How to not weep about ‘The Binj’
Bongani Madondo pens an elegy to fellow rabble-rouser Binyavanga Wainaina
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”.