Local Hotelis (Restaurant)

Walter and I eat at a local hoteli, a tiny, corrugated shack across the road from the Akamba bus station. There is a row of tiny, corrugated shacks across from the bus station, each with a grill out front and men in aprons grilling fish or chicken. Walter assesses each station, talks to the guy with thongs at each place and selects a hoteli. We crouch to enter the narrow, short door and walk down two steps, where we can stand upright. A couple of the plastic tables and chairs are occupied. One by a man Walter has introduced me to before, on the street. The man is very kind and uses crutches to get around, a victim of childhood polio.

We select a table at the back corner and, when seated, look street-level through the door and front windows; watching barefoot street boys linger nearby, seeing boda boda wheels roll by with ladies sitting sidesaddle.

Chicken quarters are roasting/grilling just outside in the bright sunshine. It smells gourmet. Flies crawl on our table. Walter orders chicken and ugali for two. When the ugali, a large chunk, is served on a plate, Walter says something in Luo and the guy takes it away and returns with another massive chunk. Seems the first was dried out. The chicken arrives and we dig in. Sometimes talking, sometimes not. I pull a piece of meat, scoop a hunk of ugali and massage it around the chicken. Smoke drifts in from the grill. Two women with two small children come in and sit across the room, perhaps eight feet away.

When we've finished the chicken, Walter and I take turns holding the water pitcher for each other and pouring a small, steady stream over a bucket so we can wash the ugali from our cuticles. No napkins, no paper towels, no problem. The total for the meal is 150 shillings, about $2 USD. "We should come here again next Sunday," I say to Walter. There's something about the tin building, the bright sunshine and the guy in the apron sweating over chicken quarters. It smells good. It feels good. It's very local.