BY BOGONKO BOSIRE She sat next to me with her legs off to the side like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tifanny’s. That wasn’t normal or natural. How could she be? She was sitting next to a journalist who had condescendingly written about her. Attacked her; treated her like dog shit; called her a sex Olympian. “Why didn’t you call me and confirm before you wrote that,” she asked me, in some lilting but faded Kashmir patois. I defended myself, of course, careful not to again offend the woman who was mourning. My colleagues who sat next to me in …
