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Six Hours in Heaven
By Jesse Masai
“Jesse, you cannot be typing away your weekend when I am asking you to come see me,” my friend Peter* pleaded, knowing fully well that drawing me out would be as hard as milking a stone. That was the call that got me out of the place I call home in Washington, D.C. at about 3:00pm.
“What a way to pay back,” I told myself as I readied myself for the unknown.
“A man does not refuse a call. He can only refuse that for which he is called,” I quoted Chinua Achebe to myself as I hit the road.
Peter is a Kenyan professor of history at a prestigious university within the Washington, D.C. area. I had been the one to orient him to the Metro when he came to town from another university in Chicago. I had done the orientation as a “thank you” to another Kenyan professor of literature at the Chicago institution, with whom I have been friends for awhile. I thought I had done my bit; I now was eager to understand what new thing was happening on Peter's front. I called up James* - a Kenyan with whom am trying to begin some initiative back home: never walk alone, to accompany me, I had learnt while politicking back home last year. James is a theologian; I had believed I could do with a man of the cloth if Peter's call was a life and death matter.
We got to Peter's house, and matters got interesting. Our host had made a pot of Ketepa Kenyan tea to order; it instantly reminded James and I of sweet home. Ketepa always reminds me why the world, led by the British and Pakistanis, love Kenyan tea. That which is called British tea in the Anglo-Saxon past-time is actually Kenyan tea, but I digress. We had not ploughed into the delicacies much before a middle-aged Sudanese neighbor of his walked in.
“Peter, my wife and I didn't think you had such good food here. Where have you been hiding her?” he asked.
We roared with laughter as Peter attempted to give an account for his excellent cooking skills, as the Sudanese tried to put together an impromptu search committee to look for the “hidden” wife. Shortly afterwards, the Sudanese shifted gears to contemporary African affairs.
That is when I got the first reason for Peter's call. Being neither too clever nor too foolish, it turned out Peter had found an excellent way to stimulate my thinking and engender a community of African talking heads in his house. I did not think that was a really bad idea if the payment was quality Kenyan food. Three hours later and it seemed as though we had not gone beyond an inch of modern Africa, and the day's breaking news that Thabo Mbeki had resigned as South Africa's president.
On the fourth hour, Peter's Sudanese friend left. Shortly afterwards, Peter advised that Phillip* - a Kenyan, theologian friend of his – was downstairs to take us to another “thinking” session. Phillip, it turned out, is a neighbor of mine in D.C. and nearing completion of his doctorate in matters of faith before returning home for ministry. He had been at the center of some major events back home, and I suddenly got excited to hear him out. His idea of a venue for thinking was nothing I had prepared for in any way – Safari Restaurant and Catering.
Safari – or Safo in Kenyan slang – is an establishment about which I had heard much previously, but never patronized both owing to my disdain for the din that goes with such and my love for home-cooked meals, the latter much in line with my habits and preferences. We got there and the remaining two hours of my heaven unfolded. I was spoilt for choice, seeing as I did that they had all my favorites, which include chapati (thank God Indian immigrants brought us that) rice and fish. Ugali and mbuzi choma – I had not eaten both since I returned to the United States.
The former is a hot paste of maize flour cooked over time in hot water – some call it tasteless, yours truly calls it the African cake. In the villages, maize flour is to sometimes be substituted with millet, sorghum and – at the worst of times – wheat flour. It fills the tummy, and leaves one ever so strong. The latter, served alongside kales, onions and tomatoes, is a mouth-watering delicacy like no other. So Ugali and mbuzi choma it was for one Jesse Masai, with pineapple juice to boot, while others at the table drowned their sorrows away.
I do remember thinking about faith and public affairs with Phillip, Peter and James, but I also recall licking my fingers even much more. Both Phillip and Peter believe the thinking should be expanded in the days to come to include other Kenyan men interested in the same. I told them I did not mind for as long as Peter's wifely hands kept the regiment of drummers in my tummy quiet, and Phillip picked the tab next time we returned to Safari. Everyone laughed. They also said – and rightly so – that they believed I was unlikely to return to Safari, having discovered on the same day where they do all their shopping for Kenyan food. And not just that, but again because I had kindly but firmly protested at Safari giving me hard mbuzi as if I had steel for teeth, and then proceeded to take ages to process my small bill.
“You got it right,” I replied as I returned to the place I call home away from home.
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
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