I live in Nairobi, in a two-bedroom flat with my photographer husband. Our flat is one of three perched on a steep hillside. Further down the hill runs a small, muddy tributary of the Nairobi River. I have a small dining room, hemmed in by wooden bookshelves that my friend Ken Mwingi made for me with his own hands. My living room curtains are made of orange kikoy material. I have two large red and blue cushions covered with 'java material' on the floor and two wicker chairs in my living room. I have a tiny kitchen in which two is a crowd, but it ends in pocket-sized counter. On the other side of this counter, I have placed three-legged stools where people can sit and chat with me as I cook. They tell me nourishing stories while I think up nourishing food. I love it.
I have a small verandah under a loquat tree where we can eat, sometimes.
I keep re-discovering what a creative act cooking is, if you are not forced to do it so much that it becomes a burden, or an impossible task because there is nothing to cook. At least three people in my house take turns cooking; we have enough to eat. Cooking is enjoyable for me when I get to do it. It helps me to think. It is a way of working with the familiar to continuously 'make something new,' as I have been taught to by Mwalimu Mshai Mwangola. It is an ordinary but profound exercise in both theory and creativity. I have never in my life met a recipe, not even my own, that I did not tweak or change in some small way. I don't know how to cook the same thing twice. Each meal is a way to 'make something new,' with the ordinary. Something new, with the familiar.
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