Lessons of Food & Sex

There is one photo I have been hunting for over the last two decades. It was taken by my cousin and it’s among the photos I treasure the most. It was taken back in 1995 about a month after graduating from college. Maitũ Mũkũrũ on the left and Wakĩmarũ, her co-wife were married to my father’s oldest brother or Awa Mũkũrũ. Culturally, all three are my parents too. All my father’s brothers are technically my fathers and their wives my mothers.

These women were very deeply intertwined with my upbringing and deeply influenced a lot of my thinking to this day. Awa Mũkũrũ, as we fondly referred to him was the first father figure most of my siblings interacted with more often than my biological father as he had been detained for 6 years for his radical actions in the struggle for liberation and then later engaged in food business in the city. He came home whenever money and situations allowed.

I didn’t have the time to miss him as there was plenty to do. Awa Kũkũrũ being the villager with the most cows engaged me in his herding and whatever errands he was engaged in. I found myself being around his homestead quite often.

Back to the women. The bonds between Awa Mũkũrũ, his family and I became deeper than I knew. It was when I gained admission at college out of the country I realized just how close we were with that family.

The last day in the village before heading to college, I met the family to say my goodbye. I remember Maitũ Mũkũrũ fondly asking me if I could be kind enough to a white woman to her pleasure. I was young said I would try.

This picture was taken as soon as I returned after graduation and after exchanging a few niceties and warm hand shakes we sat down for a reunion photo. As the photo was being taken. Maitũ turned to me and asked if I fulfilled her request. We all bursted out laughing and that was it. We then proceeded to enjoy some roasted potatoes and bananas that were expertly the way only the two could do it. I always left the place stuffed because I had to eat in doubles. It’s as if I was a judge of two indigenous chefs. But obviously that’s more than an exaggeration as I we would literally have a comedy jam session with nobody hogging the stage.

we would make fun of each other without bruising anybody’s ego. Man! I loved these women like “lack of importance “ as Maitũ Mũkũrũ liked to say. The beautiful part of this these two women were masters of the old form of communication. The would use gestures, face to the side as if mimicking a Greek mask to show emotions and the raise and lower their voice in melodic ways that made the story more theatrical. Maitũ Mũkũrũ mostly dominated the storytelling but Wakĩmarũ was no light weight either. She was great at adding details that Maitũ might have assumed I already knew. I loved these women three way storytelling as it felt like a dance as much as it felt like theater. It was clear to me that simply because Maitũ was telling the story from her hurt as she roasted sweet potatoes, Wakĩmarũ was lock and step with us inside her hut while roasting bananas or corn, depending on the season or on just how she felt. Each mother would emerge from the short doorway with their heads bent with a guard carrying a smoking hot golden cob or caramelized sweet potatoes that were sometimes boiled in a big clay pot as she cooked other foods like the mix of corn and beans. The sweet potato would then be roasted briefly on an open fire. But that more rare than just roasting the sweet potatoes straight out. The point here is that the flavors were always distinct and a great condiment for conversation.

The mothers would return to the house and get burlap bags that were so brown that you would be excused for thinking they were dyed the exact color of Karurumo dirt, their home. They would both seat down on the burlap bags with their legs stretched straight and the cloth wrapped around their waist tucked between their legs. With a guard of brown porridge in their hands, hospitality would reach zenith. We would converse without any regard for time. That is exactly how I was slowly drown into becoming an anthropologist. But that’s a story for another day.

Maitũ unfortunately passed away while I was grad school.The next time I visited the home, Wakĩmũrũ told the most amazing story that turned my thinking about love upside down. One day I hope to tell the story. Much to my great mothers. Fear is not for this family!

Obe Soup

Chef Tom invited me to Vuky Foods for an Introductory meeting to explore possible collaboration. I couldn’t have imagined that I would spend a whole four hours at the restaurant. It was a both joyous and productive experience. I tasted all manner of things in between our numerous topics from products, fermentation to politics of food. I also tasted different foods and drinks. The most balanced drink I have had this season was during this visit. It’s been one interesting season when the most prevalent creative concept has been matching taste, rhythm and memory.

This particular drink neatly combines all three concepts. My first thought upon taking the first sip brought memories of the best times with my oldest brother who was full of humor and an infectious laughter. Then one day I read a book of poetry that was just laying around. It belonged to my sister-in-law, a high school teacher of literature, which was about strong bonds of love between brothers. That poem ended with a phrase “wa Nyina”. That poem captured my deepest feelings towards my brother. The next time I talked to him, I addressed him by that phrase and it became his title to this day.

