THE JOURNEY HOME

Corlett, Cedric, Nompi, Paul and Goodenough at the Uhuru Park in Nairobi

I wake up the following morning with a serious need, almost a craving, to go and email my story, the last in an installment of four I have already sent to a weekend newspaper and tons of pictures. All this sending was done under extremely trying circumstances as you might have read in the past entries. I enter the dining room at 7h30 and find that no one is here, I am definitely the first one as Sylvia told me two minutes earlier that some of the folks came back at around 6h30 from the South Afica party the night before at Gretsa University.

I fix myself breakfast and am soon joined by Abraham who is also about to have his breakfast. "I would have had my breakfast but I thougth I should wait for you. You are the only person outside of the Palestinians who knows their history and struggle so well". I am flattered, this coming from a man who went on a safari with the Palestinian delegation the day before. He made sure everybody knew about such an honour.

We eat our breakfast slowly and start discussing the South African media and advertising and how it reflects the reality of a country in transition. I get surprised when he says to me that he's never seen a black pilot in the US. For sure they're so racist any airline that puts them on the frontline is going to lose customers. We discuss the fuck-ups America is involved in all over the world and how overstretched its military is to the point that if it took on Iran it might end up bogged down in a conflict it might not see to the end. He's touched, he says he is a persona non grata in Israel due to his leftist views, he can't enter any Arabian country due to the Israeli immigration stamp on his passport and he wants to go to the refugee camps next to the Somali border but he's scared he'll be mistakened for a Mossad agent, or worse, CIA. I tell him he can fool anyone if he wants to. He reasons that they'll pick it on his accent which is too American. "American or not your accent can pass off as South African, we don't have a uniform accent down there". He wants to know if he should put on his Palestinian kefir which I think is a bad idea and let him know it.

I found it funny when I told Paul some hours later and he said Abraham should face those repurcussions because they come with the territory of championing causes like those of Palestinians. Paul talks so soft you'll be tempted to think he was not serious, but he was at this time.

After breakfast me, my Zulu friend and Abraham decide to catch a matatu to the capital, Nairobi. Immediately we wait at Route 100 a matatu comes and we jump in. It has a DVD player and we enjoy music videos, it's Red San and 50Cent. Soon we are on the outskirt of the city and part with a few shillings. We catch another matatu, advised by a local resident and get dropped at central Nairobi. Abraham says the best internet facilities are found at Barclays Plaza, our Zulu friend is looking for forex. We meet an old man who 'volunteers' to find us all the places we are looking for. He suddenly makes himself out tourguide. I've got a feeling my Zulu friend is too trusting. He's never heard the line, 'in the city you don't know who to trust'.

He's maneouvering through heavy traffic with the old man who is walking rather fast for an old man. Look, Nairobi is not known for traffic lights. The man gets to forex which is actually a bank and the old man waits outside like a sentry. While they are there I look at a map of the town provided by Abraham and try to figure out our current location. Somehow, a map without a compass is like a submarine without a radar or telescope, I can't figure out where we are but I can see Uhuru and Tom Mboya Streets.

Soon our friend comes through with the old man on tow. He then escorts us to Barclays Plaza. Twenty metres away he stops and signals where the plaza is. "Asante", that's what I say. The Zulu wants him sorted financially, which he does after I gave him the green light. We walk towards the plaza, we are subjected to metal detectors and walk downstairs to the internet cafe. It's a nice spot with a coffee shop, a stationery and book store.

I occupy my computer and start working, the thing is slow and frustrates, I finish, burns my pix on disc and reach out to Abraham who is working on the internet. He says he will still like to be around for one more hour and if we can leave him with our cellphone numbers. I don't have a phone but the Zulu has but doesn't know the number by heart. Funny heh, he bought the starter pack here some five days ago. He gives me the phone and I try to call Abraham's number which fails to receive. Okay, we will stroll around and come back in an hour's time to collect Abraham.

We leave for Central Park and take photographs of the Monument, a high structure reportedly built by former president Arap Moi as a celebration of ten years as president.
After that we leave, see police in a Peugeot 504 trying to stop a car speeding along Kenyatta Road. We thinking, they are going to kill the poor suspects as they've been doing for some time now.

