In 2010, while Bruno Mars was belting out a tune about a Brooklyn girl, I was somewhere in the depths of Kirinyaga, with no leather and absolutely no gold but covered in a hooded rain poncho shielding me from light showers that had now proven to be persistent. Despite the frequency of the rain, which I should have been accustomed to, the drizzles still made me shiver.  I was ten years old, concealed within a lush tea plantation with an empty basket perched on my back and hanging from my forehead. I was immersed in the action of tea picking, counting every elbow swing as I plucked and worked to fill the basket. The sap from the leaves sent tingles through my fingers, staining them with a dark hue, but this was an unavoidable part of the job and the reward at the end of the day was worth the laborious steps through the farm on a cold Saturday morning. I could not escape or even entertain the thought of stopping and dancing a bit in the rain. Every time I slowed down, I was reminded of th