Happy Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day to the phenomenal women who birthed us, and whose love for us is unconditional.

Happy Mother’s Day to the phenomenal people who did not birth children, but loved and raised those around them as their own.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the phenomenal men, who have, for various reasons, filled a mother’s role in their children lives.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the hard-working mothers and mother-figures who toil all day and sacrifice time with their families so they can provide for their children.

Happy Mother’s Day to the brave women who serve in the Armed Forces, often in countries far away from home, for months at a time. Thank you for your service, we salute you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers who are ill and fighting for their lives, may they recover and be reunited with their families soon.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers who have survived Cancer, we celebrate you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers who are expecting their first children, welcome to the club. Motherhood is to know what it feels like to have your heart live outside your body.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers who suit up every day to work in medical facilities and risk their lives to treat Coronavirus patients, you are superheroes.

Gathoni

10 years. That was how long Gathoni gave herself to work as a respiratory care nurse in New York before returning home to Nairobi. She lived with two roommates to save as much money as she could. She lived with them even though one of them ate Gathoni’s cereal straight out of the box and left the sticky spoon she had licked in the cereal box. She persevered the long, grueling hours at work, squirreling away her earnings, saving to buy land back home and set herself up for an early retirement.

Five years into her stay in New York, she had saved enough money to buy land and build a mansion in Athi River, where the newly affluent were buying homes. Athi’s river’s proximity to the City Center made it a more attractive option than farther flung areas with cheaper land. Her parents had found a trustworthy land seller, which was no mean feat in a city crawling with con men and women who would separate you from your hard-earned money in a New York minute.

In a world where new careers are formed daily, conmanship has established itself as one of the few professions uninhibited by common barriers to entry, other than the little matter of the law. The only prerequisite being a loose grasp of one’s morals and a tongue that, as my lakeside brethren would say, “anaweza toa nyako pangoni” (an Oswahili bastardization of the Kiswahili reference to a snake charmer)

When Gathoni flew to Nairobi to view the land, her father introduced her to a dashing gentleman named Getau, the real estate lawyer who had brokered the purchase. A friendship blossomed and they sporadically kept in touch when Gathoni flew back to New York.

Four years later, her mansion was complete and Gathoni had accumulated enough money to purchase additional pieces of land and was a budding mushroom farmer. She reconnected with Getau, and seeing as they were both in their thirties and too old to play games, they started to plan their future together.

When, at last, her 10th year work anniversary arrived, Gathoni walked out of the hospital for the last time, free as a bird, her waist length dreadlocks swaying in the wind. She sold most of her belongings, excited to be moving in with Getau, who had proposed to her a few months before when he had visited her in New York.

She flew from New York to Beijing, her destination being Huairou District, to see the Great Wall of China, a bucket list item she had been itching to check off. She spent the next four days touring the Great Wall among other attractions, and then boarded a flight to Nairobi.

She arrived in Nairobi to a rousing welcome from her family and Getau. She was finally home. Two days after her return, she developed a dry cough and thought nothing of it. Getau got her some cough medicine and a humidifier, which relieved her symptoms. Two days later, Getau awoke to find a lifeless Gathoni next to him. His attempts at CPR failed, and in a panic, he called for an ambulance, informing her family that they were headed to the nearest hospital. The emergency room doctor grimly confirmed what they all knew. Gathoni was dead.

In that moment, the world lost all color and went silent. Out of the corner of his eye, as if in slow motion, Getau and Gathoni’s family watched in disbelief as a security team whispered something to the doctor who quickly distanced himself from the family. They were unceremoniously bundled into a waiting car and taken to a government medical training center, where they were brusquely informed that Gathoni’s symptoms were consistent with those of the novel Coronavirus, also known as COVID-19, therefore, they would be quarantined.  They were interrogated about their movements and known associations since Gathoni had arrived in the country. They provided a list of all individuals they had interacted with and were informed that those individuals would be quarantined as well.

They were then abandoned, and the only outside contact they had was that of faceless gloved hands leaving food outside their rooms followed by the sound of feet quickly padding away for fear of contracting COVID-19.

Where there is mystery, the mind goes to the darkest place. They wondered if they would ever see the light of day again. No one would tell them when they would be released.

Despair clung to them like a second skin. They had no information on where the hospital had taken Gathoni’s remains. Getau, beside himself with grief, withdrew into silence, barely eating or sleeping. Attempts to reach the hospital for information were thwarted by the overzealous security guards who had neither the empathy nor the expertise needed to comfort the shell-shocked, grieving family.

After their release, Getau and Gathoni’s family were given 24 hours to bury her. As they threw the dirt on her coffin, Gathoni’s parents and Getau still could not believe the cruel hand that fate had dealt them. Her mother collapsed, the reality of burying her child too much to bear.