Then we go back to Abraham, on the way we stop at a boutique that sells shoes for 8000Ksh. "Must be the local version of Spitz", I tell my friend. When we get to Abraham he says he still needs another hour or more as he's expecting guests. He is busy posting some things on his blog, http://myspace.kirbycracker.com. We decide to leave him and go back to Kiambu. Problem, we don't know how to get there and ends up walking the whole town asking people for directions, entering Nakumatt to buy wine and some juice and food and milk and asking questions until we get to a taxi rank and ask marshals and get shown the Route 100 matatus (not taxi). It's extremely hot.

We embark and suddenly have a conversation with a woman who likes our South African accents, though they are different since my Zulu friend's one is influenced and mine too, in different ways. We have a healthy conversation with the woman until we get to Paradise Lost (Kiambu) and disembark, get to our house where it's so hot, everyone is out there drinking beer or playing pool.

I advance to my room and find it locked, go to the main house where Pauline is having lunch. I complain to Sylvia that I need my key and that the bed wasn't made the day before. Pauline finishes eating and goes to fetch it. It takes her forever to retrieve it and I end up leaving for the pool table on the adjoining house. I come back minutes later and request Sylvia to put my two cartons of juice and one bottle of wine into the fridge as I take one pint and intoxicate myself.

The day is spent in the living room watching music videos on television. Some of the guys are not around anyway but gone to town. They only come back hours later carrying large platic bags, Philemon has bought some Nandos and chips. Me and Tshepo are busy playing pool, together with Kenneth as a Kenyan girl keeps buzzing Tshepo to give her attention. "She doen's know how arrogant I am. I've got what I wanted which she denied me for the whole week and now she's calling me", he complains as we continue playing.

Night crawls and we have our dinners and long conversations over television news. Another group left at 16h00 for South Africa and another one is leaving the following morning. It's the shrinking of the family that is now harming the mood at the house or rather bringing us very closer to each other. I'm chilling with my one litre orange juice, while the other folks are having snacks and whisky. Really I can't drink alcohol so occassionally like some little Bantu alcoholic. We go to sleep, having been told that Nompi is not well, we joke that it's initiation by the unkind Kenyan currents. She's not well, we not worried because before coming here we took precautions like malaria tablets and innoculations. She'll be fine.

Day Seven

This should be my last day in Kenya and starts with Nompi joining us for breakfast. Yeah, she's smiling but complaining as well saying she's on medication which was kindly arranged for her. I joke that we thought she was dead, she smiles, I ensure her that anything that can not kill her will make her stronger. She's picking at her breakfast like a bird. She doesn't look in pain but still not well. Nompi is beautiful hey, even when ill.

We have our breakfast, me and Abraham continue our now infamous conversations about the collision of civilisations. After that Corlett and Cedric and Paul decide to go to town. I'm tired and decide to lie down on the sofa. I fall asleep, bits and pieces. Actually the day is spent with me struggling to stay awake as the effects of the march are now catching up with me.

I move out with Tshepo to my bedroom. He's tired as well, what with the 20 kilometres plus an all-night party and decides to sleep on the other bed. I notice that my bed hasn't been made and go to Sylvia to report. She says she can go and fix it, "you can go now-now"
"No, not with that person in the room", she says it with a naughty smile. I can see she only noticed that I wasn't alone but didn't see the other person.
"It's a he and I'm not a homosexual"
"Okay, but still I'm not going in there"
"Go summon him outside then"
She agrees and I ask for bananas that I see on a bowl, she gives the green light and signals me to relax on the verandah. Soon Tshepo comes and Sylvia organises him bananas as well and both of us orange juice. She's nice. We sit on the verandah, ogling the children as they walk past us.

Afternoon comes to soon for any person who's doing nothing. A Kenyan boy comes through and we have a conversation, political and social as always. I don't share jokes or girl-talk with strangers but politics, economics and social issues with them. We talk for hours on end, play three pool games until Tshepo joins us. We leave for the house, Zulu is playing solitaire on the computer, Kenneth is gone, and so is a third of the once big happy family.

I end up chatting to the children of the household. A household I have come to discover that it is owned by a man whose family owns eleven hotels and one university. They tell me he's one of the richest people in Kenya. I ask if he inherited the wealth they say he worked for it. I'm suspiciously impressed.

At some point the Kenyan boy leaves and I accompany them up until the main road, him and a South African woman from Mpumalanga. I get a lift from the son of the extremely rich man and when I get to the house starts cracking conversation with the kids. I ask them when are they coming to South Africa, they tell me on 2010. Somebody remind me, what's happening on 2010? They show me night vision goggles which they say are owned by 'the lil' ones', says the girl who says she's learning British.

