There is also something deliciously ironic about this happening while Kenya is being encouraged to look towards Singapore as the benchmark for development. Ruto's Singapore is supposed to represent efficiency, prosperity and modernity. At Books in Africa, however, Singapore currently represents something much simpler: Someone over there is reading us and the real question is why.

I drew the covers off her head. She was on her side, without a bonnet. Her hair, a pure human-hair wig, was covering her beautiful, soft face like a doll's. I pulled the covers lower, and that’s when the sight shot into my eyes. Blood! Blood was everywhere. It was dark red, caked on the navy-blue cotton sheets and mattress. Her hands, limp and lifeless, opened in ghastly cuts, and on the bed was a shard of the Tanqueray bottle that she had used to slash her wrists.

The answer cannot be found only in courtrooms. It is also found in what happens when an ordinary Kenyan challenges an administrative decision, demands information from a public institution, encounters the police, seeks a government service or insists that the state treat them according to the rights guaranteed to them.

Over the next few days, my husband started going to work late and coming home early. Suddenly, there were “interactions.” I noticed it and asked him about the schedule change. He said traffic was bad and he was trying to avoid rush hour. He said I was being paranoid and looking for problems where there were none.

Perhaps the Luo voter doesn't need another political messiah. We already had that in Baba. The tragedy is that after his death, the Luo voter has not yet learnt that losing a shepherd does not mean losing their ability to find their own way.

“I have never wanted children. I did not know how to tell you, and I did not want to tell you to get rid of it, you know?” “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, STEVE?” I yelled into the phone as every emotion that had been pooling up in me broke the banks of my reserve.“I am sorry,” he said, like that was supposed to fix anything. Like he could feel sorry for the pregnancy away or my pain away or the fact that he had left me for months. Months! “Where are you, Steve? Where were you? Where have you been…?” I cried into the phone. I was still crying hours after he hung up. I tried the number again. It was off. He was gone.