Gathoni was buried on what would have been her 35th birthday.

“Straight A” students

“Mom, didn’t you tell us that you were always number 1 in your class and that you always got straight As in all subjects?” Nekesa’s son asked her, a very puzzled expression on his face.

“This coronavirus!” Nekesa muttered, her palms starting to sweat. You see, in this time of Coronavirus, parents have become teachers. Until now, some parents were safe in the knowledge that their alleged straight A, top of the class, walked 13 miles to school, uphill both ways and all done barefoot stories would never be tested. Once, Nekesa’s son had questioned the veracity of the uphill both ways story, seeing as unless Nekesa’s childhood home moved farther uphill each morning, then that story was a physical improbability. Nekesa had pulled the ukali card and that had shut him up.

The truth of the matter was that Nekesa and numbers were like oil and water. She had never liked or trusted math. Something about math did not make sense to her, and the minute she completed her math paper in her secondary school finals, she had walked away from math and never looked back. It was a toxic relationship and she was done. When her father had seen her dismal F in math, he had remarked that she must have earned that grade by correctly spelling her name and nothing else.

Thirty odd years after the nightmare of her final math exam, she thought of ways to save face in front of her child. Silence stretched between them, her son looking at her expectantly, mistaking the frown on her face for deep concentration. Little did he know that the specter of calculus had resurrected long buried nightmares she wished to keep that way. In that moment, she wished that her husband, a doctor at Nairobi hospital, who was fighting to keep patients alive, was home. He and his son were numbers people. When they saw numbers, they did not run for the nearest exit. They gravitated towards them, probed them, re-arranged them, tried to make sense of them. Nekesa did not possess any of these inclinations. And so she stood there, staring at the book, when a miracle happened.

Nimepata toilet paper** na mkate!” Her housekeeper, a stocky lady who had worked for Nekesa’s family since her son was a baby, announced triumphantly, holding the toilet paper and bread up high, like a prize she had won in a bitterly fought contest. And knowing her, one or two people may have been elbowed out of the way in the process, in direct contravention of social distancing rules extolled by Dr Fauci and his well-informed brethren in all countries. Nekesa suddenly became engrossed in the storage of the toilet paper and upcoming dinner plans. Coronavirus had robbed her of her right to congregate, move freely and sing in her church choir, but she would be damned if she would also let it rob her of her dignity.

Her son decided to wait for his father to get home, after all, numbers zina wenyewe.

**You see, in the days of Coronavirus, when we hang on to every word Dr Fauci and his brethren spoke, and like the good students we were, sheltered in place, toilet paper was a prized possession. It was almost a status symbol to say, “I have 20 rolls”, to which I imagine those not so lucky would cluck their tongues in envy, amazed at the big roller’s planning skills.

Ancestral Recipes

Once upon a time, I was a little girl who watched my mum bake without measuring. She would gather ingredients, mix them, bake them and make perfect cake every single time. So, when I grew up and finally had a place of my own away from my six around the clock security guards (aka brothers), I decided to give baking a try.

Like I had seen my mother do so many times before, I gathered the ingredients, mixed a bit of this with some of that, and with all the optimism of a first timer, placed the mixture in my oven and hungrily awaited the tasty pastry that would emerge. A half hour later, as the aroma wafted through my kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself. This girl, who in her childhood had been a card- carrying member of tomboy nation, was now baking cake bila kupima! (without measuring).

Nothing in my life prepared me for what happened next. That oven, previously an ally, now revealed that behind its frosted glass door lay malicious embers which transformed my cake mixture into what the Swahili people call mazingaombwe. In other words, the cake had somehow managed to burn to a crisp, collapse in the middle and against the laws of nature, remain uncooked in parts. I stared at that ungrateful oven. And the ungrateful deformed pastry. To call it cake would be an insult to cake everywhere. Didn’t that oven know that farmers had toiled under the hot sun, and maybe torrential rain, to produce the wheat, sugar, milk and eggs that went into that cake? Did it not believe in beginner’s luck? Might it have been upset because I used the stove top more often than I used  it? The culprit silently emitted more heat, wordlessly daring me to insert another dish into the heat left over to burn my food to charred remnants. That oven believed that revenge was a dish best served smoking hot (literally burning). To quote my friends from the South, that oven did me dirty.

As you can imagine, since that traumatizing introduction to freelance baking, I have become a stickler for baking rules. I can measure like nobody’s business. I own every measuring cup and spoon known to man, woman and child. The result? I am proud to announce that I have baked everything from bundt cakes to quiches and all have turned out perfecto. And so, around the holidays, I decided to bake cake because my current oven is a dear friend and has never done me dirty. My current oven understands that not all foods must be cooked in it. It is not petty, unlike some ovens which will remain unnamed. It doesn’t seethe and sear my food in retaliation.

