Mrenda: A snail’s handkerchief #BabaWhileYouWereAway – that was the genesis of our problem. You see, while Baba was away, all was tranquil and quite. Then Baba returned and tension gripped the land. What had Baba been up to? Was he planning to destabilise the Uhuruto government? So palpable was the tension that you could cut it with a knife and store your own portion. Baba called for dialogue. He was ignored. Saba Saba. He suggested- some said declared- the day to be a holiday. In the cities and towns, husbands sent wives and children upcountry. Violence could break anytime, it was feared. Saba Saba came. We were in a dilemma: Should or should we not go to work? I work in Yaya which neighbours Kibera- one of Baba’s strongholds, so you can see my fears were real. To work I went, but no work I did. It was more of a technical appearance with me going to the reception every so often to glance at the telly and decide whether to dash home or not. The media was reporting Nairobi CBD to be a ghost town. Lunch time came and my belly was a rumbling. Now, we eat in Uchumi. In the car park. At one of the corners. There is a Mama who is allowed to bring in food- kawaida food- to serve the Uchumi staff. The staff, being ‘small people’, can’t be able to afford Debonairs’ pizzas or hot dogs, so we other common people benefit under this arrangement too. Then again, her cooking is top notch that now and then, you will see a Mzungu or a Mhindi join the party. The eating is done alfresco courtesy of Uchumi who persuaded Coca Cola to donate branded plastic seats, tables and umbrellas. On Saba Saba though, Uchumi was closed over the uncertainty hovering in the air. A few GSU, the riot police, manned the entrance gate and the perimeter wall to dissuade anyone from seeing the opportunity to loot the mall. Now, my tummy is rumbling and things seem okay around Yaya though a bit slow due to the tension. The day might just pass without incidence, I reckon. I am with a colleague and we are as hungry as hell. Nothing works better as an appetiser than worry, so it feels. Nearby is a market full of kiosks. Here, we usually get chipo mwitu and salads when our body craves excitement. Today, however, Mama Chips and Mama Salad have closed shop. We stroll the market and find one of the food kiosks to be operational. The seats here are roughly hewn- two pieces of wood sunk into the ground and a plank of wood nailed across them. The tables too are rudimentary in their construction. We ask for our usual diet-rice, chapati, ndengu, ugali, githeri- nope, only ugali is in the menu. Stew? Omena and mrenda. Do they have other mboga za kienyeji apart from mrenda. No. They had managu a while ago but it has run out. Inside the kiosk is a guy going around hawking green-skinned avocadoes. We learn he is a relation of the kiosk owner. We fortify ourselves with an avocado apiece just in case. Today we are brave. Tension rents the air and people are allowed to try new things. Things might never be the same again, who knows. So, the brave two of us order ugali, mrenda and omena. In majuu, omena is known as sardines- here you have to be brave to eat these little things which stare accusingly at you as you eat them. Mrenda. We are traumatised right from the serving to (in my case) the last bite. As the mrenda is served from the pot into the plate, it takes all you have to retain a modicum of composure. Picture this- a string of mucus- heavy and dark and green- connects the stuff deposited on your plate and the stuff still in the pot. Now, the mrenda and the omena is on our table. My colleague takes a bite and soon gives up. He eats the rest of his ugali with the salted avocado. I, on my part, do not want to seem snobbish. The people around us might start to think that I am pedigreed- raised in Muthaiga, Runda and all that. So, I take bite after bite though I am slowly suffocating on the inside. Here is the experience for you to ruminate on: You have to partake a meal of fried spinach with cornmeal. However, a slug or snail is shredded or melted into the spinach and thoroughly mixed with the spinach. Now, close your eyes and feel the gooey stuff rolling around your mouth and sliding into the pit of your stomach. Now, open your eyes and lose whatever remains of your dignity and composure- for mrenda allows you to have neither. As you scoop a portion of it with your piece of ugali, it stretches hideously from the plate and breaks off with a loud smack (imaginary), thus leaving you embarrassed. Luckily for you, this seems to be the norm here as everyone is partaking the same meal. Says my friend, ‘Mrenda must be the snail’s handkerchief.’ I concur in agreement as we walk away from the disturbing scenery. In my mind, a plot slowly forming for a perfectly horrendous gothic movie. zurikiki/stories/mrenda-a-snails-handkerchief/
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 19:52:31 +0000
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