I like to think, even if muddied with my dreamy streak, that Kenya is not a place of immediate understanding.

It is rather a slow injection vaccine.

Eppure c’è quel non so che di platonico, che ti spinge ad amarlo, inspiegabilmente. Ci si riconosce presto, tuttavia. Come si riconosce un amore atavico dimenticato. E piano piano risale a galla.

Yet there is that I don’t know what platonic, which makes you love him, inexplicably. He soon recognizes himself, however. How do you recognize a forgotten ancestral love. And slowly it rises to the surface.

Kenya remembers the word freedom. That of children rolled into a sandpit, without thoughts, who are unclean in freedom.

It could be the memory of your crib, before the order took root in your mind.

Kenya lives in the shrill streets of the noise of a participating chaos, never monotonous.

In the kilometer-long crystalline beaches, covered with sheets of people, wandering on the thin shore of water, in search of depth.

In atopic landscapes, already experienced in a film.

In a reiterated “Mambo” of a passer-by, which echoes as you stroll.

Kenya is a fist-to-fist salute that establishes instant friendship.

It’s an unconscious hypnosis, like the smile of a child with the most beautiful eyes in the galaxy.

It is a sweet trap, which turns your thoughts back and no longer brings you back to square one.