Saturday evenings, I pull into the driveway and lay on the horn
Summoned by the sound, four teenagers unfurl too slowly from beneath their laptops
Drag leaden limbs out through the garage to haul bags of groceries from the trunk
To the kitchen counter, where each item is unpacked, appraised and rotated into
The fridge, broad and stately, a queen holding court in my kitchen, gleaming white
It’s chicken for dinner; my husband didn’t see the packages of hamburger defrosting inside since Wednesday
Men lose the ability to hunt once faced with the shimmering glow of a fridge light
Now the Hamburger may spoil, rancid as my mood
I would like a black fridge to match the appliances some day
Then, I could retire this old queen to the garage, to hold
Two spare gallons of milk and the kids’ Costco packages of string cheese
But the fridge is white
As the flour she used in the slums of Kisumu, demonstrating the art
To me, a mzungu, outsider, white woman, of making chipatis
She added oil, pressed and folded
Drizzled precious water hauled just this morning from the well
Let drop a smatter of salt; slapped and kneaded
Tearing off gobs of dough, her hands rolled and collided like a playful ocean
Finally pressing flat the ball she had formed with a plastic rod
She squatted again and again, tucking swathes of faded fuchsia fabric skirt between her legs
Flat discs of dough on black stone heated by fire, bubbling up golden warm
This dance lasted an hour, as her stack of doughy chipatis grew, an offering to her brood
Twelve grandchildren, not one of her children remain, the lost generation
Her husband gone too, all carried away by the sickness that hollows out cheeks and devours health
Chipatis heavy with grease and her good intentions, served with ugali and sukuma wiki, it’s more than many get
Maybe there will be meat tomorrow, sometimes the church people come by with a chicken
Today she carried home the flour, oil, maize and greens from the corrugated tin booth; there was no money for a boda-boda
Last time that she had the money, it was a waste anyway, the boda-boda man flipped the bicycle
Avoiding a wily goat busy scavenging for his own meal, and the children’s dinner- every bean and an onion- rolled out into the dirt
Of course, she tells me, I picked them up, brushed them off, but hmmmphh, I didn’t give him a shilling!
That ugly man chased me down the street- where’s my money?– so he could buy chipatis for his dinner
And my daughters take turns opening wide the groaning fridge, searching its crowded depths
Letting the door slowly sigh shut as they retreat, empty-handed
Finding nothing inside to eat
It’s the curse of the teenager! The house is full of food, but there’s nothing to eat!
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[…] ran the food bank at our church, headed up the team that worked the rescue mission, and went to Kenya twice on short term mission trips; all things I likely would not have had time to do if I was […]
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