by Susan mumbua

There are few things that test a Kenyan relationship like a kitchen disaster. Not money, not in-laws — but ugali. Because if you ruin ugali, what else are you even capable of?

It was a calm Saturday evening. The kind where the sun is doing that golden, Instagram-filter thing and you’ve just finished binge-watching three hours of a show you’ll pretend you “casually follow.” My boyfriend, Kamau, had come over, and we were feeling grown — the kind of grown where you decide to cook together instead of ordering KFC like a normal Nairobi couple.

The menu? Sukuma wiki, beef stew, and ugali. Simple. Patriotic. Foolproof. Or so we thought.

We split the duties: I handled the sukuma, he did the stew, and ugali was a joint effort. (Red flag. Big one. Who shares ugali duty? That’s a solo mission.)

It started off okay. Water boiled. We poured in the unga. Stirred with confidence. Kamau even put on a Kikuyu playlist to set the mood — Samidoh crooning as we bonded over maize flour.

Then it happened.

I don’t know who blinked first. One of us looked away. The other added too much unga. Suddenly the sufuria was fighting back. The ugali was dense. Brick-level dense. Kamau tried to stir, but the mwiko bent slightly — like it, too, was reconsidering its life choices.

“Babe, I think it’s fine,” he said, sweat beading on his forehead like he’d just finished a construction shift.

“Fine? This ugali is giving building material. I can hear it solidifying.”

We took turns beating it like it owed us money. Nothing changed. The ugali sat there, smug, mocking us in its beige, lumpy glory. I could feel the ancestors watching in disappointment.

Worse — the stew and sukuma were perfect. An insult. A reminder of what could’ve been.

Kamau, ever the optimist, plated it. I took one bite. Cement. Texture: sandpaper. Emotion: heartbreak.

We stared at our plates, then at each other, silently agreeing to never speak of it again. Five minutes later, we were ordering smokie pasua from the vibanda down the road, our dignity wrapped in Daily Nation paper.

Moral of the story? In Kenya, you don’t play with ugali. It’s not just food — it’s heritage. And if your mwiko bends during the process, stop everything. You’ve already failed.

Also, stick to your lane. Sukuma girls shouldn’t try to stir ugali meant for Kisii grandmothers with biceps like Olympic shot putters.