My mission to find a recipe for lemon blueberry cake turned up oodles of information that had nothing to do with cake. I found family trees. I read about grandmothers and grandfathers. I read about children’s schools and playground fights. I even found one recipe which started with photos of a cat. What a cat had to do with lemon blueberry cake eludes me to this day. But I keep searching and I keep reading these autobiographies disguised as recipes because I am so haunted by the specter of my baking failure all those years ago that I will patiently persevere through the meandering tales of ancestral recipes, all in the hopes of finally arriving at the actual recipe before I myself become an ancestor.

Majini

Legio Maria is a religion in my neck of the woods, the shores of Lake Victoria. The adherents of this religion are some of the most devout and close-knit group of believers I have ever seen. When entering the home of a brother or sister of the Legio Maria, you will be sprinkled with Holy Water, and a crucifix will be in full display, usually alongside a photo of their founder and Pope, also known as the Black Son of God, Simeo Ondeto.

Susanna had lived in the village of Mabungo her entire life. Therefore, she was no stranger to tales of the majini, alleged spirits who chose not to rest in peace and instead roamed the hills of Mabungo, scaring the living daylights out of locals, delivering hot slaps to those who would not move out of their way, and causing general mayhem. Susanna had never personally encountered the majini, but she was not one to deny their existence and dare them to pay her a visit.

Decades later, when Susanna was a married woman with children, she found that her husband’s income was not sufficient to pay for their children’s tuition, and being a resourceful woman, she found work as a maid, or Domestic Manager, in a nearby town. Since her youngest daughter Nyangweso was 19, Susanna didn’t need to be home tending to children anymore. Susanna’s employer, a retired university professor, was kind enough to give Susanna plenty of flexibility so Susanna could visit her family quite often.

Last December, Susanna went back to Mabungo to spend Christmas holidays with her family. While there, Nyangweso developed what the village medicine man immediately diagnosed as a case of majini. In other words, Nyangweso had been possessed by the infamous majini of Mabungo hills. She was manic, frantically running from one part of the village to the next at speeds Usain Bolt would envy. When possessed, Nyangweso became so strong that not even the village strongman could restrain her.

A desperate Susanna asked her local pastor to pray over Nyangweso as she slept. But after much praying in various tongues and screaming at the majini until he was hoarse, the pastor declared Nyangweso healed, collected payment and went on his merry way.

The next morning, Nyangweso woke up and took off again, but this time, she was speaking in tongues. All who saw her decided that even though she exhibited the same symptoms as she had before, she must be healed because she was speaking in tongues. When Susanna called her employer with the update, her employer advised her to have Nyangweso examined by a medical doctor to determine if what she had was a case of cerebral Malaria. Susanna declined, stating that her pastor was the eminent authority in spiritual matters and since he had not diagnosed Nyangweso with Malaria, then it was definitely a case of the majini.

A day later, Nyangweso had stopped speaking in tongues and was back to wreaking havoc in the village, overturning furniture, slapping strangers and causing general mayhem, before taking off at lighting speed. When Susanna called the pastor for a secondary consultation, he conceded that these majini were above his pay grade, and advised Susanna that a problem of that magnitude required a week of prayer and fasting. And so it was that Susanna called her employer to inform her that she would not be returning to work in January as planned because she would be incommunicado for a week while she fasted and prayed at a nearby cave commonly used by pilgrims for exactly that purpose.

A week later, a filthy, famished but hopeful Susanna emerged from the cave, eager to see the fruit of her prayer. To her dismay, there had been no improvement, in fact, Nyangweso had taken to throwing stones at strangers, which was a new and disheartening development.

It was time to call in the big guns. And when one needs to banish majini, who does one call? The Legio Maria, that’s who. Susanna restrained Nyangweso while she was asleep and awaited the arrival of the Legio Maria. They arrived in a row of flowing white and blue gowns, Holy Water and crucifixes in hand, solemn expressions on their faces, Rosary beads hanging loosely from their necks.  They were not there to make friends or small talk. They came for one thing and one thing only. The removal and banishment of the majini.

A small crowd gathered as Susanna led them to Nyangweso, who was struggling to break free from her restrains. They set up a makeshift altar next to Nyangweso’s bed and formed a circle around her, chanting and singing. Suddenly, Nyangweso went limp, as if the rage had been sucked out of her. The Legio Maria advised Susanna to let her sleep, as she had not rested in a very long time. They packed up their makeshift altar and left in the same manner in which they had arrived.

Later that evening, a renewed and calmer Nyangweso awoke, the majini nowhere in sight.