Then I took the second sip and it drove me deeper into the recesses of my excited memory bank and I remembered the earliest rhythms I associate with our strong bonds. I should clarify that it’s always been difficult to think or write about Wanyina without thinking about music. This time, even though miles away, nothing was different. What was different however was the song that came to mind. I remembered a song by Fela Kuti titled OBE, a rather short song by Fela Kuti’s standard but with hypnotic sounds. I later came to learn that Obe is the Yoruba word for soup or stew.

The third sip narrowed done to the connection between the flavor and color. I looked at the color of the drink and then analyzed the various notes as the drink first touched the tongue, then the checks and the roof of the mouth before hitting the throat like a waterfall. The first impression was of the fermentation of the kefir drink and the shift in color of the beet root juice in the drink. The color seemed to mimics the story of a multiracial relationship that is behind the concept behind Vukys Foods. I imagine that the present color might as well be the brightest expression of the blood-like color of beet root juice.

My thinking is that historical division along race robbed us great possibilities. Obe is song that was born out of a relationship between Fela Kuti and Sandra Izadore, with influences of the Black Panthers. On their part, the Black Panthers were quite progressive in their activism and initiatives a breakfast program for African Americans students even before the school feeding program was implemented in American schools. They would later extend their food program to include adults. Obe is considered to be Fela Kuti’s first Afro Beat song and it’s equally fitting to me that he started with food.

I took pause and then finished my glass of kefir knowing that a culinary relationship similar to that between Wanyina and I was brewing. I look forward to building relationships in Germany and like Obe, I hope to use food to build those relationships but that will as poetic as Wa Nyina. Figuratively, Chef Tom and I had our Obe Soup together. The soup was bright, blood-like and had the power of bonding. We were ready to move consciously and without fear. That has always been the spirit behind Afro Futuristic Conscious cuisine and I could feel the same vibe at Vuky Foods the very first time I set foot inside the restaurant. I felt a rhythm of that reminded me of Wanyina and I slowly realized that it’s because the two spoke to my soul. Obe then became more than soup but rather a state of the soul.

The truth of the matter is that all things evolve, even my relationship with Wanyina evolved to. Fela’s music evolved too; Fela’s relationship with Sandra Izadole evolved; Fela’s relationship with African evolved and even now, Fela’s relationship with the world continues to change as he will be posthumously inducted to the Lifetime Achievement Awards. Whatever you might think about this or any other award that Fela received, his biggest focus was justice for the oppressed in general but more specifically for Africans.

Every day the sun yields to reign of the moon or darkness and then rises again is another possibility for us to evolve and also participate in the evolution of our social landscape towards justice. One of the most significant ways to achieve that is to induct ourselves in a lifetime commitment to food justice by removing all fear of the obstacles ahead of us.

Fela was right that that fear is not for man. Eating anything but food is like fear and not for man. Bad soup equals bad soul. Vuky Foods embodies that fearless spirit and hence a soul that feels right to me.

Dreaming in 7 Colors & Rythms

The first time I went to Vunky Foods, a vegetarian restaurant in Cologne, it turned out to be a great surprise but in a very soft way. I say so because I enjoy being served as a chef incognito. That way I can also experience the food and service as an ordinary guest. Yet from the service and flavors, I could genuinely feel welcome in the space but beyond that, I could attest to the enormous effort that had gone into creating what I was experiencing. Even deeper, the experience was like a mirror and a song all at the same time. Every bite was full of history of the farmers I might never know on one hand and a primordial exercise in chewing that has a soft, inaudible rhythm that is unique to each guest.

The theme of rhythm somehow lasted as long as I kept chewing. That obviously was a long time for a six course dinner. The conclusion of the rhythm ended in the long story of the siege of Leningrad which lasted from 1941 to 1944. The Germans were unable to break the siege and ultimately lost the war. Food was one scarce commodity on both sides.

