How To Prepare Brown Rice Or Mothers And Daughters

I happen to be one of the best cooks I know. The thing is, I'm one of the best cooks in an unknown future. At the moment, I just know how to boil things. How I got into the conversation below- via text, mind you- is completely unknown to me. 

Girl X: Guess who's attempting to make brown rice :) hope it works :)
     Me: Brown rice isn't too hard :) too hard to make.
Girl X: Is it? but it uses a lot of water right?
     Me: No. I usually use the same amount...
Girl X: The pack said 1 part to four parts and my mother said you should soak it first. For like 30min.                                      
            That's a lot of water.
     Me: Oh yea, it takes a while to cook. And it's like the water evaporates so slowly.
Girl X: Oh dear how I hope it cooks. It's been cooking for 40min...crossing my fingers
             IT'S PUDDING
     Me: HOW MUCH WATER DID YOU PUT?
Girl X: 4 parts
     Me: How many cups of rice?
Girl X: 4 and half. So I put 16 parts
            It's pudding and it isn't ready :( oh gosh. I'm a failure
            Well it was cooking on the jiko so there may have been heat issues. But imagine it's not even
            close. Should I put coal on top?
     Me: Okay, first of all you're not a failure. Second, brown rice tastes a bit different from white rice
            when it's ready and you put 16 cups of water? That rice should be ready!
Girl X: My brother could kill me. I put spice to remove the weird taste. I may have over salted it as well
Girl X: Thanks love. Now this one is not cooked. It's chewy.
     Me: My mum says (I trust her more than google) that it should be more than ready if it looks like
            mush. And if it looks like mush, it can't really be saved :( that's what she said.
            Is normal rice available tonight?
Girl X: I've made food for a village and there's nothing else to cook in the house. But why are there
            pieces of uncooked rice?
    Me: My mother is laughing at us. Dot com children struggling to cook rice :)
Girl X: Oh gosh. Tell your mother it's not funny. The whole family was counting on this meal working
            out :) oh gosh. I'll leave it on the fire till everything evaporates.
     Me: Why have you made so much food?
Girl X: Lunch the next day. And for whenever. There's no food in the fridge
    Me: How about you make rice cakes. Girl X's version? ;) where are you?
Girl X: Rice cakes? What are those? OH DEAR! There isn't any oven. But I can use the jiko.
     Me: Okay, forget the rice cakes idea. It's either made from rice flour or other things.
Girl X: Folks are home. Oh gosh.
     Me: Oh no...what have they said.
Girl X: Nothing yet. Still waiting.
     Me: Are you sure it's not ready?
Gril X: Well, I'm upstairs. Not going down till tomorrow or till she comes to my room.
     Me: Ha ha ha! your mum won't kill you
Girl X: Well, her gloating could

Here I fast forward our conversation a bit...

Girl X: You know my aunts keep saying how we'll be sent home by our husbands if we don't know
             how to cook. We have a problem. I'LL BE SENT HOME.
     Me: Ha ha ha! I'll send him home :D
Girl X: For sending me home?
      Me: For not helping you become a better cook and not cooking.


When I was reminiscing on our conversation and thinking how ridiculous it was that we had a whole conversation about preparing rice via text and how much Girl X uses 'oh gosh', I could't help but realise how much our mother's opinions mattered. Whether it was in the way the rice should be made or how it turned out, we both wanted our mums to approve whatever we were doing and affirm us. 

Oscar Wilde said, 'All women become their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That is his.' I worry for my daughter :)

What Do You Like?

I like stories. I like it when a person sits with me, tells me about his or her life and adventures. I love books. I love the places they take me and what they teach me. Sometimes when I sit next to the window of my class, I can hear a bunch of people jamming at the Kenya Conservatoire as if they’re encouraging me to go on with the dance. I like that too. I love it when my lecturer, usually when the sun has just set and the class is too stuffy, asks for our opinion on watching TV or laptops or whatever the subject of the current poem we’re reading is. And nothing can give more satisfaction than the thrill of ensuring that my voice has been heard in class. I like that I am forced to go to the library, do my own research because I feel that I need to experience prose and poetry for myself. 

And this is why I chose Literature, because I love it. I hear love is all that matters, so I’m sticking to it. I chose to think that this is what passion is about.

In Another World

He says that from the moment he first laid his eyes on me, he knew we had met in another world. In another time, maybe when I wore long skirts and smoked weed, and he was a world-peace activist, our hands clasped around each other as they are now. He says in that world, we neither married nor had kids because it would have messed up our mojo. But we were so into each other, he tells me. He says he met me in another world, and I smile, trying my best to disagree with him without being too harsh and rude. I smile, because I think it's cute that he's trying to make sense out of the attraction, passion and heat that we feel running through our blood for each other. I smile but don't believe what he says. See, I know and remember nothing about anything that isn't in my current world and I don't believe that my spirit could have been in Cleopatra's body once. Why would a spirit want to come back to be in captivity when it can be free? It doesn't make sense.  Not that the thrill that runs through my body when his hand is wrapped so tightly around my waist makes sense nor does the joy of having him next to me. But I choose to think about the now- his eyes, his rather large nose and his strangeness. I choose to focus on him now because this is what I have: the present...a present.

Clueless

Clueless,

I awoke every hour or so to check if he was still alive

Clueless,

I opened my eyes, watching as his chubby fingers struggle to find my face

Eyes shut, mouth slightly open preparing to let out a whine

He rests his hands on my cheeks, pinches them gently

Lets out a sigh, the whine quickly forgotten.

I watch, as his lips meet, giving him the determined look that would make me let him have his way, that would make us fight like two children

I watch, the rise and fall of his chest, trying to understand my latest puzzle, trying to find even a hint of his mother in his lips and long lashes and chubby cheeks. I'll later find the resemblance in his determination and defiance and protests, in the way he'll be throwing a tantrum one moment and laughing with me the other.

I feel his hands loosen his grip. i continue staring at this face, now under my care. My chest tightens with love and anxiety.

I watch, the rise and fall of his chest. I watch, as he kicks the covers and turns to face the wall, then me, then the headboard.

And I feel clueless because love doesn't feel enough to take care of this precious gem.