Sunday sat there on its holy ass and its holy place, as
usual. I love Sundays because ladies embrace a certain obscure sense of
decorum, covering all their vital body parts for once even though they had been
out and about, half clad and smoking shisha
the entire Saturday night. Some will don sun glasses to hide their blood shot
eyes dilating, trying to stay afloat in the deep end of hangover. It’s none of
my business though. Men of God have to eat, men of God have to have an
aesthetic atmosphere as they preach to desperate humans, about the need of
planting seed. How do you save money in someone’s account and expect it to
multiply in yours? As he cruises in top of range cars and preaches about how
God is merciful, always think, unless it hurts.
It’s not a breathtaking sight, seeing people throng to their
places of worship. On this day I make special attempt to stay in bed all day
long, without attempting to even move a muscle, only rising to make noodles and
back to bed. This Sunday, though I am twice unlucky. No three times unlucky. 1.
There’s no water 2. I won’t have my noodles 3. I have to get out and witness
people who seemingly have been struck by a bout of holiness. For two days in
row, the taps have been empty, emptier than a politician’s promises. What sucks
when you have no options? Not me. I create options; and so I create a craving
for chapo madondo.
Once I alight at Ambassador, I knew where I was going.
There’s this guy who praised chapo za Muthurwa, in the same relish a man would
in describing a woman’ s derriere-big, curvy and beautiful to look at just as
it would to devour.
Muthurwa. There’s always a sea of people every day, even
Christmas, I should think. Those Kyuks never go on a break. You’ll find them
having spread their wares, eating a huge chunk of the road, albeit shamelessly.
Some shout their prices, some just mum. People move by, oblivious, as if these
traders are non-existent, worse still invisible. Just like everyone else, I
squeeze myself through that narrow entrance. I almost bump into a girl in a
jeans skirt and a red t-shirt. In such situations it’s advisable to stand your
ground lest you begin playing a game of obstructing each other. What’s worse
than that?
I find my way; or rather follow the scent of chapatti. There
are empty stalls! I want to run around and scream to whoever has ears that I
have discovered empty stalls in Muthurwa but then I remember it’s a Sunday.
Before long I am just where I want to be. Men clad in dirty white dust coats
knead flour, some make small balls of it, and others are rolling them while
watching the one on the pan. Hunger makes you blind to so many things. I mean
look at street children. I find a spot nearly empty because I don’t want people
watching me eating so ravenously. They throw you pitiful eyes that seem to say
‘kwani huyu hajakula miaka ngapi?’
After giving out my order to a bulky jovial woman, I scan my
environment without seeming to intrude into people’s personal space. It’s all
men here. It seems like a battlefield. There was a couple, a middle aged man, a
woman with a shaved head and a kid tucked between them. The woman was feeding
the kid with what I hoped wasn’t from the place. They chatted animatedly,
engrossed in each other’s words to notice their surroundings. The man is lucky,
or rather among the luckiest chaps. He can bring his woman here and get away
without bruises. The current generation of ladies frown upon such places and
should she get wind of the fact that you were seen, even detouring through
Muthurwa, you will be blocked without notice. Blocked everywhere, twitter, facebook,
gmail, yahoo…name it.
I settle on my food, biting huge chunks of the chapatti and
scooping the beans slowly, enjoying every moment of it. Once someone asked me
my favourite food and I answered ‘the first food I’ll lay my eyes on when I am
ravenously hungry.’ This right here was definitely my favourite. I order one
more chapatti.
While I was about to clear my plate, a well dressed
gentlemen walked towards the food stall. In tow was a beautiful lady dressed in
red. The bulky woman beckoned the gentlemen and he heeded. To my surprise the
beautiful lady followed him. According to my estimation, a woman of that
stature, a woman who had taken time to shave her eyebrows only to redraw (it
must be painstaking) deserved a five star kind of hotel, not the lowly of the
lowly Muthurwa. She was dressed in a red dress that went slightly above her
knees, which would definitely reveal her sumptuous thighs. She had those eyes
that peered straight into your soul, straight into your value and even where
you’d be in the next five years. And she had heels too.
The gentleman converses in whispers with the attendant
(these places don’t have waitresses). Moments later she brings out a plate of
what looked like mashed minced meat, with too much soup in it. I pay her and
leave. But questions lingered in my head, which I longed to ask.
How do you get such an urbane lady to eat in a kibandaski?
For some of us such kind place is unheard of. Even a woman two weeks in the
city won’t allow her palate to taste such kind of deplorable food, in
deplorable place.
Next time I’ll make a point of taking one to such a place. I’d
tell her she needs experience first. And it’s not sold anywhere. She needs to
prove her mettle, that whatever happens in the course of the relationship, she
should be able to stick with me through thick and thin.