What was not scarce behind the walls of Leningrad was rhythm. In fact the scarcity of food seemed to inspire rhythms in a more profound way. One composer by the name of Dimitri Shostakovich was composing music to keep the hopes and spirits of hungry Russian from dying. The most powerful of his compositions was symphony number 7, which had to be moved to a new location after the original venue was bombed. Even more tragic, some of the performers actually died during the rehearsal for the show due to hunger. But Shostakovich wasn’t one to give up, and the performance actually took place. It was an incredible feat and the audience, hungry or not knew it. A standing ovation of one hour, by hungry audience, marked the finish of the Seventh symphony. The single act of bravery caught the attention of the Russians propagandist and they decided to play the Seventh symphony to the equally hungry Russian soldiers on the frontline. The power of rhythm didn’t fail and the Russian soldiers were victorious.

My ancestors at the time had their own battles against colonialism. One of the ways in which they protested was through music. One such song that came to mind was Mũthĩrĩgũ, a song that castigated the colonial forces intruding upon the indigenous cultures. The song was immediately banned and so the rhythms of the song gained prominence as a form of double protest against the ban and colonial rule. Many were arrested for singing the song but the more they were arrested the bigger and louder the choir of protest sound grew from jail. The colonialist turned to one of their own who had been born and even gone through the rights of passage amongst the Agĩkũyũ, earning himself the name “karwĩgĩ ( a small eagle/also a word for airplane). Karĩgĩ’s real name was Louis Leakey and had grown up to be an anthropologist and writer of a prominent 3-volume epic book entitled “Southern Kikuyu Before 1903”. Leakey advised the colonialist to change tactics and switch from arresting those singing Mũthĩgiũ as it was only increasing the popularity of the song and making it a rallying call and instead fight the song with another song. That is how a new dance known as Mwomboko became the first form of counter intelligence rhythms. Accordions were purchased and dished out to various promising musicians, amongst the most famous being Shida Wa Gĩkombe.

I always found it as an interesting coincidence that Shida’s first name means to win in Gĩkũyũ and predicament in Swahili, while his last name means “cup”. In reality, Shida lived up to his name as a poisoned chalice. Mwoboko gained traction for a while but could not stop the fight for justice. Not even “Karwĩgĩ” would stump out the flames of justice. The rhythmic music of Kamaru Wa Wanjiru would later roast the unjust rhythms of Mwomboko to become the most influential music of the era in the history of the Agĩkũyũ. I can be forgiven for calling Karwĩgĩ “Karũgĩo”(frying pan) as his plans were turned into ashes considering that the struggle for liberation made some major strides. Yet the colonial ashes are still hot and may even contain embers that pose serious danger to the descendants of those who fought diligently for justice. One of the biggest threat to justice amongst that community and the continent as a whole is the issue of food sovereignty.

It’s on that ground that I appreciated the opportunity to share my version of the one-hour standing ovation and the true “Shida Gĩkombe” (winning Trophy) in collaboration with a gallant chef and co-owner of Vukys Foods in February.

While the refrain of Mwomboko was “Merĩ na Kuuna” (meaning two steps and a fold) describing the three steps rhythm, our Afro Futuristic dinner at Vuky Foods will be in double threes. It will be one Kenyan and American chef with a German couple on one hand and two Africans and one German and two male chefs, one African and one European under the guidance of an African choir mistress from Gambia, the land of the most important African instrument known as the Kora.

Interestingly the Kora has 21 strings and fits perfectly with the rhythm of 2 and 1 but actually taking two spirits and bringing the best in both. Thayù

Quantum Physics For Dinner

Last night I had dinner at Vunkys, a relatively new restaurant in Cologne ran by a Gambian lady and her partner. The restaurant serves local vegetarian and vegan food only. My friend and I had a 5 course dinner that lasted 4 hours. The food was delicious and well presented. Each course was paired with wine, including the appetizer. That means I tasted 6 different wines, the second highest wines I have consumed in one sitting. But it was the passion of the Gambian lady that topped it all. At the end of the dinner, she wanted to know how the experience was and a conversation ensued between my her and my friend. I just sat back and listened to what felt like a theater presentation.

I wish I had gotten her name. She was very clear about her values and how they are presented in her food. I shared my contacts at the end. I only made three remarks about a painting of my Jazz hero, John Coltrane, whose painting adorned one of the walls, Demeter and Hypnos.

Coltrane’s song, Giant Steps, contained a code of Quantum Physics. Thiat point made her shake her head. Demeter is the finest food brand in Germany. The name comes from the Greek goddess of agriculture, hearth and bread. She shook her head. Hypnos was the Greek god of sleep and hence the word hypnosis. “No way!”, she said! I could read her body language and it was clear that she was an activist at heart and on that account we are most likely going to be connected as allies and accomplices in the fight for food justice.

