Musalia Mwenesi and I schedule to meet on a Wednesday, 3pm, at the Villa Rosa Kempinski’s Balcony Bar.
On the day, Mwenesi, as he is more fondly referred, sends me a text saying he’ll be arriving slightly late.
When he finally arrives, Mwenesi, in his tall, striking, frame, gives me a firm handshake, a warm smile and a heart-felt apology: “I’m so sorry for being late. It’s a weird time. We are moving, and I’ve been receiving calls non-stop. They’ve been calling even now about some lights. Those must be some very serious lights!”
We both laugh, he takes a seat, and asks for sparkling water. The ice is broken.