It is long since diet changed to
roasted maize for supper and my chef doesn’t even know of my name. I can’t
blame him because Children of soil are identified by their character. If days
were still what they were, a woman would be waiting with a bowl of soup and vuchima for his husband (me). It sounds gothic to
the voice vocals to say you married at 24.
He uses a flat screw driver to cut the
mtwi portion before I point on the
ria mudako. You cannot ask for the hind
part of the corn if the upper part isn’t taken. ‘we do not work that way’, I do
not want him to tell me. It was our daily childhood struggle to shout the part
of maize to partake in its season. The weak ones of course remained with
mtwi. To master the art of selecting a
sweet corn and brownishly roast it is a
man’s blessing of such a woman- or child.
‘I do this for my community’, is
his philanthropic statement. Of course there is nothing much gained from the
coins- or else today he won’t come because he collected enough yesterday. The
rich also buy from him as the obvious do and he really brags for this. He is a
father and responsibilities are on his back. He calls himself a Director.
He is a director because he has a
child in secondary school. He calls me a hustler ; employee to be. Like any other
average being, sex seeps into talks as likely as a blink. A hustler for I have
no wife and somehow searching; An employee because one is married; A supervisor for a child has been sired; A
deputy director because demands are many; A director for children are
grown-ups. One becomes a CEO when grandchildren appear. To him this is the apex
and his greatest notion.
I dodge some of his words and
look at the moon. He knows that once it goes into darkness, rain will surely
come. He knows that during the waning cycle, the moon rises late in the night
continuously to early mornings. His working commences from 3 am for Gikomba
rush hour to win fresh maize. It is not
like the boilers who sometimes prepare soaked maize- hard from granaries.
You won’t find him where I do if
you came in the day. You must be a late walker. The city Askaris inhibit him in
the market. He comes out when the sun sets. There he enjoys the services of
streetlights, serious customers and a city clock behind to remind him that the
day will not last forever.
Greatly I am interested in his
machine- the charcoal thing. He says that there is great science behind which he
waters down when he starts to explain, ‘This is a mixture of soil, charcoal and
water’. It forms a circular shape by a support. This he makes once or twice in
a week because the heat is slowly and maximumly used. Using a wire, he tingles
the sides and fresh charcoal is brought into being!
A plastic flat is used as a fan.
The marksmanship on the ‘stove’ prevents ash from settling on the food. More
science behind how the heat heats the seeds to food is what we both see not
necessary to understand. It is not poisonous- but too much will call for a
belch. Tatatata is the sound sometimes but it should not be confused to good
expertise.
‘The water…what do you know about
it with carbon monoxide?’ son of soil blurry remembers from high school class
that it is a poisonous gas. He gazes at my bring-the-story-on-face to say that the
water, catalysed by the fire, reacts to form harmless CO2. That is why, he
says, he does not get ‘negative effects’ from his labour. I doubt that such
statements may only be his way of denial. Who wants such a task? Look at his
burnt fingers and mode of wear. It wasn’t his dream.
And today, I’ve saved a 20 for
him and me. He knows the hustler will come. And when he comes, they will talk
about things that do not really matter as I wait for a rushing lady to buy ria mutwi.
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| Picture source: http://gentlymetamorphingme.blogspot.co.ke |
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