Yes! I said, as I nodded. She smiled as I bowed. I turned around and took Giant Steps toward the exit door, feeling hypnotized by the six classes of wine and a jazzy conversation about history of our culture and food. I stepped into the dim street, slightly staggering, and started humming the song “My Favorite Things “, one of my favorite rendition done by John Coltrane. It was an evening to dream about and a connection to follow up on. It was truly a Giant Step!

As I jumped in bed, I felt as though I had just had quantum physics for dinner. African food is destined for big things!

Afro Futuristic Cuisine and Art

The difference between a stone and a sculpture is the presence or absence of creativity or art. The determination of the price and aesthetics of art is a very complex and relative fact.

My approach to food is multidimensional. One of those dimensions being art. The months of October have by far been the richest months in my career in so many ways, yet this week topped it all. While returning from a conference on the use highly hazardous pesticides in Kenya, especially those pesticides that have been banned in the West but still being exported to Africa. While the conference had great presentations, it would have been so much more impactful had the food consumed been free from the pesticides being castigated. That’s was an added reason to find somewhere I could eat what I call “just food” or food without toxic contamination. I thought that I would take the opportunity to stop by one of my best friend’s farm and spend a little time with his family. a class in the village of Karunga that was organized within a day, a group of villagers showed up to deal me one of my biggest surprise. Besides just showing up with very short notice and sitting patiently throughout the almost 5 hour class. I stretched my imagination to the limits by using only local ingredients except for spices and salt.

As we cruised through the whole process from theory to practice, I was ever aware of the great opportunity for me to learn as I was about what I was sharing. As any astute researcher, I was curious about the question of portion size amongst other things. One of the most common question I get from my fellow Kenyans is on the issue of portion size.

I therefore closely observed both the reaction of the guests upon receiving their plates and their reactions towards the end. I went to great lengths to decorate the plate with edible flowers. The plate was essentially a vegan plate with a slice of a pastured egg, mainly as a decoration and decoy from the obvious bias towards proteins.

My observation was that art and creativity can positively contribute to food literacy on two levels.First and foremost, the decoration of the plate seemed to make the food on the plate more valuable and therefore consumed with a lot of intentionality, savoring every bite. Secondly, those who asked for second round were quite satisfied with even smaller portions, but also partly driven by curiosity in taste.

The second surprise was the biggest for me. When asked to price the experience the guests gave a price tag of an average of $700. Even if I was to assume that the guests hyped the price and therefore cut it by half, $ 350 is a price high enough in the village context for a nice piece of art. I have to though clarify that the guests were from above average income level, with majority having moved from the city. Either way, I was impressed, not by the price tag, but by the level of appreciation of art in food and its potential. That potential is to radically improve our relationship with food from consumption with little awareness of the great possibilities to address our pressing social problems to enriching our quality of life in extraordinary ways.

Achilles Plate in Dala

I was a great pleasure to spend time in Nairobi and Kisumu the last two weeks. The last time I was in Kisumu was in 1974, I was retracting my footsteps of 51 ago to the place where I attended what was called nursery school. In short, education for me started in Dala(home in Dhaluo) and Dala become home both intellectually and culturally. In other ways, it totally redefined what Dala means to me as a person to include what and with whom I eat.

By the time the two-days conference is over, I lrealized that I earned more about Kenyan the last two weeks than any other time in my entire life. Those two weeks put together marked the smartest group of Kenyans I have ever shared the same space with. Yet they were 110% on the opposite side in their food practice. The gathering was a conference about highly hazardous pesticides but I did not observe a single person practice what all those preseners preached.

I am now out of food and i will probably have to cut my time short if I cannot find clean food.

When the conference was actually concluded and the professor giving the vote of thanks to close the conference, he asked everyone to stand for a word of prayer. Everyone stood up. Ironically, passing, he recounted a story of a conference he once attended in Germany. The good professor noticed that the there was no invitation for prayers at the beginning of the conference and out concern quickly enquired about the oddity. The host quickly responded that prayer was not part of the agenda.

