I like eating and hate women who can't or won't cook

A friend once introduced his girlfriend to his father, only for him to dismiss her later, saying: “Kijana, uko na kitu mzuri ya kuchezea. Lakini sasa tafta mwanamke wa kuoa (She’s not ‘wife material’)!” Her crime? She had this long, well-decorated claws, sorry, finger nails that screamed, “Kuosha viombo na kupika ni wewe (to hell with cooking and cleaning)!” The old man reasoned she couldn’t risk house chores, lest her nail polish got stained or chipped.

Ladies, ability and passion to cook is a huge factor men consider when hunting for a girlfriend or wife. If you can’t cook, you’re toast. As the cliché goes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Look, don’t tell us about your illustrious corporate career or the three master’s degrees you hold from University of London (tell it to the birds), if you can’t cook, get lost!

I have never forgiven an ex-girlfriend who cooked me the most pathetic piece of ugali I have ever eaten.Girls, when you invite Malesi to your place, you can get away with serving him any other poorly-cooked food, but NOT UGALI. I mean it’s not just my favourite. Damn it! It’s this country’s staple food—for crying out loud. I knew, poop had hit the fan when — you know how alert our ears are when in people’s houses — I overheard her fumble with utensils, drop and break glassware, swear and curse like a sailor in the kitchen.

When she served the ballast, sorry, ugali, it was so cold you would think it was from the fridge. When I dug in, hey presto! it shattered into debris, leaving flour all over my hands — of course, to my chagrin. My appetite took flight — instantly. Saying I was furious is an understatement. I gave up on the ‘ballast’ and switched to yet another botched kitchen experiment she served in the name of chicken stew.

With relish, I sunk in my teeth and the taste that greeted my taste buds was that of a fried piece of wood! Considering my medical insurance cover is comprehensive, I gave it a second try, agonising and musing, “stuff we do for love”. I swear, I couldn’t go on. Meanwhile, she was there staring in my face with that sweetheart-please-tell-me-you’re-enjoying-it look.

I mean, ugali is such a basic national delicacy that every self-respecting woman should know how to prepare. It’s a simple meal, but it has to be expertly done. So much that its mere aroma and appearance not only conspire to put your taste buds on fire, but also trigger multiple mouth orgasms the moment it comes in contact with your lips. Girls, just so you know, well-cooked ugali — allow me to pause and swallow saliva — should be malleable enough to be kneaded into a bolus without falling apart.

In yet another horrible incident last December, a female visitor told me she didn’t know how to cook. I thought it was a joke, and rolled on the floor with laughter. I mean, after all, it was the festive season and people were in a fun-poking mood, you know. But wait until she burnt my chicken stew, despite being holed up in the kitchen throughout.

I was so worked up that I got tempted to storm the darn kitchen, cordon it off, declare it a crime scene and call the cops! It was a scandal. If I had a gun and ours was a banana republic where you can get away with murder, my friend, I would have shot her! Dead. Oops! I’m getting carried away. But on a serious note, nobody burns my chicken stew. Gentlemen, if your woman has exceptional cooking skill, count yourself lucky — you bagged the last of a dying breed. Salute to all women who can cook.