CoronaVirus

Mungu shuka na usitumane is a KiSwahili plea, used in very desperate times. The direct translation is “God come down and don’t send a messenger”.

My thoughts and prayers go to the deceased, the bereaved and the infected.

Silver Dollar Pancakes

Happy New Year! I realize it is March, but we have not spoken this year so, Happy New Year! Donge?

I have lived in this country long enough to understand that the States in this country are sometimes so different, they might as well be 50 different countries.  That said, I am proud to note that I now understand some common Americanisms, such as the peculiar threatening phrases used to wish each other luck.

American: Knock ‘em dead!

Me: Ah, excuse me, I am not a murderer. Also, who do you want dead? Never mind, the less I know, the better.

American : Break a leg!

Me: Again with the violence. Also, why just one leg? How do you choose the leg? FYI, I will not be breaking any leg, mine or anyone else’s.

It is this confusion that has led to some rather amusing and awkward interactions. For example, in Kenya, when someone invites you to join them for lunch, they will be paying for the meal. In the USA, you will each pay for your meal. Why then invite someone to join you for lunch when you have no intention of paying for the lunch? For the pleasure of their company of course! I once attended a presentation scheduled at lunchtime, titled “brown bag lunch”. I wondered why they would tell us the color of the bag they served lunch in. Did brown have a particular meaning? Of course, once I was at the presentation, it dawned on me that everyone had brought their own lunch, and I was the sole hangry attendee who did not know that a brown bag lunch meant to bring your own lunch. Now, when I see anything including a brown bag lunch, I do not attend. No thank you. Fool me once.

I have fully adopted the American tea drinking experience. In Kenya, there are two types of tea: with milk and without milk. The first kind, with milk, is the preferred kind. The latter, called sturungi  is what Americans call tea. Water and tea. That’s it. No milk, no sugar, ginger etc. The tea of suffering. The tea that says, look at me, I have no milk. I have no sugar. I am all alone in this miserable cup.

The milky version has lots of fancy names here, my favorite being chai tea, or in Kiswahili (tea tea). Note to all immigrants from milk tea drinking countries- brown bag your milk. (see above for brown bag definition)

There is a common Kenyan joke about a visit to one of my tribes-men’s houses that goes like this:

A visitor is offered many drinks, but leaves without partaking of any.

Would you like something to drink?

Yes, I’d like water please

Still or sparkling?

Sparkling please

Chilled or room temperature?

Chilled please.

Flavored or unflavored?

Unflavored please.

Would you like it in a cup or glass?

Cup please

Large or small cup?

I’ll just have bottled still water please!

Plastic bottle or glass bottle?

Glass please

Flavored or unflavored?

Unflavored please

Chilled or room temperature?

Chilled please.

Large or small bottle?

Large please

With a bottle holder or without?

The exasperated guest left despite being offered similar choices for tea, coffee and every other drink imaginable.

That is how I feel when I go shopping sometimes. I just want yogurt. Why do we need 50 different types, flavors and packaging? And then there are the eggs. Free range, organic, all-natural, pasture raised, large brown, large white, small brown, just brown.  Did they all come from chicken? Yes? ok. Just eggs then. It is mind-numbing.

Which brings me to the Silver Dollar Pancakes. Once I browsed shelves upon shelves of pancake options, including their close cousins waffles, I settled on an enticing box labelled “Silver dollar pancakes”. The box promised large, fluffy pancakes, piled on top of each other, blueberry syrup enticingly pouring down their side. I scanned the ingredient’s list and was satisfied that I would not be ingesting unidentifiable ingredients certain to cause diseases which, to quote my mother, even the doctor cannot pronounce. I was practically salivating at the thought of getting home, turning on the oven, sticking the pancakes in there and voila! I would unveil freshly baked fluffy pancakes and my family would rejoice and declare it all a roaring success and me the queen of pancakes.

What happened instead, was when I got home and opened the package, out rolled the tiniest pancakes known to man, woman and child. When I say they were tiny I mean TINY. You could eat these pancakes like you would popcorn. The disappointment felt in our hearts and stomachs after devouring the entire pack was palpable. It was then that my husband pointed out the obvious. A silver dollar is a large coin, from which the pancakes derive their name. Large, that is, for a coin- not so much for pancakes. Turns out there was one more American open secret I did not know of, much to the chagrin of my rumbling stomach.

 

 

Rainy Chronicles

Last night, my husband and I went to see the South African comedian Trevor Noah in San Francisco. We had looked forward to the show since tickets went on sale a few months ago, and bought our tickets and parking pass beforehand.

