By Peter Kimani
This is the weekend we are allowed to proclaim: it’s our turn to eat.
Countless animals shall be offered as burnt offerings to, as some chaps put it, "thank our bodies" for surviving the year.
I started eating excursions last weekend, arriving at a popular tavern on the Nairobi-Namanga Road, on the fringes of Kitengela town.
If truth be told, I had been dreaming about the Yukos meat during my months of absence.
And what a warm reception it was, from waiter Shadrack, who remembered me from past visits, and the appetising aromas.
After months trembling through refrigerated areas to retrieve meats that felt like blocks of ice, what a delightful experience it was to wade through a gush of smoke and smog, thick with the smell of fat and spice, the blazing burners turning the red flesh dripping with blood into golden brown.
The meat’s taste was glorious, as did the platefuls of mukimo, ugali and kachumbari, washed down by chilled Alvaros.
Quite unsurprisingly, my gang of four gobbled nearly three kilos of meat. Having eaten to our fill, I was very tempted to take try the Tusker Malt Lite that my young son has been my urging me to try.
"Daddy, utakunywa hiyo soda ya watu wakubwa?" he exclaimed every time the advertisement was televised at home.
No matter, since I was the designated driver, I was not tempted to try the drink. Rather, I summoned the waiter to pack the leftovers. Some ancient sage said riches are the leftovers of what we eat. The contemplation of that pithy saying unfurled memories of another feast many moons ago.
About a dozen youngsters, all barely out of their teens, are assembled at the backyard of a butchery somewhere in a village in central Kenya. The feast of offal is preceded by a short meeting, the chink of coins dropping into a dry palm the only hint of the fundraiser. We raise enough to buy one "head" of a goat.
It’s hard to believe the accurate dissections of the midget attendant, tearing through the head and chopping up the pieces of meat – all under a minute.
Barely has the man taken one short step away before two dozen hands descend. In the blink of any eye, the chopping board is wiped clean. I’m not sure if the goat’s teeth have been swallowed by some gluttonous teen, or had fallen off into the boiling pot during cooking.
One cousin stands empty-handed. Someone takes pity on him and retrieves a piece of meat from his cup of muteta soup.
That’s when we devise eating rules. In future, no one will be allowed to hide meat in cups. All should pick from the plate only what can fit in their mouth.
My reverie was interrupted by the Yukos waiter attending to us. I think his name was Francis. A very attentive and responsive man. He was prompt and friendly. He wrapped the leftovers and proceeded to tally his bills – all hand scribbled.
When he did his arithmetic, his total was exaggerated by Sh300. He rectified that. But he decided to play hide and seek with my change. I had to seek him out and demand it.
Waiter Shadrack had a demand of his own. On my last trip there, he said, when friends threw a farewell party for me, some Sh1,500 bill was not paid. It was docked off his salary.
He rightly recalled I last was at Yukos five months ago. I got out my wallet and paid him.
At this rate, I’m running for the hills. Men there may hide meat in their cups, no doubt because it is not enough to go round, but none will try "eating" money in your pocket, as though it were peanuts.
Seamless flow of traffic, online and on the road
Many moons ago, I asked my wife to get a good Internet connection so that we could Skype while I was away. Zuku was recommended by some friends with technical background, but she was told our house needed wiring. That in turn needed permission from the landlord, a bureaucratic route my wife did not want to go.
I called another friend who also recommended Zuku, but disputed the need for wiring since all that was needed was a drop of the cables from an antenna.
I got the contact of the salesman that my wife had called at Zuku, and requested connection. He delivered the forms home within hours. I filled them out – using my wife’s details. We were connected within hours – without any reference to landlords and wiring.
"I think fundis don’t like women," my son Tumaini’s grandma said. "I think they want us to grow beards."
Zuku followed up their connection with a call to my wife (I gave her contacts on the form) to enquire about the service, which I’m glad to report is first-class. For that, I give Zuku a bouquet for Christmas – if no one has given me them any.
I give another bouquet to Prezzo, the Roads minister and whoever else is responsible for turning the road to Kitengela – once a veritable nightmare – into a seamless flow of asphalt.
I think Tinga should be added to the list of bouquet recipients, since he is supposed to supervise the work of ministers.
Finally, Merry Christmas to you all, my dear readers!
Farewell to dear friend departed from our midst
I have learnt, with great sadness and regret, about the demise of my beloved friend Wambui Gatigwa.
I had trouble remembering how we met – there are those people who remain in your life and can’t quite place how it all started. But I recalled she sought me out after writing about Prof Maina Kinyatti, when he returned home after a long exile.
I had met Wambui’s sister, Wangui wa Goro, during my student days in London, where she had been similarly exiled.
My life and Wambui’s intersected often, from the teaching at the Kenya Polytechnic University College, where I had a short stint as an adjunct journalism lecturer, and where Wambui had dedicated years teaching nutrition. In her last years there, she headed an entire department.
Her nutritional skills would come handy when my beloved aunt lay dying from cancer nearly a decade ago.
Wambui’s chuckle
This year, it was Wambui’s turn to suffer the same fate which, unfortunately, she bore in my absence, and without my knowledge.
Many of our conversations echo in my mind, but the picture that will stay with me is that of Wambui’s chuckle, the sparkle in her eye and the clasp of hands that gestured her enthralment. Fare thee well, Wambui.