I grew up in Kesogon village, in Kitale where poverty wore many faces—but hunger was not one of them. In our smoky, soot-darkened kitchen, my grandmother stirred bubbling pots of githeri, fried sucha (spider plant), and steaming nduma (arrowroot). These foods were not luxuries; they were life—cheap, nutritious, and abundant. We never thought of them as “heritage cuisine”. They were simply food.