Today began with a whisper of hope, like the dawn teasing the horizon with promises it might not keep. As a good Luhya man does, I found myself in church, seated on my usual pew, nodding along as the choir’s harmonies wrapped around my soul like a warm shuka. The hymns rose and fell, a symphony of faith that massaged my spirit and soothed my heart. Ah, what sweet nourishment! When the congregation swelled into Philip Bliss’s “It Is Well with My Soul,” I sang along with conviction—or so I thought. Little did I know, the “well” of my soul was as dry as unboiled maize husks.
Back home, lounging on my couch, the sweet balm of spiritual contentment was rudely interrupted. Scrolling through my phone, I stumbled upon a picture—a snapshot of betrayal frozen in time. There I was, fork in hand, caught mid-chew, my face a masterclass in deception. At first glance, I seem to be thoroughly enjoying the meal. But…that wasn’t joy—it was survival. You see, In that moment, I wasn’t eating whatever was on my plate. No, my mind had transported me to a grand feast—steaming matumbo wet fry, perfectly bitter saga, firi firi kwa umbaaaali, and, of course, a heroic mound of Grade 3 ugali anchoring the meal. I wasn’t enjoying the food in front of me. I was enjoying the fantasy!
This wasn’t hunger in that photo. No, my friends, this was a performance—an act of mental gymnastics so profound it turned mediocrity into greatness. Or at least, that’s what I told myself between bites.
For you see, I am a Luhya man—born and raised in the hallowed lands where ugali is not just food. No, my friend, ugali is the gospel truth. It is the cornerstone of our identity, the gravitational center of every meal. Without it, life loses all structure, like a hut built without walls. A meal without ugali is not a meal—it is a cruel joke played by life itself.
Let me school you, lest you stray from the path of wisdom. There are grades to maize meal—hierarchies as sacred as the Ten Commandments. Grade 1? That white, soft, over-sifted travesty is for the uninitiated, the naïve city folk who dare to think ugali should slide down your throat like it’s ashamed of itself. Spineless! Grade 2? Bah, who remembers the runner-up? Now, Grade 3—ah, that is the stuff of legends. Coarse. Proud. Rugged. It fights back as you swallow, each bite a battle worth winning. Grade 3 is for the brave, for those who know that real ugali doesn’t just feed you; it forges you.
But here, I am a man betrayed. The matumbo, if you find it, is sanitized beyond recognition—scrubbed clean of its identity, as though it bathed in Omo! Matumbo! Stripped of its sacred aroma, its earthy grit—this is blasphemy. And don’t get me started on their ugali, an unholy union of soft corn flour and pity. How can I thrive in this culinary wilderness? How can I sing “It Is Well” when my soul is crying out, “It is not!”
And my wife? Ah, my poor wife. Back in Nairobi, I knew the secret to her heart wasn’t poetry or flowers—it was my selfless offer to visit the kisiagi.
“Sweetheart,” I’d say with the humility of a saint, “Najua umechoka na kazi. Wacha nikuendee kusiaga huko Ongwaro.”
Her face would light up, her voice soft with gratitude: “Ooowww, ahsante Dzaddy.”
What she didn’t know—what she didn’t need to know—was that my noble errand had a deeper purpose. I was the guardian of our household’s honor, the protector of our Grade 3 legacy. Had I left her to buy maize meal? Grade 1 would’ve waltzed into my kitchen, smug and unworthy. But me? I returned home, triumphant, arms laden with Grade 3.
But now? Now I live in a land where even maize has lost its courage. It is maize no more, but corn!Where the kisiagi is but a memory, a dream that haunts me as I stare at store-bought corn flour, its cowardly texture mocking my heritage. How can I be well, my friends? How can I claim wellness when even my love for my wife has been stripped of its simplest expression?
So I sit here, adrift in nostalgia, my stomach growling not from hunger but from heartbreak. Ugali is more than food. It is life, love, and legacy. And until the day I hold a steaming lump of Grade 3 in my hands again, my soul will never truly whisper, “It is well.”
