In this conversation with Books in Africa host Tracy Ochieng, Kilonzo speaks candidly about beginning as a 12-year-old memoirist, learning the business of publishing through mentorship, protecting parts of her private life in the age of social media, and why she believes “writer’s block” is often just fear disguised as creative paralysis.

Here is something you need to know: blessings are served in single shots, troubles come in doubles, and tragedy is a straight-up triple tot. I was not surprised at all, on the Sunday of Jamhuri Day, to be served with a notice to evict.Later on 20 December at the Karibuni Villas in Mambrui—a mere half-hour drive from the airport where I’d just landed—I was sitting beside an infinity pool seeking advice from the outgoing governor of Machakos and my good long-term friend, Dr. Alfred Mutua. A blue sky stretched above me, and a blue sea reached out into the distance.

One day she woke up in the middle of the night and sat alone under the flickering lights of a July moon. She didn’t want anyone around her. Ma brought her water first and she pushed it away with the anger of two paranoid men. Her curly hair sat lazily over her beautiful eyes and she shot eyes around warning anyone who wanted to draw close that they weren’t welcome. Then Bihija started talking in a muted voice, at first to herself then to some imaginary person only she could see. 

Central to this ethical inquiry is Ben’s father, a Maasai warrior, who died protecting a film crew during a lion attack. Clay avoids mythologising him. His bravery is acknowledged, but so is its cost. He exists in the narrative as both presence and absence: a figure of pride, but also of unresolved expectation. In one of the novel’s most affecting moments, Ben studies a photograph of his father in traditional Maasai dress, framed in olive wood from his village. The image becomes a powerful symbol of inherited masculinity and imagined strength. For Ben, this photograph is both an anchor and a burden. It represents an ideal he feels unable to live up to—a warriorhood defined by physical courage and sacrifice. Clay excels here in illustrating how children internalise narratives long before they understand them. Ben’s fear of returning to Kenya is not framed as weakness, but as grief: a fear of exposure, of being measured against an identity he never chose yet feels bound to honour.

This is not unique to Ruto. Across the political divide, figures such as Babu Owino regularly quote scripture, invoke divine justice and frame political struggle in spiritual terms. The Bible becomes a rhetorical shield, a way to signal moral legitimacy without submitting ideas to scrutiny. In a deeply religious society, scripture shortcuts debate, bypasses evidence and goes straight to emotion.Political theorists have long warned that when religion becomes the primary language of politics, accountability weakens. Policies are no longer judged on outcomes but on perceived righteousness. Leaders are forgiven material failure because they “fear God”. Critics are dismissed not as dissenters, but as enemies of faith.

When she first saw Scratch, she didn’t have a name. She was just a mystery cat that had eyes burning with fury or sometimes swollen with sadness. She had coal-black fur and breathed like an old man. She had appeared first outside the window, clawing hard against the slippery pane, and made eye contact with a scared Tinsy. She was barely 30 and had been moved to night shift for the first time when Scratch visited. It was impossible to scare someone like Miss Tinsy whose previous jobs had been more dreading than facing a stray cat on a cold July night in a hospital ward.