In the internet age, your neighbour's kids are none of your business

Last week, I witnessed a strong contender for the most woke, nonsensical debate in a year full of good candidates.

There is this gentleman, a former side-stepper and breaker of tackles, who found a second career in crushing garlic cloves with his bare hands, whipping up delicacies in his backyard and delivering chapo/beef to street children in Nairobi. It is inspiring stuff. I cannot cook shirtless like the roaming chef, primarily because I’m terrified of sizzling oil scalding my nipples. But as soon as I move to the leafy suburbs where I have access to a backyard, I will be following the man’s steps.