The first time I espied Binyavanga Wainaina — since our decade-long little literary kerfuffle over things well-meaning white people will make you do — was a segment straight out of Moulin Rouge gone African.    

The spring Tuesday we had an appointment he arrived at my writer’s residence office in a billowing colour-riot plume of Vlisco-chic Africana: patterned jacket, ballooning pants, Masai neckwear, bangles, trinkets, wearing a huge grin. The front-of-desk lady ran up to my office, breathless: “He, he, he is here!” Awww, “The Binj”.  

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