Since it was raining, we checked Waze beforehand to see how long it would take us to get to San Francisco. For the uninitiated, California has lovely weather almost year-round, which means that rain is A BIG DEAL. Although we get quite a bit of rainfall each year, people forget how to drive at the first sign of rain. Cars that can go upwards of 140 mph suddenly develop an inability to go past 25mph.

Certain bats from hell, who, I assume, are brain surgeons racing to perform life-saving procedures, fly past everyone, darting in and out of lanes, cutting in front of cars and braking suddenly when confronted with the reality of the rain-paralyzed drivers. This, of course, results in enraged drivers lowering their windows, angrily flipping out the offending bat from hell. Because, make no mistake, the rain may have paralyzed their driving skills, but their fine motor skills are weather-proof. Whenever incidents of road rage appear to start around me, I usually slow down and move away from that hot mess because this girl did not fly all the way from Kenya to become embroiled in road rage incidents that have nothing to do with her.

After a very long drive, we finally arrived at the swanky Chase center (new home of the Golden State Warriors), which was bedazzled in Christmas decorations. A ginormous Christmas tree greeted us at the entrance, with hundreds of selfie-taking couples crowding the area around it. Instagram will be lit- literally.

It was while we were standing in line ready to get into the arena that the comedy began. The security guard checked the ticket app on my phone and asked me, “Who are you here to see?” I responded, “Trevor Noah.”

“Oh, he’s in Oakland today.” the guard deadpanned.

I wanted to scream. We had looked forward to this day, hired a babysitter, driven in the rain for hours, had our car sniffed by a dog at the security check, finally found parking, only to find out that we were in the wrong city? Naturally, this alarmist train of thought was not a soliloquy. Outwardly, I froze and stared at my phone to make sure we had the right tickets. They were the right tickets, I looked up to find my husband and the guard laughing. They got me good.

Next, we went through airport type security and stood in a line where there were two very interesting characters. One was what we would call “mtu wa vitabu” back home. Meaning, a bookworm. Because who shows up to a comedy show bearing multiple tomes, requiring multiple passes on the scanner before they were cleared. I wondered if at some point during the show, while the rest of us were laughing so hard our faces hurt, this scholarly gentleman would open up one of his books and start to read, or if he would wait until the we, the general public, left, to lose himself in the latest volume of “The mind of the gentrified modernite” (he looked like the kind of person to read such esoteric literature).

I have encountered cheap people in my life. But the gentleman who was screened after the scholarly one takes the cake. If the cake is free of course. This guy had a water bottle, and as we all know, water bottles are not allowed past modern security screening stations. At first, I thought that maybe he hadn’t traveled anywhere before, and was unaware of this very basic rule. But I would very quickly be disabused of that notion.

He spent the next few minutes arguing with the security guard, asking why he couldn’t bring his water. She patiently answered his questions before giving up and rolling her eyes. She told him that he was holding up the security line ,and delaying others from entering the arena (I will take this moment to applaud Trevor Noah fans. Despite this inconvenience, no curse words were uttered, no middle fingers were flipped, and no fists were shaken in anyone’s direction.)

The guard told  the thirsty man that there was water for sale inside the arena, which finally revealed his real pain point. You see, the water inside the arena is very expensive (true, also San Francisco is a very expensive city to live in), and he wasn’t willing to pay for it (also true), and so he had brought his own water (not vitamin, ionized, sparkling) to drink. I should also add that the contentious water bottle was a plain plastic bottle- not the fancy UV light self-cleaning and self- sanitizing variety. The combination of the non-special water and the standard-issue plastic bottle added to the confoundment of all who witnessed the drama unfold. He was strongly encouraged to dispose of his water- and by strongly encouraged I mean two burly security guards showed up and assisted him in the task. He sullenly walked away from his beloved water bottle, ambling towards the arena, where, I hope, Trevor Noah was able to cheer him up.

Have a happy Holiday season, see you in 2020!

Miliki

Mabibi na Mabwana (ladies and gentlemen) welcome to the inaugural edition of my First World Problems series. In this series, I will write about things that are problems only because I live in the United States. Meaning, if I tell my mother about this “problem”, she will shake her head and say, “you people don’t have real problems”. And she will be telling the truth. Donge?

Like most boys his age, our son is obsessed with all things engine and/or wheels related. Construction trucks, trains, planes, bicycles, and even motorcycles (which he constantly reminds me he cannot wait to ride, much to my chagrin) occupy most of his play time.

This past weekend, we took our son to Tilden Park’s steam train and animal farm, so he could enjoy two of his favorite things. Trains and domestic animals. As a child being raised in the Bay Area, his interaction with chicken, cows, goats, sheep, geese, rabbits, pigs and other domestic animals is limited to various forms of media, as illustrated in the following paragraph.