By the end of the story about the conference in Germany, everyone was standing except me. Prayer was not one of the agendas that had brought me to Kisumu for the first time since 1974. I felt a gap that is multitudes times between Kisumu Dala of the early 70s. Truly I say unto you, OneTongue is where struggle has to start and real Dala has to start with your stomach.

I left the dinning hall and headed to my room to catch some rest. I decided that I would be attending the conference at 9.00 pm on Tuesday night and I was in the bus an hour later. I arrived in morning and headed straight to the conference room only to find that I was the first to arrive. I truly couldn't miss the opportunity to participate at such an important gathering. I however didn't have enough time to prepare adequately for my food needs.

I arrived in my room and ate a few Chestnuts I was gifted by a bee farmer in Cologne and then went to sleep after agonising about how I could crush the handful of Macadamia nuts I had brought with me from our village farm.

As I was at the edge of lucid thought and sleep, I wondered about the two nuts I had in my possession for dinner. The German nut was soft and easy to break with my bare hands while the one from our farm was hard and impossible to break without a really hard stone and an equally hard surface. I slept before completing the train of thought. Please help me with your imagination to guess where I might have been going with the comparison.

To give you a hint, think about Achilles Plate. In case you need a juggling of the mind I could offer an appetizer. Achilles was the best Greek warrior during the Trojan war, but having been dipped into a river by his mother to make him invisible, the part of the hill where his mother was holding him from wasn’t protected and was therefore vulnerable and hence the phrase of "Achilles hill" as a byword of vulnerability or weakness. Sometimes I wonder if my mother decided to dip my stomach into a stream next yo our ancestral farm named Karurumo, making it impervious to anything except Just Food. If she did, I say Kung'u Maitú. My ancestors too deserve a share of their credit in this regard, and especially for the instructive proverb that says “ Ngwĩko ya arume nĩ nda” reminding men and women that food is as central as sex.

Maybe Achilles Plate should be the name of a condition of a person who knows so much but acts contrary to his knowledge.

As the conference ended, the senior professor giving the final words asked for everyone to stand for prayer. Everyone stood up and many closed their eyes. I didn’t stand up and kept my eyes open as I had already stood up for Just Food and almost everybody else was seated. I just sat there hoping and wishing that one day the call for just food will be answered just as quick without much hesitation.

Modern Day POW

Today, I came across the most eclectic granary at the Rautenshaut-Joest Museum in Cologne. I felt both indebted and honored just thinking that in a number of days to come, I will be serving Afro-futuristic cuisine and giving a lecture in this setting as an reenactment of a potentially instructive food story between German prisoners of war and the destruction of a similarly impressive granary in my indigenous community around 1945. The German prisoners of war played a significant role in the destruction of one particular particular granary that is still actively discussed in my folklore by extracting food from the public granary without replenishing it. This act, driven by desperation and the injustices of war, as well as a lack of cultural sensitivity, spelled the end of an era of food literacy and consciousness. The idea of the granary was that the food was for travelers, but the POWs treated the granary as a pantry for homeless people. The locals were not anthropologists and they felt aggrieved that someone would abuse a granary so vital that it was named after their deity.

This era was characterised by fascism in the West while the belief about food in my community was that it was a right, even for passers-by, their fascist ideology not withstanding.

Things are coming full circle, and I will explain the cultural significance and consequences of the German and Italian fascist POWs' actions to hundreds of anthropologists. As an anthropologist myself, the gap between my community and the the current European community is not as big and I will therefore be doing the work for pay. Yet majority of the funds received will go towards promoting the ideas of Food Justice similar to the founding ideology of the Granary of Ngai( Ikumbi ria Ngai). The biggest coincidence is that the conference is taking place at a time when many of us have become prisoners of our own bellies due to food injustice.

Our stomachs have literally become battlegrounds between modern forces of justice and those of injustice. I will explain why, and the menu will demonstrate what a fight on the side of justice would entail or look like.

When viewed from the side, the roof of the Indonesian granary resembles a pair of bird wings. This is a fitting symbol for our current situation, informed by our awareness of Afro Futurism. In my culture, a popular saying informed by the speed with which fascist prisoners of war (known as Bono) would dash out after selling their trench coats for food is “wathiĩ ta bono yendetie kabuti” (you run like a German prisoner of war after selling his trench coat). This saying illustrates the level of hunger amongst the POWs. We now find ourselves in a similar situation, running away from the monster born of five centuries of war on indigenous communities, which culminated in the 1945 saga.

