Free And Then Life Happens by Auma Obama Page B

stove. I quickly began to stir the mixture with a large, flat wooden spoon. I pushed the spoon forcefully back and forth in the thickening paste, in the way I imagined Obanda would have done it.
    After a while, I noticed that my ugali was not getting firm, though there was no longer any bubbling and spraying. But I had already been stirring for some time. I turned up the temperature, to no avail. The soft sludge simply refused to harden. I knew that ugali had to be firm, even though it wasn’t clear to me how to get it that way.
    â€œWhere’s the food?” I heard my father calling once again in a joking tone. “We’re gradually starving.”
    I was in anything but a laughing mood. My face was sweating from agitation and heat. I sampled a little of my ugali to check whether it was cooked now, but it still tasted raw. I wondered whether I should add more maize flour—but the packet was empty anyway.
    Fifteen minutes had passed, and I was still moving the spoon back and forth. Usually it took at most ten to fifteen minutes to cook ugali .
    â€œWhere’s the food, Auma?” a voice suddenly said directly behind me. I was startled and turned around. My father was standing in the doorway.
    â€œI cooked it, but it just won’t harden,” I answered, almost crying, as I pointed at the pot.
    â€œWhy?” My father stepped closer to me. “Let me have a look.”
    He took the spoon from my hand and briefly stirred the soggy ugali .
    â€œWhen did you put in the maize flour?”
    â€œAfter the water had been on the stove for a while.”
    â€œWas it boiling?”
    â€œI think so. I’m not sure,” I answered timidly.
    â€œWhy aren’t you sure?” my father asked perplexedly. “You must know what you did.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    My father hated it when people did things thoughtlessly. His own actions were only rarely the result of chance. In my eyes, he was someone who always knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. And he himself seemed barely capable of comprehending that other people sometimes did rash things—things they could not necessarily explain.
    â€œWas the water boiling when you poured in the maize flour?” He repeated his question somewhat more gently.
    I still didn’t say anything and looked at the floor. I felt terrible. What if he now told his friends how out of my depth I was in the kitchen?
    â€œIs there any maize flour left?”
    â€œNo,” I answered sheepishly.
    â€œThen nothing will come of this ugali .”
    And before I grasped what was happening, he turned off the stove, took the pot, and poured the whole contents in the garbage bin.
    â€œBut, but…” I stammered, aghast.
    At that time, my father had considerable financial problems—I knew that it was sometimes a struggle for him even to put food on the table for us. Under those circumstances, how could he simply throw away a meal? I was surprised that he had brought friends home with him in the first place. What would we serve them now?
    â€œWhen you prepare ugali, the water has to boil before you pour in the maize flour,” he explained to me with a sigh. “It probably wasn’t boiling at all. You could have gone on for hours like that, and it never would have turned into ugali . Here,” he added, pressing some money into my hand. “Run quickly to the kiosk and buy a packet of maize flour. Then I’ll show you how to cook ugali .”
    â€œAnd your guests?” I asked uncertainly.
    â€œThey can wait.”
    As fast as I could, I ran to the kiosk. On the way, I thought that my father wasn’t so bad after all. He actually wanted to teach me how to make ugali . I didn’t have to be afraid of him. This superman was, in fact, just a completely normal person.
    His absence in my life, due to his work and his traditional paternal role, along with the image of him as a strict authority figure