Last week I ate
something and my body went all berserk. I am yet to zero-in on the specific food
that brought me such anguish because it is hard to know who changed their
recipe between the Mutura guy near my place and the outdoor chef at Nick’s –
the Koinange Street one.
On one hand it
can’t be the Mutura guy because what would he add different? Curry? Onions?
More water? More mara? And I know
you’d be thinking “What if the meat was bad?” But no. His meat is always fresh.
We as his customers commit to buy all Mutura for the day so that come tomorrow
we all get fresh Mutura.
On the other hand
it can’t be the Nick’s guy because he’s old enough to know how to stick to one
recipe for each of those addictive things he sells. (They have us trapped with
their samosas man). He also can’t cook
wrong. Or so he seems. I mean he stands straight save for when he’s wrapping
your grilled chicken wings. Heck he looks like he’s the one who invented the Mezzaluna.
Yaani he’s just polished. Too polished
to be the source of my anguish. Or anyone’s anguish.
Well, I have been
checking off my regular joints and I am yet to bring the culprit to book. And
what happens when I do? Good you asked. I am going to be very vindictive about
it. I cannot take this lying down. Mama raised no defeatist. I will allow
enough anger to brew within me. I’ll get like really really mad. Super mad. Then I will walk dramatically towards them
(not like the way chics of say mssschew
and proceed to walk angrily shaking bums aggressively. Nope. That’d be gayish.
I’ll do the great Undertaker – from WWE – entrance. I can even hire a guy to
blow smoke from behind me to make it look cool and scary) and ask for free food
as a peace offering (I hope it will be the Mutura guy – I’d not settle for
anything less than a week’s supply of those free goodies) or threaten to report
them to their wife. Yeah see how they’ll like it when their missus finds out
they’re selling people bad food. See how sleeping on the sofa works out for them.
I love food. Or in
a millennial’s lingua, ‘food is bae’. It’s been bae all my life. I know no other bae. And don’t get me wrong,
I eschew whack-tasting meals even if they’re healthy. I’d rather eat those Ngwacis that taste like they were raised
by loving Ngwaci parent’s than chew
on undercooked fish that will make my stomach ground me for days.
Being a foodie also
makes you eat in many places. Very many places. From Oti’s kibanda where everything goes with avocado, like rice-beans
avocado, dengu-chapo avocado, maini-ugali avocado, chai-chapo avocado, avocado
na avocado etc etc, to classy joints where they wait for you to ask for fish
and then they go get it from the lake first and so you wait there like forever
even though your stomach keeps churning funny noises meant to warn you that
you’re about to die. And when they
finally get your fish cooked you realise they caught a really small one. And
they want you to pay a week’s worth of fare for it. Thieves those ones.
***
I wrote this
article on wee hours of Sunday night and at about this point the ‘Twaaaam twam
twam twam….twam twam twam ….ehh vone…’ song came on radio and I went off to
dance my heart out and so if my thoughts are not very coherent after this I
absolve me of any blame.
****
So, yeah, food is
bae.
“Si utuachie soda
brathe?”
I gave them the
soda. But it was not for them per se.
Who were they?
A street family on
a dark alley opposite Jevanjee Gardens between Bata shop and Debonairs on
Muindi Bingu Street.
Who was it meant
for?
A set of street
lads who camp near the Barclays at Moktar Daddah Street.
Why them?
Because we all
deserve kindness. Even from strangers.
Where was the soda
from?
We went to hang
out at Debonairs because they had a Pizza offer and no one says no to Pizza
offers. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t say no. Why? Because if you pass near
Debonairs during an offer and decide you will not go in, you will hear a soft
voice in the wind whispering your name. Calling you softly and tenderly.
Whose voice?
Pizza’s voice of
course.
And what if you still
walk away?
Well, I have never
managed to. I will definitely let you know when I do. But I hear bad things
happen if you walk away.
And just so you
know, I am convinced relationships for younglings in Nairobi are built on
Pizza. And Airmax shoes. And admiration too. Maybe.
I can picture a
conversation between those lovey-dovey peeps at Nakumatt Lifestyle once they
are married and in their late thirties;
Hubby: So babe remember the money I left you is
only for emergencies only. Ok?
Mrs: Right. And also for pizza when I can’t
resist the urge.
Hubby: What? No. I mean like medicine and stuff not
food.
Mrs: Gotcha. Or, like, if I see a really good
offer. Say two large Pizzas at a thao.
Hubby: No. Please don’t spend on food again. You
know we are low on money.
Mrs: Sure. But if I see a small Pizza at a throw
away price I can buy right?
Hubby: I think you’re not listening to me.
Mrs: No-no. I got it. I just lose it when I hear,
smell, think or see Pizza. It’s not that complicated.
PS. I am looking
for a joint where a band plays Ohangla and Rhumba and they have well-cooked
fish and don’t take ages to deliver it. And where I won’t have to have the hoarse ‘sauti ya mtumishi’ afterwards for
constantly shouting to my friends over the music. A serene joint of sorts.
And how is no
shave November coming along? Let’s talk beard next week. Shan’t we?