Last week, while playing at the park, he found a dandelion and proceeded to make a wish before he blew its seed-head away. I asked him what his wish was. His very confident response was that he wanted a chicken riding a unicycle. So, if, in your travels, you encounter this acrobatic chicken, please send her my way, I will win the award of Supermom of the century, and may generate some income from this once in a lifetime oddity, thank you very much.

As you can imagine, my son’s non-exposure to domestic animals seems unfortunate to me, seeing as I grew up in close proximity to chicken, turkeys, ducks, goats, sheep and cows. I was very familiar with the annoying jogoo who would crow at the crack of dawn, unceremoniously waking me up from deep slumber.

Avid sports fans know Kenya for its world-class long-distance runners. They are unaware of Kenya’s other class of elite runners, the chickens known as “road runners”. These birds are always on high alert at lunch-time, dinner-time, and on double high alert when guests arrive at their host’s home. Case in point, a few years ago, while staying in Nairobi, our host could not make us chicken for dinner because our dinner had run away, as in, high speed, jumping obstacles, turning the corner without slowing down – literally running for their lives. And they succeeded that night. Let’s have a moment of silence to recognize the immense abilities of the steeplechase road-runners of Kenya.

Since a petting zoo is our only avenue  for our child to meet a ng’ombe and hear a moo live (or IRL as the kids say), then to the petting zoo we shall go. And so it was that we found ourselves at the petting zoo, feeding the cows, goats and sheep (who I must point out, are very finicky eaters- perhaps next time we should bring air chilled lettuce instead of the bunch we received from another parent at the zoo?)

When all of our lettuce was gone, and all the animals seen, our rumbling stomachs informed us that it was lunchtime. Because the zoo is located in what my lakeside relatives call the bungu (bush), there was no cell phone reception. We had planned to visit my brother after our zoo visit, and as we were getting hungry, I wanted to see what we would have for lunch. My brother lives alone, so one knows not to ask if he will make a hearty meal. He makes healthy yet delicious juices though. We all have our strengths.

Ten minutes later, we finally had bars on our phones!!! Shangwe na vigelegele (joy all around). I quickly texted to ask my brother if we could order lunch for delivery. He recommended Miliki, a Nigerian restaurant located in Oakland. Having had their delicious food before, I began salivating in anticipation of the jollof rice, pepper chicken, iyan and puff-puff (donuts) that were about to arrive in my empty stomach.

I want to state for the record that I love Jollof rice, whether it be Nigerian, Ghanaian or Cameroonian (I will not become mired in the Great Jollof Rice Debate). This love of Jollof rice makes sense to me, seeing as my DNA tests show a healthy amount of West African blood flowing through my veins. They are my cousins oooooooo.

It was around 1 pm, an hour later than our usual lunchtime, and we hungrily searched a popular food delivery app for Miliki’s menu, only to find less than ten items on their menu, none of which were my beloved Jollof rice. Not to be deterred, we Googled the restaurant, and their online menu was the same abbreviated version we had seen before. At this point, I asked my brother to place the order for us, and he assured us that it wouldn’t take long to get the food, so we should proceed to his house and we would order then. Twenty minutes later, both my husband and my brother were repeating the order to the lady on the phone- It was almost as if they were reading from two separate menus. After three rounds of repeated requests, made in two different accents (Kenyan and Colorado), they gave up.

My husband then decided to take matters into his own hands and personally collect the food while we waited. Forty minutes came and went, but still the no scent of jollof rice. My brother occupied my son by giving him a tour of his nascent orchard. My son helped himself to some goji berries and mint, as well as an insanely delicious vegan avocado chocolate chip cookie freshly baked and procured from the farmer’s market that morning.

Hunger comes in phases. First there is anticipation, then hope, followed by hanger, then, when your energy reserves are waning, the heavy weight of despair settles in your stomach, the food you were anticipating a disappearing mirage. Your body loses its impetus to fuel the anger, and instead goes into hibernation mode, not knowing when and/or if nourishment will arrive.

Seemingly hours later, my husband appeared out of that mirage, bearing our food. There was a lot of it. Jollof rice, chicken, tilapia, puff-puff (donuts), bean fritters (delicious- tastes like bajia), and iyan, a cassava flour fufu, completed the feast before us. My brother ordered tripe (and can my Nigerian cousins confirm this please- is tripe supposed to be really hard and chewy? In Kenya we boil it first and then fry it so it’s not hard when bitten). We sat down and devoured the delicious food.

Miliki in KiSwahili means to own, or to possess. And that is exactly what Miliki’s food will do to you. The smooth texture of the iyan accompanied by the peppery chicken dulls the bitter taste of disappointment that had settled on your tongue. They accompany the satisfyingly crunchy yet moist bean fritters, making their way down your parched throat, landing on the desert that is your stomach, nourishing it, so that the previous tenants, hanger and despair turn into a warm fuzzy feeling, and bloom into forgiveness. And that, my friends, is why I will be returning to Miliki. They might just have the answer to world peace.

