image: Terry Njoki
Moriot
Lutivini Majanja
Lutivini Majanja
It's Tuesday. It's that part of the term when the daydreaming is about where to find your next manget. That’s the sticky tree sap that Joseline swears is just like ball gum without the colour. In your free time you and Joseline search the forest, the few trees behind your classroom, for trees with this sap. You and Joseline have been in the same dormitory since last year when you were in Standard One. You are not yet homesick.
You have a jar with three fresh tadpoles growing under your bed that you have so far kept from being confiscated by Mrs. Mulwa, your dorm matron. You still say confi-sti-cated because it sounds just like sophisticated. There is a sophisticated girl in your dormitory. She sleeps five beds away from you. She used to live in America. She came to school with a purse. Your class teacher Mrs. Ouma is the most sophisticated woman you have ever met. She wears pumps that match with her dresses and changes her hairstyle every day. You like it when she combs her big afro and makes it lean to her left or right side covering one ear. Maybe these tadpoles will live longer than two days this time. You wish that one of them would grow into a gold fish. You do not yet know that this is not how it works. You have never seen a gold fish.
You have started to forget home faces again. Aunty Pamela came to visit you last Saturday. You did not recognize her when she was waving at you. It was only when she called you by your home name, Robi, that you realised that it was you she had come to visit. Nobody calls you Robi in school. You are Caroline in school. She came with cakes and juice, which you shared with Joseline and other dorm mates mainly because you had forgotten to say nick beggings so that they couldn’t all beg you even for the crumbs on your lap.
As you and your dormitory mates line up to enter the dining hall you see President's Cook leaving the kitchen. You all call him President’s Cook. You all wave at him. Everybody likes President's Cook. He says he is the president's brother and when you look at him you can see the similarity. He is old. The only other old person you know is your grandfather who is older than the president. That time last year when you ran to the gate to greet the president you saw with your own eyes just how much President's Cook looks likes him. They have the same raspy voice and the same white hair. It's just that President's Cook doesn't wear suits like the president. He wears a white apron and gumboots. You hate school food but it's not entirely unbearable because of your president's brother.
At the dining hall, all the girls are called Chelel. The other cook, the younger one who serves the food, calls all the girls Chelel. He never stops talking, he might even be mad, but he's very kind and says to every girl, "Chelel, how are you? Chelel you are not eating enough. Chelel, let me add a potato to your plate.” You refer to him as Chelel. Boys and girls don’t sit together in the dinning hall. There is boys’ side and there is girls’ side.
When you are all lined up along the rows of benches and tables Mrs. Mulwa makes you sing the long prayer. Some of you groan because you are very hungry but you sing the prayer anyway, "The Lord is goooood his merceiiis are yours fooooreeever…” You sing even the parts which are supposed to be in an African language which none of you understands, "Ninae onuna obo oh oh, ninae eh nina...Aaaa men!" You sit on your section of the bench and wait for the senior on your table, a Standard 8 girl, to serve you your piece of ugali. The senior on your table rolls up her sweater sleeves and uses the big spoon to cut portions of ugali for all eight of you.
Your lunch today is ugali, cabbage and a ripe banana. Your plate already has bits of cabbage, cut into large uneven pieces. They sink to the bottom while the dead worm, bits of onions and tomato skins float above the translucent soup. Yellow-orange fat congeals on the plate. But today, it’s your turn to get the moriot—the crunchy crust that's scraped from the bottom of the ugali pan. You feel exuberant. This is your Tuesday. You have already knotted your fingers; it's the Nick Beggings gesture.
Your first task is to extract the floating pieces of onion, the dead floating worms, just two, and the scraps of tomato skin. These items line the sides of your plate like garnish because you are not allowed to place them on the table. Your second task is to eat the ugali with the spoon you have been assigned. The spoon is heavy, marked UR for Uganda Railways, faded gold, flavoured and stained with the previous day’s grease. You try to slice the ugali with your spoon. You keep your elbows off the table. You are not allowed to eat ugali with your hands. You cut away, with your spoon, the moriot from the chunk of ugali. You place it on the saucer next to the banana. You return to the ugali. Dip a piece of it in the cabbage soup; let it soak a little before bringing your mouth to the spoon. You must never take your mouth to the spoon. The spoon must go to your mouth. You open your mouth. You churn the ugali in your mouth. Try not to swallow too fast. You try to bury the bigger sliced cabbage inside chunks of ugali. That way you can eat them without tasting them. Your plate is almost empty if you just scatter everything left on it; spread the pieces at the bottom. Let some fall to the table and onto to the floor, it will look like you ate everything on it.
Draw your saucer close to you. Peel the banana; use your spoon to cut slices of the banana onto the moriot. Arrange the slices of banana so that the moriot is covered. Notice the sound of the cutlery scraping on the plates fading away. Lunchtime is almost over. Hold the slice of moriot in your right hand as if it is a slice of buttered toast. Direct it to your mouth as if it is your toy plane. Land it on your tongue. You are an expert. Bite a very small piece. Savour it. Chew. Slowly. Pretend not to notice your tablemates staring as they eat their bananas. Plain. Sullen. Still hungry. Tomorrow, you will be just like them. You will stare.
