Just for Wearing My Father’s Shoes

 Once upon a time in Kiahuko, I, Me Kimiru (yes, that’s my actual name because my parents outsourced creativity to the village rooster), had a serious problem. Every Sunday, I hobbled into Kiboya Catholic Church wearing my war-torn Marina slippers, looking like a lost refugee from a shoe factory explosion.  Meanwhile, my childhood crush, Nyokabi, floated into church like an angel, her patent-leather shoes gleaming like a politician’s empty promises. She was the kind of girl who could turn a funeral hymn into a club banger and make my heart pound harder than a blacksmith’s hammer. But there was one small issue—she barely knew I existed. I was like the church offering basket: present every Sunday, but largely ignored.  One fateful Sunday, I decided enough was enough. If I couldn’t be charming, I would at least be well-dressed from the ankles down. I needed **real shoes, and since...