For Residents of Bungoma, Sugar is No Longer Sweet

<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE </xml><xml> </xml> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> Growing up in the sugar growing region of Western Kenya in the 1990s meant many things. It meant waking up in the morning and seeing the Elgon Mountains draped in mist. Sometimes the azure was so pure the mountains felt unreal; naked and beautiful. It meant chewing sugarcane all day. It meant avoiding school and hiding away in sugarcane plantations. It meant endangering our lives by pursuing tractor trailers and hanging from behind. It meant being whipped by parents, neighbours and teachers when we were caught.