You have a jar with three fresh tadpoles growing under your bed that you have so far kept from being confiscated by Mrs. Mulwa, your dorm matron. You still say confi-sti-cated because it sounds just like sophisticated. There is a sophisticated girl in your dormitory. She sleeps five beds away from you. She used to live in America. She came to school with a purse. Your class teacher Mrs. Ouma is the most sophisticated woman you have ever met. She wears pumps that match with her dresses and changes her hairstyle every day. You like it when she combs her big afro and makes it lean to her left or right side covering one ear. Maybe these tadpoles will live longer than two days this time. You wish that one of them would grow into a gold fish. You do not yet know that this is not how it works. You have never seen a gold fish.
You have started to forget home faces again. Aunty Pamela came to visit you last Saturday. You did not recognize her when she was waving at you. It was only when she called you by your home name, Robi, that you realised that it was you she had come to visit. Nobody calls you Robi in school. You are Caroline in school. She came with cakes and juice, which you shared with Joseline and other dorm mates mainly because you had forgotten to say nick beggings so that they couldn’t all beg you even for the crumbs on your lap.
As you and your dormitory mates line up to enter the dining hall you see President's Cook leaving the kitchen. You all call him President’s Cook. You all wave at him. Everybody likes President's Cook. He says he is the president's brother and when you look at him you can see the similarity. He is old. The only other old person you know is your grandfather who is older than the president. That time last year when you ran to the gate to greet the president you saw with your own eyes just how much President's Cook looks likes him. They have the same raspy voice and the same white hair. It's just that President's Cook doesn't wear suits like the president. He wears a white apron and gumboots. You hate school food but it's not entirely unbearable because of your president's brother.
At the dining hall, all the girls are called Chelel. The other cook, the younger one who serves the food, calls all the girls Chelel. He never stops talking, he might even be mad, but he's very kind and says to every girl, "Chelel, how are you? Chelel you are not eating enough. Chelel, let me add a potato to your plate.” You refer to him as Chelel. Boys and girls don’t sit together in the dinning hall. There is boys’ side and there is girls’ side.
When you are all lined up along the rows of benches and tables Mrs. Mulwa makes you sing the long prayer. Some of you groan because you are very hungry but you sing the prayer anyway, "The Lord is goooood his merceiiis are yours fooooreeever…” You sing even the parts which are supposed to be in an African language which none of you understands, "Ninae onuna obo oh oh, ninae eh nina...Aaaa men!" You sit on your section of the bench and wait for the senior on your table, a Standard 8 girl, to serve you your piece of ugali. The senior on your table rolls up her sweater sleeves and uses the big spoon to cut portions of ugali for all eight of you.
Your lunch today is ugali, cabbage and a ripe banana. Your plate already has bits of cabbage, cut into large uneven pieces. They sink to the bottom while the dead worm, bits of onions and tomato skins float above the translucent soup. Yellow-orange fat congeals on the plate. But today, it’s your turn to get the moriot—the crunchy crust that's scraped from the bottom of the ugali pan. You feel exuberant. This is your Tuesday. You have already knotted your fingers; it's the Nick Beggings gesture.
Your first task is to extract the floating pieces of onion, the dead floating worms, just two, and the scraps of tomato skin. These items line the sides of your plate like garnish because you are not allowed to place them on the table. Your second task is to eat the ugali with the spoon you have been assigned. The spoon is heavy, marked UR for Uganda Railways, faded gold, flavoured and stained with the previous day’s grease. You try to slice the ugali with your spoon. You keep your elbows off the table. You are not allowed to eat ugali with your hands. You cut away, with your spoon, the moriot from the chunk of ugali. You place it on the saucer next to the banana. You return to the ugali. Dip a piece of it in the cabbage soup; let it soak a little before bringing your mouth to the spoon. You must never take your mouth to the spoon. The spoon must go to your mouth. You open your mouth. You churn the ugali in your mouth. Try not to swallow too fast. You try to bury the bigger sliced cabbage inside chunks of ugali. That way you can eat them without tasting them. Your plate is almost empty if you just scatter everything left on it; spread the pieces at the bottom. Let some fall to the table and onto to the floor, it will look like you ate everything on it.
Draw your saucer close to you. Peel the banana; use your spoon to cut slices of the banana onto the moriot. Arrange the slices of banana so that the moriot is covered. Notice the sound of the cutlery scraping on the plates fading away. Lunchtime is almost over. Hold the slice of moriot in your right hand as if it is a slice of buttered toast. Direct it to your mouth as if it is your toy plane. Land it on your tongue. You are an expert. Bite a very small piece. Savour it. Chew. Slowly. Pretend not to notice your tablemates staring as they eat their bananas. Plain. Sullen. Still hungry. Tomorrow, you will be just like them. You will stare.
Lutivini Majanja lives in Nairobi, Kenya. Her writing has been published in Lawino Magazine, Kwani?, Jalada, McSweeney’s and The Golden Key. She is a Callaloo fellow and has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Maryland, College Park.