Lucky!

No one ever talks about Mama Chakula! You know the women who turn smoky chapati dough into lifelines next to construction sites? You should try their tea, Oh my God it tastes so sweet it could win hearts faster than a well-rehearsed campaign slogan. We hear about Mama Mboga and Mtu wa Bodaboda all the time, especially when politicians want to connect with ‘the common mwananchi.’ But Mama Chakula? Silence. Forgotten, like the ketchup at the back of the fridge. Chapati dondo tastes better kwa mama chakula than in some homes. (I can bet my life on this!).

Back in the day, my mother was a hustler long before it became a political buzzword. She owned a small kiosk at Namgoi shopping centre. It wasn’t that big. A scrappy little wooden structure that served road construction workers at Kapsabet Bible school. Her menu wasn’t complicated; boiled eggs, mandazis, chapati dondo, uji and sweets for the kids who didn’t understand the value of money but absolutely understood the value of sugar. That’s where I come in.

Whenever I got back from Nandi Primary, I was in class one at the time, I’d swagger into the kiosk like a little king returning to his castle.

“Mama, mambo!” I’d say, and without fail, I’d walk out with my hands stuffed. My friends, Oli and Oluoch, envied me.

“Bring us some sweets today!” Oli would say, his voice dripping with a mix of hope and desperation.

“Ooh Mom said the sweets are only for me!” I’d respond, puffing out my chest like a bantam rooster. “Doesn’t your dad work at the Bible College?”

Oluoch would chime in with a groan. “If you don’t bring us sweets we’ll not talk to you and you’ll not be our friend!”

That shut me up. It was true, after all. Their dad was a chef at the Kapsabet Bible College, and they always had packed lunches that could make anyone’s mouth water. Fried chicken. Chapati (not like my moms but…!), Fresh fruit. It was like they carried five-star buffets to school. But sweets? That was my domain.

If I had a dollar for every sweet I got from mom back then, I would be the undisputed governor of Namgoi Center, but anyhu!

Oli and Oluoch had something I didn’t. A little sister. Let’s call her Wairimu because I can’t forgot her name. She was, for lack of a better word, pretty. Kind, funny, with a smile that could warm your heart naturally. We played together the games kids play when parents are not home and sang together in Sunday school when no one else had a song. Can you relate?

But there was a problem. Dogs. Their house was guarded by three black beasts that barked at me whenever I wanted to go close to their door. Like they were instructed not to let me play with her in their house. Whenever I tried to tip toe past their gate, my heart would race, not from the thrill of seeing Wairimu but from the primal fear that I would loose my limb any minute.

I left Kapsabet and Wairimu and plus the sweets and chapatis from mom to continue with primary school in the green neighbourhood of the capital city. Tigoni was a different world. Cold, green, and full of children who could pronounce “schedule” without turning it into “shed-yule.”

One day, a friend gifted me a puppy. A German shepherd puppy. It’s hard to know the value of something when you have zero interest in it. The fear of dogs had travelled with me from Kapsabet and as a result, I couldn’t appreciate such a puppy as a gift for a school child who was missing sweets and Oli and Oluoch and her mother. Also Wairimu.

“Just take the puppy Fred,” Khamish had pleaded

“I am scared of dogs!” I said

“When he is big, you will be lucky to look back and remember you got him for free!” he tried to convince me.  I didn’t care but took him anyway. I named him Lucky, partly because he was the runt of the litter and partly because for the first time, I had a dog that didn’t want to eat me. We were both lucky to have each other.

Lucky was my best friend. He followed me everywhere, his tail wagging like a tiny flag of hope. Together, we’d go to the shop, to watch football matches and he’d literary wait for me outside the toilet. He must have wondered why I never allowed him to go in with me. I’d never understood dog lovers before but now whoever saw me with Lucky never understood us.

I came home from school one afternoon to find him lying by the backyard, lifeless. My heart broke. My first suspect? My uncle.

“Did you kill Lucky?” I demanded, tears streaming down my face.

“You’re crying over a dog?” he replied with a dismissive wave and laughter. “It’s just a dog thay must have eaten bad meat. You’ll get another one when you’re done with school!”

His words stung more than I’d like to admit. Parents don’t understand emotions or affection or whatever that feeling I shared with Lucky is called. He was more than “just a dog.” He was my friend. My is the keyword. Mine!

Years passed. High school was a blur of books, adventures, and awkward dances. University brought its own set of lessons, love, Breakups, Haha! Nowdays I hear there is ‘Kugongewa or is it Kugongeana! This time, dogs are used in campus rooms to refer to different private activities. What ever happened with Oli and Oluoch? And of of cause Wairimu?

What I am trying to say is that the boy who once munched on sweets from his mother’s kiosk is now a man, ready to build a legacy. I recently weighed myself, 76.4 kilograms. More than double the skinny kid who lived on sugar and got terrified by dogs But my growth hasn’t been just physical. Can love and heartbreaks and experiences and skills be measured in kgs? Would love to know what makes me more of a man between weight from food and that from life.

This year, I plan to travel to more destinations in the world but more importantly, I hope to visit Kapsabet. To visit the little town where sweets were given to me for free. Tracing the roots they say, and yes, I will make sure I try to look for Oli and Oluoch, and Wairimu. They at least deserve to meet my girlfriend know that I am no longer scared of dogs.