😬 Leathery Like Overcooked Liver

A prophet is rarely accepted in his town, but Hinga’s homecoming exhumed the haunting remains of the past he had been trying to outrun. Whispers that his failures abroad were punishment for his boyhood attempts to escape a tyrant accompanied him everywhere he went, from the evergreen soko to the church pews that emptied upon his arrival. He joked with Shosh that the community might've sided with the victims had his mum’s taste in men not been for the rich and famous. “Sorry, kid. I guess she just takes after her mother.”

Wanja, his sister, was eight now, a lightning bolt of energy and optimism. He was grateful she was that necessary knife to cut through the tension at home. One evening, after a particularly tough day looking for culinary gigs in Nakuru town, Hinga retired home to the parents who seemed to need a minute to digest that the American dream he’d prophesied had somehow come to moving back in with them. The four were at the dinner table, trading stories about their days.

“Mum, I took some of Hinga’s coconut cupcakes to school today,” Wanja quipped.

“Now, why would you do that, my love? You know we were supposed to have them for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Eva and Maggy really enjoyed the one I shared with them last week, so I thought I would give them to more people to show them how good a baker my big brother is.”

“Hmm. I see. And how did the rest of the kids find them?”

“Everyone loved them, Mummy! Njoro even said they taste like America. Hinga, why didn’t you sell your cupcakes in America? You would’ve made so much money!”

His father had been chewing but stopped midway to hear Hinga explain himself.

“You need to have money to make money, Wanjs. That’s why many people work to get money from their bosses and maybe use some of it later to be able to buy the ingredients for lots of cupcakes.”

“Did you work for many bosses in America?”

“Not as many as some people. Working for people for too long can get tiresome and stop you from being your own boss, you know?”

“But now that you’re back home, you’re your own boss!”

Her fiery enthusiasm almost thawed the icy glares he clocked in his peripheral vision.

“That takes time, but you can be sure I’m working towards it. Anyway, at least I learned how to make cupcakes that taste like America.”

Wanja giggled. His mum warned her against sharing her food with classmates in case their stomachs couldn’t take it.

A friend of Hinga’s late grandfather was sympathetic to his plight and greased some elbows to get him the commis-chef apron at Lake Nakuru Lodge. Hinga had never wanted to feel indebted to anyone, much less by such morally ambiguous means, but he shook off his concerns and hoped the breakthrough would begin to change his luck.