“Thank you for coming; I will miss you.” My mother said, hugging me tightly as my father looked on smilingly. My vacation, or as I prefer to call it, stay-cation, had come to an end. Traveling home is always therapeutic for me. It gives me a break from the bustle of the city. I get to bond with my family, and most importantly, it does wonders for my skin.
“At least leo hujatoka mapema.” She said, swinging me from side to side. Living in Nairobi is a hustle; I hate being stuck in traffic and, even worse queuing up to board a bus. Therefore, on weekdays I leave home very early, but today was a weekend, I had the leisure of taking my sweet time. “Mum nitakosa gari.” I answered, slowly detaching from her embrace, and on that note, I left for the stage.
While traveling, I prefer to sit in silence, listening to my overused playlist whilst looking out the window. It’s crucial for me to sit next to a window; the cool breeze keeps me sane throughout the travel. Ironically, despite my love for traveling, I am highly susceptible to travel sickness. As the journey began, so did my mind start to wonder. I felt sentimental. I was missing my parents. While adulting sucks, what’s sucks the most is seeing your parents grow old. Don’t get me wrong, it is a blessing to see them age, but it is painful to see them sickly and not as strong as they once were. But si ni life!!
It is after you grow up that you realize your parents are individuals in their own right. They have personalities and unique character traits, just like you and me. I smiled cheekily at the thought of my mother.
She is a happy soul, a comedian. I enjoy her company as I am ever laughing. I think I acquired my storytelling talent from her. Perhaps in another life, she was an artist. Despite that, she is terrified of trying new things. Ironical. Mom recently bought a new maroon dress that she paraded to anyone willing to see. I assumed she had tried it on because who buys dresses without trying them on first? I could tell she was excited to wear it. I could count the number of times she had asked me to unhang it from the hanging lines lest it over dries or, worse, gets stolen. However, when she finally wore it, she did not like how it looked on her. In my eyes, the dress was great. It was of knee-length, it was decent, beautiful, and it flaunted her curves, and that was exactly what made her hate the dress. “Ngai! How can I go out like this?” She exclaimed. She was disturbed by the idea. It pained her. After a few inquiries, I found out that she had tried the dress on top of another dress. Funny huh? Do you know she never stepped out in it, not even on the veranda. Eventually, she took it off and said she would first gather courage before trying it again, but I am sure she will sell it the first chance she gets.
With so much free time in my hands, I decided to surprise my parents with a new chicken recipe. I intended to make KFC chicken for them. I gushed all over the house at the idea. On the D-day,’ I prepared my ingredients carefully; I let the chicken marinate for hours in a mixture of herbs and spices. I was going to declare myself the chief-chef; I was going all out. Little did I know what was in store for me.
“Kwani unapika aje?” Mom enquired as soon as she got home from work.
“Mbona umekuja mapema ivi?” I enquired, somewhat stunned. I was not expecting her for another two hours. This was definitely going to ruin my plan. I wanted them to find a ready meal, something new and tasty. “Why are you asking? Don’t you want me around?” she replied inquisitively. Ignoring her comment, I took out my marinated chicken and dipped it in a thick flour paste I had made.
In Kikuyu, she exclaimed, “You have not boiled it?”
“Mom… I don’t have to boil it; besides, I have marinated it for hours.”
“Asha! Asha! You will not feed us uncooked meat!”
Feeling agitated, I snubbed her remarks and continued with my ‘methodology.’ This was not the first time I was using this recipe; I knew what I was doing. I am a pro, and I needed to prove it. My mother is a huge fan of a popular cooking show that airs on Innoro TV station, ‘Irio to Githeri,’ loosely translated to mean that Githeri is not the only food for the Kikuyu community. You would think she picked up some new cooking tricks. Oh well!! As I prepared to deep my chicken piece into the now hot oil, she held my hand and said, “Nyambura, this is not how you cook chicken. You have not boiled it, and you have put too much flour.”
“Then just let me cook this one for me.” I retaliated. She let go of my hand, and I put my piece into the oil as she walked into the sitting room, sulking. Taking advantage of the ‘freedom,’ I prepared two more pieces and added them into the sufuria. I am not sure what happened, but in a split second, the sufuria fell and spilled all the oil leaving me scrambling for safety.
“MAMIIII!” I cried. She came out running. After seeing what had transpired, she laughed at me and left. It stung. Ultimately, I was forced to cook the chicken normally, not forgetting a little ‘thufu’ for her.
Happy Mother’s Day! ♥
Mourine Warui is a media and communication expert and seasoned writer. Her goal is to empower and offer solutions to everyday girl’s problems while provoking candid and authentic conversations. Other goals are to provide inspiration and entertainment to readers through creative, thought-provoking and edgy stories.
