“Masikonde may be changing his mind. I don’t want him to change his mind,” She added quickly, like a caveat to show she had nothing to do with it. And she spoke in length. About his sudden change of attitude, and mood. Their conversation last night. “I did not know who else to talk to, so I came here.”

By the time she reached him, she was weeping loudly. She fell on his chest, only stopping when Saitoti started crying loudly. “Sorry... Sorry. I just feel so bad because I have not come to see you for so long. I am sorry...” She ran her newly soft fingers across his face and noticed his eyes straining to focus on them. She pulled them away and folded her palms into fists.

The problem is not that young people have forgotten. It is that too few of us have been taught what came before. History and Government is treated as an elective in our schools, even though understanding a nation's past is as essential to citizenship as reading or writing. A society that leaves its history to choice should not be surprised when collective memory begins to fade.

For the two hours Terian spent in the ward, Moraa paced up and down the reception area as she talked to herself. She still could not come up with a plausible explanation as to why Terian had been put under her care. Who was she? Surely she could not be of romantic interest to her boss? She, more than anyone, knew Masikonde and his taste of women.

But the Creator instinctively knew that would be a waste of time. As time would demonstrate, corporal punishment, or the rod if you may – and counselling – are ineffectual when certain children mysteriously develop a trouble-causing worm in their brains. They will swallow intoxicants, stick syringes into the veins, bum, fight and drop out of school, wander into crime and seek death, sex and its diseases with a vengeance. You will cry, curse, whip them, call the police, take them to the witchdoctor, and it will do you and them no good.

Shifting in the driver’s seat, he studied the new arrival. She was tall; he guessed five feet, maybe nine inches. She bordered between slim and skinny. Even scrawny, if he could be brutally honest. Her long neck stuck out of her tee shirt; a less graceful person would have looked stoopy with that neck.She walked in carrying two clear buckets on each of her slender arms, and a tattered rucksack of indefinite colour strapped on her back. She placed the buckets near her feet. He could clearly see githeri in one, and ugali in the other.