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The Hills that Watched them Leave.
A Harmony of Words, Strings, and Mountains.
Yesterday, 30 September 2026, marked my fifth trip to the Ngong Hills, some 35 kilometres South of Nairobi, from the Eastland side of the city. I am a bean counter by original profession, a storyteller by the sidelines, and an aspiring author by hope. The other aspirations I shall keep safely locked away for another day…assuming the pocket, deadlines and Nairobi traffic permit me the luxury.
Working with clients has its advantages. It gives an imaginative mind plenty to write about, particularly when one is travelling and, mercifully, not the one behind the steering wheel. A moving vehicle becomes a mobile theatre. You observe people, places, habits and the small absurdities of everyday life. Nairobi, in particular, rarely disappoints a storyteller.
In the first pilgrimage, I decided to take a cab. It was my first time doing so, and, by some strange coincidence, the journey came at the same time as the untimely demise of the iconic country music star Dolly Parton, of Tennessee’s Great Smoky Mountains of America.
As I sat in the back seat, watching Nairobi slide past the window, I found myself thinking about mountains, writers and the strange ways in which landscapes become inseparable from the people who write about them.
