When I go back, I know I am close to home whenever I start to smell and to be welcomed by the famous stink of Dandora garbage dump. It is unbearable.

My parents met in Kenya many years ago,where my father was working as an electrician and my mother was running from the danger that was present in Rwanda at the time. I never had the luxury of meeting any of my grandparents.

As debates about globalism rage across the West, I am one of many people for whom “country” and “home” could never be simple concepts. I can’t help but understand my African story as one bound up in a much larger story of global politics and power.