In The Middle of The Night, I Prayed My Cooking Gas Doesn’t Run Out
Plus, I had not yet had supper
I had a hectic weekend.
My shift was supposed to end at 10 p.m.
But you never really leave at that time. It’s usually past 10 p.m.
It was the weekend of the annual Nairobi Book Fest. Written in style, it was: The NYrobi Book Fest. I had called to inquire if I could get a desk to showcase my book.
The first response was hopeful.
The venue, known for hosting prominent African Authors, had already preselected who to host and spaces were already occupied. But he insisted I be ready because he was planning something for the persistent authors.
I can be persistent. I love my theory and by extension, my book. I have to be persistent.
He suggested I be at the venue by 2 p.m. The previous night was spent with a couple of friends, catching up on good music, good food, and good stories. I slept at 5 a.m.
But I had to get to my place early, rest, and prepare for 2 p.m. My sister would then take over while I raced to work at 4. p.m.
The call came at 8.30. a.m.
I had to show up by around 10.30. a.m. He worked out a plan. I got a table. So yes, I didn’t get enough sleep. I barely had breakfast.
That day, the only thing that charged me up was the conversations I had with those interested in the theory. More importantly, they were interested in the confusion the title evokes for first-time readers.
It’s not The First Orgasm. It’s The First Organism. Regardless, I like how the former attracts viewers.
Devoid of sleep, I rush to work in the evening. The usual. I was out past 10 p.m.
The gate was closed
I discovered a shortcut.
To convince the watchmen, I always walk like I am a resident of the gated community. I’m not.
The place has two gates. I walk in through one and leave through the other. It has never failed me.
This time around, while chatting with my girl online, knowing I am almost at home, I get to the other side. Luckily, there’s a guard, helping himself in a dark corner.
Unluckily, he said:
The gate is closed. We lock it at 9.30 pm.
You know how those energy bars drop in video games after receiving a blow from an opponent? That’s how I felt. Instantly drained.
I had to go back up and use the long route. Now it was longer. And I had not yet slept like the toddler I am. The only meal I had taken was tea with several slices of bread. Barely a meal.
My almost empty energy bar was drained more than halfway.
After two years, I got to my place. Hungry and thirsty.
I had around one cup left of clean water. It was relieving. Until it wasn’t.
I turned the faucet but you know what…
There was no water
Crap!
I was just preparing to make my evening meal. I like a homecooked meal. I prefer it to getting takeout. But there was no water.
Good thing I had washed my utensils. But I had to think fast — where to get water. I ran to the washroom and turned on every faucet. It was a trick I learned, again, from my girlfriend.
It was not much, but I had enough for a meal. I had to half the amount I had planned to cook. To quench my thirst, I had bought a litter of cold Minute Maid. It would cover the lack of water.
I then started cooking.
The first half was almost done when the lights did the thing.
Blackout
Crap!
Worst timing ever.
Remember, I had rushed to secure a table for my books, then went to work. I had no time to charge my devices.
My battery was around thirty-something percent. Using the phone’s flashlight would drain it further.
Crap!
But I had a candlestick somewhere. It would have to do.
The onions had to turn to the preferred golden brown colour. But how do you know if golden brown is golden brown when you only have half a candlestick?
I had switched on my laptop so it could charge my phone while I struggled in the dark figuring out which colour my onions were morphing into.
No water. No lights. Little food. Energy deprived. Low battery.
My onions had turned. I hoped.
At the back of my mind, I was praying for my cooking gas not to run out
That would be the final blow.
I remember a time in my first year of medical school when a similar incident happened.
On campus, we did not cook using gas. We used electric power.
So blackouts were the worst thing you would ever wish for your enemy. On that night, it seemed like my friend had angered someone and their wish had come true. It seemed like he had enemies who wished him bad luck.
Just as he was about to start turning that cooking stick to prepare his Ugali, the staple meal, there was a blackout.
He had to settle for uji — porridge.
What’s worse is uji has a way of making you hungrier. Our fellow comrades had a long night.
My case was slightly different. I was not cooking ugali. It was beans. I did not have the luxury of switching from one meal — ugali — to another — uji.
What doesn’t kill you
In the end, I had my almost-cooked meal.
My stomach could handle it. The cold fruit juice came through for a dying servant. I served my hunger and thirst.
From then on I have made plans to buffer myself from such unforeseen occurrences. I must always have water stored in several containers. It’s funny how I had always done this but the one moment when I had used the stored water, this happens.
This sequence of events has never happened since I moved into that house. Also, at the very least, my laptop should be charged. It could be used to charge my phone.
And no, my gas did not fail me.
Two things that didn’t die that night.
Me and my cooking gas.
But it’s like the gas heard about this written draft because it did run out the next week.
It was not at an ungodly hour though.
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