By Meshack Yobby in Kenya
After about seven or eight months (longer than most relationships), my gas finally breathed its last. It was just before the ugali on the first burner got properly done, and just before the water boiling the beef on the second burner dried up. So instead of eating ugali and ‘dry fry’ beef, I had to eat wet ugali and boiro.
Happened on a Sunday night, when no gas store was open. Who am I kidding, I had no money to buy the gas anyway. And my electricity meter was blinking like an angry snoozed alarm, so instead of taking my usual long, meditative showers, I had to do a quickie. And my rent was due. Grown up problems. Sigh.
But the gas did me thoroughly. The cylinder never runs empty during the day. Always at night. Always. It’s like someone put juju on it, that it must run out late in the night and when I have no money. As I ate my wet ugali and boiro, I remembered the times when having a gas cooker was for the elite, and everyone used to have kerosene stoves. I never knew the price per litre, but I always knew where it was supposed to reach in the jerrycan. I also knew how far to push the wicks up so that the pots didn’t turn black.
Those were also the days when the Kenya Prisons Choir had hit audio casettes and we had charcoal iron boxes. Isn’t it amazing, how many changes we have seen? Remember floppy disks? And people wearing flash disks on their necks like a 2 Chains bling?
Those days, I didn’t have to worry about rent and electricity and gas running out on me.
Eating mandazi and cold leftover soup.
About the writer:
Meshack Yobby is a writer and freelance videographer. He lives in Nairobi Kenya. Connect with Meshack on Facebook