For the past three weeks I wake up every day to a sun so bright. A sun that’s once soothingly enjoyable but fast scorching and unbearable. It is part of my day.
Every morning I listen to the purring of engines in a construction site down below our second floor office. The purring goes on till just before I leave office.
I have seen the building grow, from days when it was just a large dam-like feature, to the time when metals and beams began to take shape. I have seen tonnes of sand, ballast, and cement mix as men dwarfed by my bird’s eye view toil.
And I have taken that all in and been used to the bubbling, urgency that is the work of minting stories for press.
I am now aware that even if you wrote 500 words, only 50 could be used. And sometimes stories die.
But I have been immensely jolted to the reality that things happen, and that stories are important but the story teller too is important.
I have seen first-hand what goes on in the mainstream media and witnessed competition look at you in a not so friendly look when you meet in the next event.
But I have grown, in my judgement of what will make it tomorrow and what will not, sometimes the story is just the lead and sometimes a big story is never so big.
I have never loved politics because I don’t like the league of politicians Kenya has bred over the years, but that now has to be my daily cup of tea.
The engines are purring out here now as I write this, and reminds me I have a deadline for my County Weekly docket.