Of Mandazis and Mothers

The audacity of mothers and their "sacred" snacks is a mystery that even the best English literature can’t solve. There I was, little Niffer, a pint-sized mandazi enthusiast with a nose that could detect a deep-fried dough ball from three estates away.

My mother, a woman of principle and very heavy slippers, had a ritual. She would buy these glorious, golden-brown mandazis—the kind that are soft on the inside but have that perfect crust—and place them in the "Cupboard of Forbidden Joys." Then came the death warrant:

"Niffer, izo ni za wamama wa chama kesho. Usiguze. Hata usizifikirie!" (Niffer, those are for the women's group tomorrow. Don't touch them. Don't even think about them!)

The problem is, telling me not to think about mandazi is like telling a bird not to fly. By 6:30 AM the next morning, as I was preparing for school, the aroma was drifting through the kitchen like a siren song. I stood before the cupboard. My conscience was saying, "Niffer, remember the chama women," but my stomach was saying, "The chama women are already well-fed; you are a growing child in need of carbohydrates."

I did a quick tactical scan. My mum was...