Nyawera loved cooking. She was a hotelier. She used her impeccable culinary arts skills, her beauty and bediminton skills to charm her way into my heart.
Our relationship was smooth until Nyawera was transferred from Nairobi to work in a hotel in Nakuru. She moved towns. This significantly reduced the amount of times that we spent together. Suddenly, she stopped trusting me. She started suspecting that I had a side chick that was quenching the thirst of my throat, the hunger of my stomach and the desires of my loin, just as she used to.
I denied the accusations with the vehement of a cheating husband. Still, she did not trust me. The thing was, I was cheating on her. But I was cleaver enough to cover my tracks. I was smart about it. Nyawera used to visit every last weekend of every month. One weekend, she visited. As usual. We left my house to go shopping at Carrifour at the Two Rivers Mall. While shopping, she came across a spice that got her attention.
'Ooh God, I have been searching for this spice for like all my life,' she said and picked two bottles, one for my house, the other for her house in Nakuru.
'Have you ever used this spice?'
'No.' I said. 'Why are you asking when you know I only use the spices from Mama Mboga' s shop. Onions, peppers, tomatoes, garlics etc. I don't use powdered or liquid spices from supermarkets. You are my Spicy girl, my Victoria Beckham," I teased her. She smiled.
Later that evening, she disappeared into the kitchen and came back with one of the most sumptuous meals that I have ever taken. I presumed she had used the spice to prepare the meal.
She left on Monday and I didn't see her until after a month, as usual.
When she was on her way from Nakuru to Ruaka, she sent me a list of things she wanted me to buy. She was going to arrive late in the evening. She wanted me to buy chicken, onions, tomatoes, garlics and other groceries. She arrived around 7 PM, took a shower, made wild love to me and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare supper. Man, I have never loved a woman as I loved her. She was organized. She loved order, and that is what she brought into my life. I envisioned a life of order next to her for the rest of my life.
Thirty minutes after disappearing into the kitchen, she called my name. I was in the sitting room watching a late evening EPL game.
'Babe." He voice was calm. She used to call me into the kitchen when she wanted company. She loved sharing stories and mushene while in the kitchen. Her kitchen muchene was fire than Abel Mutua's stories. An EPL game was playing on the TV. She never pulled me away from the TV during such times.
'Yes,' I responded and joined her in the kitchen.
'Where is the spice that we bought from Carrifour?'
'It must be on one of the kitchen cabinets. I have never used it since you left. It must be where you left it.' I said.
'Help me get it please,' she requested. She wasn't short. This request was strange. I walked to the cabinets and found the spice on one of the top kitchen cabinets, where she had left it. Without looking at it, I gave it to her and walked back into the sitting room. I was very eager to go back to watching the game.
Barely had I made myself more comfortable on the coach than she called my name from the kitchen again. She didn't call me babe. She called me by my names, Sakwah. It was strange because she never called me anything else other than babe or sweetheart.
I walked into the kitchen. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the spice bottle on her hand while the other hand was hoisted at akimbo. She flashed a brief smile on her face. The flash, was a smile that spelled trouble.
'Who used this spice?' She asked.
'What do you mean?'
'I used only one table spoon of this spice, once. Look at it now, three quarters of it has been used. Meaning it has been used several times. But by whom?' She looked straight into my eyes with glaring eyes. I did not have an answer.
'Sakwah, I asked you a question. Who has been using this spice to cook in this house?'
'I... I...' I fumbled.
'It is not you. You don't use these kind of spices.' Of course it was not me.
'I... I have been watching Dennis Ombachi's cooking videos...' I tried to lie.
'Liar. Liar. You've already said that you have never used the spice since I left. Who has been using it?'
I stood rooted to the spot. I was stunned. I tried to figure out which one amongst the girls had used the spice. Definitely, it wasn't Njeri. Because Njeri cooks with onions, tomatoes, gerlic, carrots and a lot of water.
When an answer was not forthcoming from me, Nyawera dumped the bottle into the sink. She stormed past me, and walked into the bedroom. She left me in the sitting room with a red face, looking as guilty as charged.
Two minutes later, she came out of the bedroom with her bag already packed. I was still standing in the kitchen. She was on the phone with her sister, 'come and pick me up from Sakwah' s place!' She told her sister.
I tried to speak, to tell her the lies that I had built, but she shushed me up. She did not want to hear me. She did not want to speak to me. She did not even say, "we are done."
When her sister parked her car outside our apartment, she opened the door and walked out of my house, and my life. I was sad. I became lugubrious. I tried to call her, but her phone did not connect. Her WhatsApp profile picture disappeared forever. She, disappeared forever.
I get PTSD every time I come across that particular spice on supermarket shelves. It always brings back the memories of the smartest woman that I lost.
The moral of this story is, dear ladies, if you find the rare spices, the ones we watch on cooking channels, inside the kitchen cabinet of our houses, don't use them unless you are the one who bought them. They belong to the woman of the house. Please, stick to using onions and tomatoes that we can easily replace.
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