Squashaggedon

My friend Ani is petite: five-foot-one on a good day, (and early in the morning before gravity compresses her vertebrae during the day) and very recently had her second child.

Ani is what I would describe as a nature lover. She eats all-organic food (including pasture raised and finished hotdogs), she receives acupuncture, cupping, sacral adjustments, detoxing foot baths, you get the picture. Ani is one with the earth.

The pesticide-steeped shadow of non-organic produce has never darkened the shelves of the store where Ani does her grocery shopping. One fine afternoon, a few weeks before her due date, Ani purchased spaghetti squash that was the very picture of health. Anyone who looked at this squash would have agreed that it was the exemplification of healthy squash. Ani was intent on making gluten-free spaghetti for her family that afternoon, and excitedly set about her task when she got home.

Almost an hour later, Ani sat down to enjoy the fruit of her labor, and when she took the first bite of the gluten-free, organic squash, it was very bitter. She did what we would all do. She stopped eating her meal and Googled reasons why squash would be bitter. Dr. Google, M.D, immediately informed her of a condition known as Toxic Squash Syndrome, a.k.a TSS (anything ending in Syndrome always sounds more ominous) that can be caused by consuming squash containing a group of chemicals called cucurbitacins. These cucurbitacins will result in what my doctor calls Gastrointestinal discomfort (extreme diarrhea) and excessive hair loss (also known as kipara ngoto in my neck of the woods).

Naturally, Ani, who was almost 9 months pregnant at this point, panicked, halted all squash-eating activity and proceeded to stick her finger down her throat to induce vomiting (to rid herself of the impending squashaggedon), when she ended up peeing herself in the process. Yes, she actually peed her pants. As one does when confronted by TSS. While she was processing this unfortunate turn of events, her doorbell rang. She quickly changed into dry shorts and went to answer the door. It was her colleagues, who had very thoughtfully surprised her with a group gift basket containing every imaginable goody a baby would need.

Ani was so frazzled by the thought of the potential side effects of TSS, that she blurted, “I peed my pants!” to the group gathered at her doorstep. After all, what’s pee among friends? It was in that moment that she realized the whole exchange was being recorded by one of her colleagues and would live on in iCloud infamy, not to mention the memories of the actual witnesses and all who would hear of squashaggedon .

Ani had a beautiful baby girl, she who survived squashaggedon and lives to one day hear the tale.

Canadian Bear

A few weeks ago, we decided to fly to Washington State’s Bellingham Airport and drive into Canada. Why? Well, I had never been to Canada and my husband said I would like it there, so, passports in hand, we packed our suitcases and set off for the airport. We flew Allegiant, which won the “how to fly” debate by offering free flights for children. And seeing as I am still not speaking to SouthWest, I didn’t bother to check if they fly there. That’s right, that grudge is alive and well.

We arrived at the airport early and very quickly discovered why Allegiant is a cheap as it is. After waiting for almost an hour, the sole check-in agent finally collected our luggage, and politely informed us that we were above the 40 pound per suitcase limit. Now, anyone with a child will tell you that 40 pounds is just not doable, but luckily, the nice lady waived the fees (we did not think to check because most airlines have a 50-pound limit).

Once we cleared security, we arrived at our gate where, you guessed it, the same lady was now at the boarding desk and would be helping us board the plane. Pretty smart strategy, which works great if you travel very light. I will say that their planes are more spacious than your average plane. No snacks were offered on the approximately 2-hour flight, so again, you get what you pay for.

Bellingham airport is either brand new or very well maintained. Baggage claim is right next to the car rental station, with the actual cars right outside. No shuttles needed. We headed to our rental car after we collected our baggage, and after our son assisted other passengers to collect theirs (he took great pride in guiding passengers and they were very good-natured about following his “directions”- gotta love small airports).

Early the next morning, we drove north and shortly came across bilingual English – French signs and the Maple Leaf, signalling our entry into Canada. The Canadian border agent was, as advertised, very polite and wished us a nice visit in her homeland. We took the ferry at Tsawwassen (named for the Tsawwassen First Nation, one of the peoples who inhabited the land long before any of us were here) and headed into Vancouver Island, whose capital Victoria is named for the British Monarch (coincidentally, Nam Lolwe, a lake in my home town was also named Lake Victoria after Queen Victoria. You say Lake Victoria, I say Nam Lolwe). While on the ferry, we saw a humpback whale, probably on his way to his pod before curfew, which was a nice surprise.