Corlett, Paul and Cedric come back and it's all good again and we engage in conversations including the party's post-mortem. Sis Daphney is with us and we discuss at length and I even sell them copies of my book Journey With Me and sign autographs. I have my dinner, go to pack and come back. When I go back to say goodbye to Sylvia she tells me I forgot something in the fridge, oops my wine and juice. I get both of them, go to the other family members, open my wine and in an impoptu excercise I decide to give the juice to Pauline, "something to remember me by", I say. "Asante".

We depart the house, I offer Paul a casual sip of my wine which he enjoys and asks for more. We go our separate ways, I spend a few minutes with Sylvia in the kitchen, she's sitting down and looking at me in a funny way. She's smiling, something says to me 'you could be loved'. I smile back, "can you please wake me at 3h00?"
"Sure, but your friend is not here"
"Who?"
"The Kenyan"
"Kimane?"
Yeah, well, he's not here but he's supposed to leave at 4h00 with all of us. I'm wondering what's going to happen to him.

Day Eight

At around 2h00 Simon knocks on my door and I open for him and he goes straight to sleep after brushing his teeth.

We are awokened by Sylvia at 3h00, we take a shower and pack our things and get out and have breakfast and catch a matatu and go to town via Southern Blue Hotel. Wait at the airport after the customary immigration and customs procedures and the plane is two hours late and people are complaining and we finally board and we fly out of Kenya, past Killimanjaro and arrive at OR at 13h30 Kenyan Time.

On the plane I sat with a Kenyan patriot who enlightened me about many things I only read about and saw on Citizen TV while in Kenya. She told me she's visiting South Africa and maybe study. She's so damn intelligent I felt like marrying her. She told me something interesting about their beer Tusker. "They say in the absense of a Kenyan flag, you can just raise a Tusker because it says, 'I'm a Kenyan'". Way to go sister. We arrive, she gets her big bag, I re-adjust my wristwatch to 12h30.

* I am back in South Africa and sadly this brings an end to my Kenya Diary.

* I'm wondering how Nompi coped with her medical complications since I didn't check her out before I left.

* I'm wondering how the children of Korongocho will live for the remainder of the year and the rest of their natural lives.

* How many more suspects will Kenya Police kill by the end of the year.

* As I write this piece I am conforted by the AU's decision not to award the presidency to Sudan. Finally the struggle waged by Corlett, Nompi and many other nameless comrades paid off. I love all these people with my whole heart, for their spirit, their determination, their belief in the truimph of the human spirit, their ability to rise to their feet in the face of defeat. To all of them, the entire 250 strong South Africa family that held it down in Kenya, 'Asante', they say 'never before was so much owed by so many to so few'.

* Poor Kenya kids managed to be part of the WSF due to the South Africans' stand to force organisers to allow them.

* They had free food due to the South Africans at the WSF.
And my friends John and Yusuf, feel like telling them, 'boys, there's more to Africa than South Africa', there's more to life than a roll of shillings.

PS. Surprise surprise, the newspaper never used any of the stories I have been sending to them even though we've been communicating about them. Why? That's not my territory to ask. One love CITY PRESS.

DAY FIVE AND SIX

On Day Five here I was entering Moi International Sports Centre through another entrance when I notice a comrade with whom I have been sharing a few words. At this moment I decide to have my first picture in Kenya taken. But not even a prophet could have predicted the fame seeking bunch that was behind me. Before I could say 'wait people this if for my daughter' I've got this bunch of Abahlali members tampering with my mojo. One of them is shouting, 'go tell your girlfriend that you found a new woman in Kenya'. Immediately after the three overcrowded pictures are taken I move swiftly to the media centre. Surprise, surprise, the internet is working well in both media centres. Everything is almost perfect as I find a computer that runs on Microsoft and sit down to begin work on my stories which both have been commissioned by a weekend newspaper. It is before I have completed a few paragraphs that a woman journalist from Brazil comes and informs me that the four computers I am currently working on belong to his organisation. Oops, some of us have computers now.