This monster has been the almost invisible destruction of general food consciousness, which has marked the lives of those who survived the immediate violence, whether as victors or losers. We truly need a wide awareness of food and a public granary of consciousness about it, such as that captured in the story of Ikumbĩ rĩa Ngai. This would be a great place to start our healing journey. This is the spirit of Afro Futuristic Conscious Cuisine, or what could rightly be called a cuisine of the granary. It is one possible way of saving ourselves from the madness of running like modern-day prisoners of war in search of healing from the consequences of Fiat Food Consciousness, born of an unjust food system under whose gaze we live. The ravenous nature of Fiat Food Consciousness is that it recognises no artificial boundaries, racial classifications or class divisions, and is an equal opportunity epidemic. My hope, and hopefully of my anthropologists preset, is that these are smart steps in the bigger struggle for social and food justice.

There is no better kitchen to cook those just ideas than a museum as it symbolizes old power and the true potential of the commons. Maybe that could stave off the epidemic that is turning our bellies into modern day fascist POWs.

Nyama, Njaama & Wanjama

Nyama na Njaama ya Wajama

In a hit or miss game, I chanced to text brother Wajama, the executive director of Seed Savers Network. We were in close proximity but had no appointment. I have been in contact with Wanjama for a while and have previously attempted to collaborate on a brief residency but life happened around that endeavor and the idea was postponed until a time when we had no formal plans.

The meeting happened after Wajama replied to my text informing him that I was in his neck of the woods. The reply was in one: “Karibu”.

We then headed to the location hoping to just say hello and a brief introduction. Upon arrival we learned that Wajama was in a meeting. His assistant informed him of our arrival and he soon emerged from a meeting with a big smile. Wajama recommended a brief tour and an invitation for me to speak briefly to the assembled group holding the meeting. It was brief alright.

Almost two hours later, we left with smiling faces, seeds, seedlings of fruit trees and other indigenous trees. We also bought some mushrooms and indigenous vegetables from Nyakazi Organics. Nyakazi is a local aggregator for indigenous vegetables from local farmers that is incubated by Seed Savers Network. The company dries and packages the food to extend shelf-life and also to create a constant market and prices for the sake of farmers and consumers. I appreciate such local solutions for local problems that are a win-win situation for all parties involved.

We graciously shared of our seeds and received some from their seed bank. In other words we made a deposit and withdrawal simultaneously, and then left feeling like we had robbed a bank.

After many hugs and goodbyes, we felt justified to stop at Kikopey, a popular meat joint right off the highway as a small token of appreciation to my family for my wayward and adventurous time keeping methods.

As a treat, I made an impromptu meat accompaniment from available ingredients. Lemons, a gooseberry from a farm we had visited earlier, a mango from my weekend event @mlangofarm, a date, black pepper and caraway seeds. It was a hit. My family gobbled it up in minutes. I named the recipe Njama, Nyama ya Wajama. Njaama. Why? you may wonder. The answer is a combination of comedy and tragedy in the true Greek sense.

The story of food justice is the modern Cold War. A truly tragic story of food illiteracy and injustice. Yet in the face of such an unnecessary tragedy is a spaces of unspeakable joy. An executive director whom I have never seen face to face but yet interrupts his meeting and shifts hears as if he was driving a car. The hospitality beats the famous hospitality of the Greeks on accounts of its foundation . The Greeks were hospitable to their guests as they were afraid that the guests might be gods in disguise testing their character.

I seriously doubt Wajama thought we could be Greek gods. Yet he was both gracious as to be pious. A car load of men in my family basked in brotherhood of Wajama with whiffs of reciprocal energy. Hence the name Njama( a group of purposeful men assembled for a purpose . Nyama means meat. Wajama was the purpose for the eating the meat.

Nyama na Njama ya Wajama finished a wonderful word that has been my theme during my visit to both Kenya and Ethiopian : Onetang. The curtains will fall tomorrow as I embark on a road trip to Addis Ababa in preparation for my European tour.

All those men, and many like them are the rays of the sun to my heart. Those rays and sparks serenade me with warmth for my soul. In such moments I get ideas I might never had before, such as the poetic connection between Nyama(meat), Njaama( warriors with purpose) and Wajama. The purpose of Nyama(meat) is to feed Njaama and Wajama to the common goal of OneTang. Thayù