the cool shade of the neem tree, the hot spiced tea in the heat of the sun, the heady, smoky scent of unsi burning in the houses, the bronze, cool waters of the river tana, the raspy chorus of the azan ringing in the air, the deep sand in the dried up streams, the women inside tuktuks, the veiny branches of mathenge trees choking narrow paths, the flying marabou storks dotted against sea-like skies, the stern stare of the patrolling cop, the flashing gold tooth of the alluring woman selling khat, the swagger in the stride of the travelling nomad, the scrambled houses lapping serpentine roadways, the young taxi drivers jamming to laid-back Somali songs, the hungry kids heading home from duksi, the loud name calling of football players in the evening, the pesky solicitation of the kikuyu trader in the labyrinthine suuq, the casual spitting of the woman selling milk under scorching sun, the ornate minarets piercing the skies, the sweaty armpits of the bureaucrat in the land cruiser, the fatigued woman bringing goats home at dusk, the fat stray cows gorging on groceries in the suuq...—this to me is Garissa.