I then move to another computer that also works on Microsoft as well and begin typing my story and before I know it a woman from African Flame (the meeting's official newsletter) comes and informs me that I need to find another computer as this one is exclusive as well. I analyse and find that indeed there is an African Flame logo pasted on the face of the monitor.
I now have to go and force myself to work on something operating on Linux, a programme which I find to be a pain in the ass when it comes to opening pictures and running a slide show. Well, they say Linux is the best competition Microsoft has had in many years but from where I stand, I beg to differ.

I feel bored by the all the petty politics and decide to walk out. At the door a bunch of Kenyan youths dressed in red outfits and who claim to come from the slums are holding an impoptu press conference. The leader is enraged that he had to pay money to be in the meeting, or that's what he is saying. The international media is giving him an audience, they love this bad stories. I look around and see a South African delegate pledging solidarity. I am not surprised, it's the one thing South Africans have been doing here for all the four days. I file past and decide to go sort my finiancial problem. I am technically broke. See, I've got $100 in my pocket and no shillings. I begin a long walk to try and find a foreign exchange office.

I struggle to locate one. I stroll to the food stalls and before I could reach one a smartly dressed man approaches me and offers to serve me lunch, all for KSh400. "I don't have any shillings"
"How much do you have?"
"Fifty dollars, US"
"Let's go, I think my boss can help you"
I trail him to the stall where his boss, a middle aged man of medium build searches his wallet frantically. There is no equivalent of $100 and he decides to let me go and sort myself out. As I leave the stall a light-complexioned woman, who looks nineteen or twenty approaches me for the same reason. I explain the same problem to her as well and she does the same thing by taking me to her boss, a woman who also is unable to help. Now I have to go and find my own shillings. I lie to her, as I did to the man that I'll be back with my hunger.
On my way to the forex located in the venue I hear a woman shouting angrily, some rhetoric against George Bush. I'm thinking if George was African, his ears should be itching hot by now. I approach and decide to snap her while a lone cameraman, who sounds Irish is videoing her, asking her questions as if he has the script to the scene. I come to learn from her words that she comes from Sudan and she's bored about Bush dictating to everyone how to live and to constitute their governments and she's not scared of dying and of Bush.

I'm actually looking for forex, walks past the Palestinian tent where they are preparing for a march around the stadium. I don't know, I just feel scared taking pictures as if one of the folks here was Ismael Haniyah, the Palestinian Prime Minister.

Something interesting about the enterprising spirit of the locals that I notice is that some photographers have made it their business to randomly shoot pictures of delegates, more like your Daily Sun's Snaparazzi and paste them on the public fence. If you come through and find your picture and you like it and want to keep it you pay for it. Wow, something we can use for 2010, don't you think? All the ID photo-takers taking pictures of roughly 500 000 soccer fans and making them pay for their moment of excitement or sadness.

I then move to a stand where I have been an excellent award deserving customer for the past four days, buying their expensive orange juice with the hope that I am implementing Kenya Economic Empowerment (KEE). I get to them for my daily dose of bottled water. "60 shillings", she says.
"Come on woman, this morning at the Nakumatt I bought one litre for 3,80 shillings, one litre not this 340 millilitre". I let her know that now I'm aware that we are being robbed in broad daylight. True, I ain't lying, on our way to Kasarani we stopped at a Nakumatt to buy some necessities. I bought a bottle of water and was surprised when they said it was 3,80, given that I've been paying more for drops throughout the WSF meeting. When I went to the Nakumatt that's also when I was puzzled by the tellers in there who all had their ties on. I sensitised Simon to what I just saw and he said, "It's terrible man, the way the English have influenced everyone around here".

As I leave the stand without having bought anything I notice that the Palestinians march is getting started. The Palestinian cause it the most romantic one to support and there are thousands of people, some carrying a huge Palestinian flag, some miniature ones and wearing kefir's and shouting anti-Israeli and US slogans. The procession is powerful as I go past for the bank, which I fail to find until a security guard gives me directions. I respond, 'Asante' (thank you). I find my way there, get sorted in a jiffy and leave. Actually I gave the teller $50 and told him I wanted to exchange $20 to shillings, for which he gave me Ksh1300,00.

As I walk out of the bank I'm welcomed by a serious commotion. An exclusive food stall that has been the meeting spot for most of the European delegates is suddenly under siege. A group of South African delegates have invaded the stall with a group of Kenyan children and are now demanding that the children be offered free food. It's chaos, the media is there as well taking shots and videoing the chaos. The soldiers and with their kalashnikovs are standing back watching as the five star buffet is vandalised. The children are now eating gluttoniously and even smearing their little hungry faces. Order collapses as every child reaches out to eat. Anti-Privatisation Forum's Trevor Ngwane is happy, he's one of the people who led the campaign, together with a comrade I only know as Torong. Ngwane gives an impoptu interview to some radio journalist, so does Torong who says that the stand belongs to a Security Minister and was creating a five star environment while the children were starving.

