Days when men hanged coats on chairs, removed ties and rolled up sleeves to eat

I remember those days we used to eat like the whole world depended on it to revolve. Days when food was the center of our lives. Stomachs ruled us and we worked hard to make them empty. Food was bounty because we worked hard in our shambas to get the crop for our families. We were hardworking, we toiled and ate from our sweat. That's why when we ate, we ate till we were full; because that was a product of our toil.

Our arms were rough. They held jembes and pangas with firm grips. They cleared bushes, carried huge logs to fence homesteads, took cows to the bulls and watched the brutal, yet act of essence, they made and burnt bricks to raise homes and buildings, they went to the rivers with hooks and lines to fish, mud fish, the then only type of fish in the rivers.

Our bodies were heavily built. We never went to the gyms or engaged in morning jogs. Our bodies were accustomed to hard work, and only knew indigenous food. Never did men complain of diseases. No silly headaches. Maybe snake bites, or bee stings while harvesting wild honey.

Men didn't shy to work. They were always looking forward to anything that could make them busy. The pedigree of men then had genes of dinosaurs. Weak individuals were loathed, and mocked. At times you could be cast out of the village. There was no place for the useless.

Men woke up early and tilled hectares of land in preparation for planting crops. Men who had many barns were respected.

Women used to behave then. They understood their roles as wives. They performed their chores. They knew their places in the family. And families were happy.

During those days, I was young. 10 years maybe. I was tall and round. I was known by my extra ordinary ability to eat. Thus I was nicknamed, egesengi.

A few days ago, a pal of mine took me to some joint he knew in Nairobi city to eat. Dark dungeons that sell well cooked meals. So we branch in, and take our seats.

The place is teeming with humans. Hungry ones. Sounds of cutlery can be heard. They dominate well. Voices requesting for food clog the air.

‘Waiter iyo chapati dunga ifike.’

‘Choma ya ugali apo.’

‘Mbuzi ikam.’

‘Mathee kawaida.’

‘Iyo sauce ifike.’

Others are engaged with their plates, having a conversation with their food. In such an engrossed moment, you don't greet a man. It's a sacrosanct moment.

The joint is popular with nyam chom. Tastiest meals exist in dainty joints. And people hope from one street to another, brushing shoulders with others, crossing lanes, crossing roads in haste, going behind cars, all with a focused mind.

Life in this city is tough. With expenses scaling up, spiraling needs, extravagant tax obligations, and expensive cost of living, you will want to save every penny for the rainy days. Those days when everybody's face is despondent. So you save coins for the future, if at all you get some good cash on your payday.

Expensive life means that people will be forced to improvise ways to survive. Food, which is one of the most expensive commodity, will be sought after even in the dingiest of places.

At lunch time, men will hang their coats on chairs, remove their ties and roll up their sleeves. They briskly leave the office. When you meet them on the streets looking like this, unofficial, you won't think they are the same men who work in banks or big offices in the tallest of buildings in town.

These men hurry down the streets, their pockets having 500 bob. They will spend 100 bob on lunch. That's the budget.

Lane after lane, entering alleys, and emerging from the other side, hopping over water filled potholes, disappearing into buildings, and final landing at bus station. Behind bus station there are vibandas. Vibandas full of smoke. Soot hanging from everywhere and menacing structures that seem to fall. Creaking sounds threateningly welcome you. They have stood a test of time. Workers here try to look decent like those of Hilton. They are dressed in dirty aprons. Dirty fingers reign. Money and food flow through the same hands.

No hard feelings. Everybody is happy. The business that rules is eating. Men and women, those from offices and those from groceries, conglomerate here to grab a meal. Food unites. It hates tribalism, it does not alienate, it does not care who you are.

It is here that men will eat. The food in these joints is so delicious. They break bones, drink soup, and tear meat. Even as they hurriedly leave the office, they can feel the indelible taste of that goat meat lingering in their throats.

Back to their offices, they turn into noble men. Men who don’t tolerate nonsense. Men who will grill you in interviews without twitch of remorse. They will be wearing Italian suits and alligator shoes, looking sharp and intimidating.