Stand down, soldiers. Lay down your arms. The [jollof] war is over. Senegalese jollof, and not Nigerian or Ghanaian jollof, is the best in West Africa. Thus says Frank Aswani. We are in Upper Hill, where, after every sip of coffee, he peels back the memories of his travels layer by layer. It’s a bright day, but out the windows, the Nairobi winter presses very close.
His father died when he was 25, and he was the firstborn son, a tall poppy in a garden full of brothers. He was earning 25K, in a four-bedroom house in England, with a brand-new Audi A4 that said something about him. He had diamonds on the soles of his shoes.