The children are happy, they now inform him that there's another stand they'll like to target. They suddenly believe in the muscle of the South Africans. They form groups, start chanting and charge towards the second stand but the police are not having that - not anymore.
Around this time the roaring Palestinian march has come full circle and now it's time for speeches and pledges. It was pure militancy you could capture and bottle it. The keynote belongs to Laila Khalid, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine icon who hijacked two planes in the 1970s after undergoing plastic surgery to avoid detection and capture. There's a militant mood to the meeting. She starts off by pledging her commitment to the armed struggle and utters words that leave me shook and concerned, she says as Palestinians they are ready to sacrifice generation after generation of their children to attain their freedom. I wonder if the Israeli government is listening. After Khalid the all too familiar platform for pledges. Torong is there shooting from the hip.

I go back to the media centre and file some few stories, the ones I have been promised publication. I get a message from Japhet at City Press that my interview will be on PULSE Magazine over the weekend. Japhet is happy, he likes it and so do I. I go out and end up standing next to a man I suspected of abusing animals unnecessarily. He's got a camel which he charges people for a short ride. I feel myself fancying camel milk. Here's story I swear I heard it from a reliable source outside the UN. They say one day, when Libya was still regarded as a pariah state Kadafi went to the UN in New York for the annual General Assembly meeting. They allege that when he was there the catering people were taking orders for what every President is going to eat. Kadafi looked at them and said, "I want porridge with camel milk", but more like he said it in his own language and calling the food by their traditional names. They claim the catering people met to discuss his request and came back to him to inform him that they don't have the dish, to which Uncle Kadafi asked them how is it possible that a country that prides itself on being a leader in the free world would not have Libyan dishes. I swear they told me this and this is not my story.

Now, speaking of camels, I found it later at night as I went to Chris Hani, busy entertaining heartless people, who were paying money for a ride. The poor camel looked tired but the owner was not having that. It however gave me a chance to chat to a certain coloured girl I've been wondering how I'll crack a conversation with. I said to her, "Do you wanna ride?"
"No, hell no"
"Why? You scared?"
"Yeah"
"Come on, let's ride together". And at this point I reckon she suspected I was getting somewhere and excused herself nicely, to get her smoke.
Our City Ferry bus came and we left for Kiambu, found another road block where the policemen were sorted with bribery as it had become custom and went ahead to our huge houses. We had dinner, tea, played pool, had some whisky and slept. We were told the following morning there's going to be a march from the slums to town. We got ready for it.

DAY SIX

This is the day of the march and everyone is preparing for it. Some by wearing takkies, some slippers while some are just not going to do it. We have good traditional breakfast and are taken to Korongocho, a slum area in downtown Nairobi. As the bus drives through we are welcomed by squalor, something I've never seen in my many years of being a journalist in rural areas. Something I can not even put in words, which I'm not going to try. I've written poetry about poverty but nothing beats what I am seeing. A poem like,

reminisces part v

to all my brothers from sub A still alive today
we shared dreams of living well what happened to us
we lost each other in the madness to define our lives
hope we can someday chill & trade what we wanted to be
with bantu education we still valued our dreams

we had lawyers in the making teachers doctors & scientists
nobody fancied being a soldier, police we dissed like a plague
saw beyond motor cars & mansions
our plans were all about living well never leave the ghetto
but today we so defeated most of us is sell-outs

all I ever wanted to be was a lawyer or writer
never had enough for varsity so I became a writer
woke up one morning married words in a church affair
some of my boys still planning what to do with they lives
we a platoon of failures 'til I see next time

