 1985, Bob Munro volunteered his time to go and serve in the poorest slums of Africa on behalf of the United Nations. He loved football. One day, he was passing through the Mathare slums in Nairobi, Kenya, which happens to be one of the poorest areas in the world, and where more than a quarter million people live in abject poverty and filth. He saw some children playing football, bare feet, in total grime— they weren’t actually playing football, but kicking each other. As he saw one of the children kick the other, he immediately shouted, ‘Foul’, and the game stopped. He got out of his car and being the white man, obviously stood out. As an ardent lover of football, he said, ‘This is not the way to play football.’ He took the ball and told the boys, ‘Tomorrow I will bring another ball and teach you how to play football.’ The next day, 600 children were there to play football. He made a rule that only those children who clean up the place be allowed to play. He started a volunteers’ group for self-help and said, ‘Those who want to play football as part of my team must clean up.’ The children got involved and started cleaning the slums, and out of love for football, slowly the entire area was cleaned. As time went by, he developed teams to play. He developed referees from within. Guess what was the result in four years? The Kenyan football eleven national team emerged from the same Mathare slums. Bob Munro has created thousands of football teams from there, but the rules are very unique. The rules are very clear that every player in those football teams must contribute 60 hours to social work and community service per month. Only then can they play football. They get additional points not for winning a game, but for completing a community service project such as cleaning, counselling and helping others. He has created 8,000 volunteers out of this system of community service through the love of football.

I once heard a man say he had favor on his life because he received a good parking spot at the mall. I cringed. I’d thought something like that before, believed it—like it was a blessing having a nice house or car or having something come easily. How did I ever believe that? The great American dream bastardizing the profound story of Love. I realized how often I had abducted the story, how I’d labeled certain things as favor, blessing, transaction. I wondered what the kids I knew in Kenya or the people in Auschwitz called favor. A bread crumb? Death?

I am so glad to be with my dear friend. Often things and people try to keep us apart, but the love that we have for each other and the goodness of God’s universe ensures that we shall meet. The first time that the South African government refused him a visa—when he was going to come to my eightieth birthday—I asked him, ‘How many divisions do you have in your army? Why is China scared of you?’ And that is what surprises me—maybe they are right—a spiritual leader is something that should be taken very seriously. We hope that God’s world will become a better place, more hospitable to goodness, more hospitable to compassion, more hospitable to generosity, more hospitable to living together so we don’t have what is happening now between Russia and the Ukraine, or what is happening with ISIS, or what is happening in Kenya or Syria. They make God weep.

Carl Hirschmann – Holden’s investment partner in the Mount Kenya Safari Club – was more than a Swiss banker as he was described in social registers. His diversified portfolio included machine tools, hotel industry, tourism, transportation, agriculture and real estate.

The Mount Kenya Safari Club was a popular meeting place for representatives from Saudi Arabia and other members of OPEC, whom Holden greeted like long lost friends. How many times had those guests inadvertently revealed secrets to Holden that he traded with the West? His involvement as a potential spy obviously weighed heavily on his conscience.

In 1973, the Kenyan government banned elephant hunting and the club fell on hard times. Holden brought in two minority partners, Don Hunt and Julian McKeand. Together they created the Mount Kenya Game Ranch with captive breeding programs for thirty-seven African species, and an orphanage for rescued animals. There were fifty types of exotic birds, including sacred ibises, marabou storks, peacocks and Egyptian geese. One of the rarest species at the game ranch was the East African Bongo – a critically endangered red and white-striped antelope, which became the ranch’s mascot. Holden showed Powers the club’s first-class amenities. They visited the Arabian horse stables, and walked down a garden path to the guest cottages, dubbed Millionaire’s Row.

Powers had fallen in love with the man – now she was about to fall in love with his extended family of buffalos, zebras, waterbucks, hyraxes, hippos, impalas, warthogs, bush pigs, ostriches, cheetahs, monkeys, baboons and cranes that roamed the surrounding grasslands. The couple’s relationship would become a test of endurance. It was rumored that some of the guests who frequented the Mount Kenya Safari Club were more dangerous than the wild animals.

It was rumored that some of the guests who frequented the Mount Kenya Safari Club were more dangerous than the wild animals.

As Powers shortly learned, one of Holden’s high-ranking friends was Malcolm MacDonald, the last British Governor of Kenya, which he helped to gain independence in 1963. Previously, MacDonald was the High Commissioner of India, and, prior to that, the Commissioner-General for Southeast Asia, where Holden spent much of his time. The likelihood that the movie star might have been a CIA informant was a distinct possibility – if not an absolute certainty. Whatever the answer, he never confided the truth to Powers.

