Mutura is a delicacy, but only as long as you do not ask where it came from and which animal was sacrificed to prepare it. A certain someone from wherever just arrived in our neighbourhood and brought with her good tidings Men and women have been flocking to her new place, and pregnant women have developed a craving for her Mutura specifically, claiming mtoto ndio anataka. Wazee have not been left behind either. They were used to samosa za githeri but this woman packs legit meat in their crispy brown cover, and so it was expected that men would go there and digest Uhuru-Raira while they partook in the entrails and the false mandazi. This woman is generous, and it is true that her Mutura was slightly larger and her samosa packs heavy punches. She had her own recipe which she never shared, but who cares? It was big and good, and that is all that mattered, true? Nobody questioned a lot, and it barely raised eyebrows when Mukurino Wa Jesu declared his two donkeys missing. He was the one who left them outside at night after all. There was a second disappearance, and I would not have cared if I hadn’t heard two Mamas talking. I heard Mama Jose ask about her cat, Munene, who had gone for his evening hunt and dating missions but did not return. She had been waiting with a whip to negotiate with him as to why he had drunk maziwa ya mtoto, but on sensing danger, it seems he did not return. He did not return the next day either or the day after, and the rats started having their field day. She went to Mama Albert, and as they were having their daily dose of rumours, she brought up the topic. Mama Albert was shocked. Hers too had absconded duty. There was a chance that the two cats had eloped to start a life of their own, but there was also another chance not considered, that they were at a better place chasing golden mice and singing songs of praise. I did not say a word, and I didn’t have to stay long. There was an accusation from someone who had woken up early and overheard some people talking near the giant rubbish heap. Later he claimed to have heard a fire crackle and the smell of burning flesh rent the air. Mama Mutura had been mentioned a number of times in the conversation, and he knew why. He was forced to ‘apisha’ himself with a new-testament bible that he was stating the truth, and after that, he led an impromptu raid into the den, chanting songs of war. There were people as usual seated there, being an evening, and they were shocked to see an angry mob approaching. Mama Mutura was a clever one, and she took off. The search inside the kitchen yielded more than just fresh makucha ya paka and makwatos. There was also fried chicken with about four necks. Nobody had thought as to what happened to the hungry vultures running around. The people were not happy. They ate every Mutura on the fire to show her that they were truly mad. For those who were eating in the meanwhile, I hope they have their NHIF Cards on the ready. It is going to be a busy week.
AFRICAN PECULIARITIES: Death and Social Media
It has always filled me with disgust and wonder, the hurry that people are in to post of the demise of ‘friends’ and ‘loved-ones’ on social media. A person is barely dead, and the images are already flooding the pages, images from the years back and now. It is only then that somebody you barely talked to becomes your girlfriend and boyfriend, when the brother you fought all the time becomes beloved, or the mother you called names becomes the greatest ever loss. Some of these people you have not contacted in years, some you have not seen. Others you could not see eye to eye when they were alive, but the moment they die, they become your beloved brother, best of friends. Your grandmother was walking barefoot while you had the best of lives in the city. You could not visit her in the village when she was sick, save for the measly Christmas visits where your desire is to show off to the low-lives that were left behind when you went to the city, to show off your car and your babies, ...
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