On Good Friday morning, a disturbing event unfolded as I drove toward Citam Ngong to join the Men's Chorale, the 28-year-old singing group I belong to.
Barely 150m from the church entrance, a matatu in front abruptly stopped, blocking the road.
Shamelessly, the conductor walked straight to a waiting police officer and handed him money - a blatant act of corruption in broad daylight.
Deeply troubled, I hooted loudly, moved ahead of the matatu, and stopped firmly in protest.