When he turned the key in the ignition, there was a blinding flash followed by total blackness. In that brief instant, Ryan knew his life was over. Two days later, William Holden attended a memorial service for Ray Ryan at the Ziemer Funeral Home East Chapel with its tall white colonnades and trimmed green lawn. The service was held in the presence of several uniformed police officers and undercover FBI agents, one of whom posed as a window washer across the street. Ryan’s ashes were taken to Africa, where his tearful widow Helen Kelley scattered them at the base of Mount Kenya. Afterwards, Holden called Adnan Khashoggi and told him he wanted to sell the Safari Club. “Why?” Khashoggi asked. “Because it’s no fun anymore.

I love that you call me when you are agitated. I am honoured by your trust. I find, too, that I can be imperfect with you. Such a relief."(65)

I fell in love for the first time... I know now what it is to be giddy, laugh at silly things with someone, cook together and look after another person.

The Maker of all things is finding ways to make Himself known to those He has made. Maybe if I lived in a place like Kenya and had to wake up everyday wondering whether I'd have enough to eat and drink, and maybe if I had to wonder those same things about everyone I loved, then it wouldn't take grand, blatant gestures for me to appreciate God's provision. Maybe if I had a little less of what I need, then I would remember a little more how much I need Him.

These young men said they had plenty of friends of different tribes back in “uni,” but up here, it was different. “Why is it different?” I asked. “Because this is about family,” one said. For years, politicians on all sides had stoked their bases by casting aspersions on other ethnic groups, talking about dangers to “the community.” There was tinder lying everywhere in Kenya. The stolen election became the fuse, and the result was front-page news around the world.

And so you became the worst kind of immigrant. You talked of the good old days. You compared the prices and outside temperatures of everything to Kenya. You cursed the influx of immigrants as my cousins and I flocked around you in a ready-made community. You would even go as far as to quote Margaret Thatcher. To think that you, an immigrant yourself who had been hard done by her and those who came before, used her to score points against the next wave. I loved you still but you became difficult to live with. You switched from drinking to chewing tobacco although you didn’t actually chew

Justice without mercy is tyranny, and mercy without justice is weakness. Justice without love is pure socialism, and love without justice is baloney. JAIME CARDINAL SIN speaking at a Prison Fellowship International conference in Nairobi, Kenya, 1986

Trust me. There were tons of options.” I rubbed my eyes with both hands. “You have my name on your shoulder. I don’t even know what I should do with this. If someone told me that a guy that they’d just met a few weeks ago, had their name drawn permanently on them, I would say run really fast and change your phone number.” “That wouldn’t be good advice in my case. I run fast too." He shrugged. “I would catch you.

Like Beji, our country is a nation whose citizens has employed crooked means of survival, lives in the expense of others, cares the least about their compatriots, and are ever more than willing to do anything conceivable to plunge every vulnerable life into a pitch-dark abyss! It is, you will realize, a lovely den of hungry wolves whose ugly claws often extend a cold handshake to every beggar in the next turn...

One of my prevailing philosophies is that if any individual were to find out that he or she had only six days to live, all people’s final thoughts would revolve around life’s most important things: the people they’ve loved and the places they’ve explored. Nothing shapes an individual as much as these two influences. {Kent family archives} An early safari on the shores of Lake Baringo.   My parents and I started Abercrombie & Kent out of necessity when the land in Kenya that we’d spent our lives developing was taken away from us. Many entrepreneurs agree that it’s our worst vulnerabilities that inspire us to find our greater purpose. When the most precious part of yourself is taken away, you will do whatever it takes to get your power back. You’ll even travel to the ends of the earth. This book is more than a collection of the best moments that I’ve experienced along the path; this book is my love story. By bringing the same sense of adventure found on safari to other places around the world, I defined luxury experiential travel . . . but my own greatest adventure has been this business itself.

i DO NOT WHY BUT i KEEP THINKING OF YOU, WHAT DID YOU EVER DO TO ME? I have tried na nikashindwa kukudelete from my system, IMEKATAA. i KNOW YOU HAVE TRIED TOO, IT LEAVES ME WONDERING WHAT IS THESE. It can only be explained by the gods.

An author named Arthur Arthurson would write about art, love, and road kill in Kenya. And I’d read him because I’m a meat eater and car enthusiast.

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Are you both drunk?” I headed up the ladder and propped myself on a swing with no problem. “Correction, dear brother.” Hex held one finger in the air. “We’re exquisitely tipsy.

Art isn’t a means for income when it comes to Hex. He would do it if he was trapped on an island by himself or the richest man in the world. For him, art is like breathing. He just has to do it.