Our ferry guide, called a marine naturalist, gave us a tutorial of the different kinds of sea life native to the area. She also informed our son that orcas are also known as killer whales, which fascinated him to no end. It would become a refrain every time he heard the word “orca” during our trip. Thanks to him, many of the guests we encountered at restaurants, the hotel, the ferry, the elevator and at the airport are now aware that an orca is a killer whale. Feel free to educate your public as well. You are welcome.

Victoria is the seat of British Columbia, as is evidenced by an imposing parliamentary building with perfectly manicured lawns and an impressive statue of  Britain’s Queen Victoria. The formality is softened by oodles of colorful hanging plants, nearby horse carriage tours and a gorgeous waterfront from where ferries and water taxis ply their routes. Hundreds of tourists can be found taking in the sights via water taxi,  at the numerous restaurants and visiting the nearby Royal BC Museum (I highly recommend visiting this museum, it has authentic pieces that pay tribute to the originators of the art, and acknowledges partnership with the First Nations native to the area). The museum also has a life size replica of a mammoth. It is a awesome sight.

Masterfully carved and towering totem poles occupied an arena-like room. I am firmly divorced from my chakras, auras and other energy fields, therefore I usually have no ability to read the “energy” of a room full of inanimate objects. That was, until I felt a certain hesitation to approach those totem poles. The air in that room felt heavy, like a weight had been placed upon my shoulders when I walked in. Perhaps it was the totem’s seemingly all-seeing eyes or the dimness of the room. Perhaps it was because they were steeped in a sometimes gruesome history so deep, I could never fully comprehend the profoundness of what they had seen.

On day 3 of our trip, we decided to take a road trip to Port Renfrew. It was on this road trip that I got a real sense of what the island was about. I got a sense of deja vu when I saw distance in Km and measurements in Kg and meters. Living in the United States, I have become accustomed to miles, pounds and feet. So I had a brief re-introduction into the metric system, just like we have in Kenya.

Canada, the land of maple syrup, ice hockey and polite people has legalized marijuana, or bhangi as it is called in my neck of the woods. Marijuana has a very different reputation where I am from. It has been blamed for everything from the medical-mental illness, to the cosmetic- bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair. I was very interested to see its effects on the stereotypically polite Canadians. I can report that they were polite as advertised, except for one Canadian man, who upon hearing that I was from the United States, delivered his condolences for our political climate. He was very passionate about US politics, and his wife finally rescued me from his rant, telling him that I was on vacation, and probably did not want to discuss politics. She was right. I thanked her profusely.

We stopped by a convenience store to buy some snacks, and noticed a sushi restaurant called “I am Sushi”. See? No guess work. Across the street was a marijuana store called Earth to Sky. This reminded me of a spirits maker in Kenya who promised that if you partook of their products, you would understand why birds fly. We did not try out the products so I guess we will never experience the earth to sky experience, nor will we understand why birds fly via liquor. We also drove past a building named Roof (no mention of the doors, windows and other parts of the building) and a farm named ‘living the life’ farm. I will assume that is the farm where all the old cats and dogs go to live out their days. Other travelers mention hiking the strait of Juan de Fuca. There’s a name filled with potentially offensive mispronunciations. A vitamin shop with a mutant logo, promising good health to all those who patronized it, was right next door to a car oil-change shop, which got me thinking about the mutant logo. Vitamins + car oil= mutant vitamins aka borderline subliminal messaging.

We stopped by the tiny town of Jordan river, where the sole business, Cold Shoulder, announced to the weary travelers that they did not have restroom facilities. It was in their name you see, you will receive a cold shoulder as advertised. In other words, you can relieve yourself of all your sins in River Jordan, but do not relieve yourself at the Cold Shoulder in Jordan River, BC.

A few minutes later, while driving in the thickly forested area just past Jordan River, we saw A LARGE BLACK BEAR CROSS THE ROAD ahead of us. I couldn’t believe it. I had never seen a bear in the wild. Our child had never seen one either. My husband had, and assured us that that was a medium sized one. I shudder to think of what a fully grown one looks like. I have seen Revenant. If you haven’t, please do. It will instill a healthy fear of bears in you.  Maybe this bear had just visited Earth to Sky to get his weekly stash of Marijuana. Maybe he was late for a date. He seemed to be in a great hurry to cross the road. He disappeared into the foliage, never to be seen or heard from again. He probably went home and told his family about these weird people who were gawking at him as if they had never seen a bear before. It was the highlight of our trip.

When I went back to work and told my colleagues about my trip, one of them was more shocked by the fact that we flew Allegiant (had I not read about all the emergencies their planes seem to have?) than by the fact that I had seen a Canadian bear crossing the street in broad daylight. Eh?