We go to a small sporting facility where there are thousands of people wearing white T-shirts. I move to a small auditorium where there are groups performing dance and music. It's all traditional stuff. Suddenly we move out to a Roman Catholic church building where we are given T-shirts on condition that we are going to take part in the march to Uhuru Park. A woman starts off by stressing us that we need to have small tickets to qualify for the T-shirts. However another woman who liked me a lot gives me a ticket which raises questions which she answers nicely by saying that she will not give a ticket to a woman but a man. However we all get sorted eventually. I have my second photo opportunity with a handpicked crew and leave. A sister named Corlett and another none named Nompi, who says she's a video editor at the SABC are making their point known, that there shall be no African Union Presidency given to Sudan while innocent people are getting killed by the Janjahweed militia in Darfur, which is reported to be sponsored by the Khartoum goverment. They mobilize more people to the campaign as we leave Korongocho for Uhuru, walking through throngs of extremely poor people sitting, looking at us walking past their neighbourhood with pride. I guess to them we don't look like their messiahs who are here to carry their cross. I feel bad about all of us who are walking in this derelict part of town because most of us come from better-off countries. I feel guilty about it all as I snap pictures of the people who have nothing materially, only the breath between their dry lungs. I feel bad because they are not taking part in the march but looking at us with envy and wonder because we have shoes on and clothes on our backs and hats and sunglasses and look well-fed and we are patronizing them. They obviously can not walk with us because they are hungry and we are full. I feel bad that all I can do to show my empathy with them is to walk through their neighbourhood. I feel bad because at the end of it all I'm going back to South Africa where I know there's plenty of food for most of the people who came with me and who are here to show support. I feel guilty due to many things and it's the same guilt I carry with me as we move from one derelict part, past people searching for food on the dumping spot. We come to a slum called Eastleigh which is mostly made up of Somalian refugees. Two mosques tell the story of this community's religious affiliation.

After a long 20 kilometre walk whereby we were refreshed with bottled water and glucose every five kilometres we reach Uhuru park. I'm tired but consoled by an energitic young boy I had been walking with through the slums, a boy I met after I witnessed two men killed, shot execution style by the police at Karibangi. Their blood was all over the tar road and the police who did not even make an attempt to cover their corpses were threatening everyone with a sjambok. I reached for my camera but realised that it might be a fatal mistake. This here is a police state. The senior police officers at the scene did not look like they'll tolerate my 'nonsense' of exercising my constitution enshrined right.

The boy I walked all the way with is named Yusuf. I can't say he was sponging on me even though I bought pineapple, bananas and roasted mielies along the way because he requested that I do so. He told me he wanted to come to 'Southern'. I told him he should stick to his books and maybe he might get a bursary or sponsorship to Wits, his sport since he might represent his country in one of the future events and his arts because as an artist one day he might end up coming to Southern. He loves South Africa with all his heart and has questions that told me he might be 12 but he turns out to be fourteen. When we approached town he requested money for a matatu (minibus taxi). I sorted him and later lost him. The boy spoke good English and he sounded intelligent, something I still have to see in South Africa.

I got to Uhuru, took some few pictures and felt very tired and sleepy. I guess I took seven three minute naps in between as I sat there waiting to see a South African from Kiambu since we were instructed that at 16h00 we should meet for a South Africa party at Gretsa University at Thika.

Cedric and Paul, two of the guys we share a house with in Kiambu show up and they too are looking for other South Africans. They move up and find Zulu, I move around as well and find Corlett and Nompi who is complaining about being very tired.

Hiccups later but at around six we are on our way to Kiambu to refresh and go to the party. I decide, 'no ways am I going to any party'. I have work to do and also I have seen three Kenyan girls who came with us to entertain the boys and I lost my party spirit. For me it was saying, 'we are here pleading solidarity with poor people but we are taking advantage of their poverty'. I lost my spirit for a party and decided to do my work instead - write one article that I must email home to a Sunday newspaper.

At around past seven the bus came and most of the comrades left. Only a few of us remained. Nompi because she was not feeling well, me because I wanted tranquility and Abraham, a Jew from the US who heads the Palestinian Peace Project in Washington DC. We stay there and have our dinner, traditional Kenyan dishes prepared by the ever loyal Pauline who is nicknamed Tusker.

I order my poison and proceed to the pool table where me and Abraham play a couple of games until I feel sleepy at around 23h00. I say my goodbyes and go to sleep. This was the final day of the meeting and I'm thinking 'what is it am I gonna do tomorrow?'

TOMORROW; DAY SEVEN EIGHT AND NINE

VIVA SOUTH AFRIKA

POOR PEOPLE OF THE WORLD, UNITE!


The South African delegation flexing its muscles in Kasarani. Above, taking part in a blockade to force the organisers to allow poor Kenyans into the venue. Left, just flexing their 'non-existent' muscles.