When I was young, I used to frequent Sergoit Hill, to unwind during moments of distress. As I ascended to the summit, I was greeted with a breathtaking 360-degree view of the surrounding areas. Our humble abode stood prominently in the distance, while Kruger’s farmhouse nestled just below it. A massive rock loomed precariously above it, seemingly suspended by a slender strap of stone. I often fretted that one day it would slip from its tenuous grip and come crashing down, obliterating his dwelling. To my youthful mind, this hill possessed an enchanting aura. Not only did it make me feel infinitesimally small in comparison to its vastness, but it also served as a wellspring of inspiration. Secluded from prying eyes and elevated above the world, I would find solace amidst the rocks. Gazing upon the expansive horizons and surrendering to the forceful mountain winds that swayed the grass, I felt an inexplicable connection to the essence of life. I would envision the boundless exp...
Stories of peace, faith and memory from Kenya and beyond