There is a taste that cannot be forgotten — not because of the flavor, but because of what it means. The first time I ate the meat I cooked, it was not about hunger; it was about healing. It was as if, in that single mouthful, all the years of silence, servitude, and smallness began to dissolve. The fat of injustice melted from my soul, and I finally understood what it means to be whole.
Eating the meat you cooked is not about food. It is about restoration. It is the moment when your labor and your reward finally meet each other without a wall in between. It is when you no longer live near blessings, but within them. It is when you stop working only to fill others’ plates and start feeding your own life too.
For years, I thought fulfillment belonged to others — the employers, the leaders, the “chosen ones.” I believed my role was only to prepare, to support, to serve. I thought holiness meant humility to the point of self-erasure. But I have since learned that humility without self-worth is slavery dressed as virtue. There is nothing godly about shrinking so others can shine. There is no righteousness in starving while your work feeds the world.
When I began to eat the meat I cooked — to enjoy the fruit of my labor — something shifted inside me. I felt my humanity return, piece by piece. My laughter became louder, my prayers more honest, my sleep deeper. The guilt that once haunted me for wanting better began to fade. I realized that wanting to eat is not greed — it is gratitude. Gratitude to the God who gives both hands to work and mouths to eat.
I started small. I began to save what little I earned, refusing to spend it all on survival. I started planning for myself the same way I used to plan for others. I cooked meals I wanted to eat. I sat at tables without apology. I said “no” when I meant no. I let go of the fear that used to keep me obedient. I stopped asking permission to exist fully. And each of those decisions was a bite of meat — rich, satisfying, and powerful.
I also learned that eating the meat you cooked is not selfish; it is spiritual balance. The world runs on giving and receiving. If one side only gives while the other only takes, life tilts into injustice. For too long, the poor, the silent, the unseen have given endlessly — time, sweat, creativity, forgiveness. Now it is time to receive — not as charity, but as justice.
There was a day I visited the marketplace in Nairobi after leaving my old job. I walked through the stalls — the smell of roasted maize, the colors of ripe mangoes, the laughter of women selling vegetables. Everything felt alive. I realized that for the first time in years, I was walking without fear. I was not hurrying back to serve anyone. I was serving myself. I bought meat that day — a small portion — and when I cooked it in my tiny rented house, I cried. Not because of sadness, but because of gratitude. The sound of sizzling oil was no longer the sound of servitude; it was the sound of freedom.
Eating the meat you cooked also means celebrating your journey without shame. It means looking back at the kitchen of your suffering and saying, “I survived that fire and still smell sweet.” It means forgiving those who ate while you starved — not because they deserve it, but because you refuse to let their greed own your spirit any longer. Forgiveness is the seasoning that makes victory tender. Without it, freedom turns bitter.
When I forgave, I didn’t forget. I just chose not to carry the taste of resentment into my new feast. I stopped waiting for apologies that would never come. I stopped needing acknowledgment from people who thrived on blindness. Instead, I began to write, to speak, to share my story — not as a complaint, but as nourishment. My words became my new meal, and every page I wrote felt like chewing truth.
Eating the meat you cooked is also about sharing it. Once you’ve tasted dignity, you cannot eat alone. Freedom that is hoarded is just another form of greed. The true proof that you’ve healed is your desire to see others healed too. So, I started teaching younger people about their worth. I told them: “Do your work with excellence, but do not lose yourself in it. Serve with heart, but know your value. Respect others, but never worship them.” Their eyes lit up the same way mine did the day I first realized I was more than a servant. The fire was spreading — not the fire of rebellion, but of realization.
I began to see the pattern everywhere. The world changes whenever the ones who used to bow start standing tall. When the maid starts to dream. When the driver learns to invest. When the factory worker demands fair pay. When the believer questions manipulation. When the citizen demands transparency. That is the aroma of justice rising — the meat finally cooking for everyone.
And it is not only about individuals. Eating the meat you cooked means healing as a society too. It means governments that finally serve the people instead of themselves. It means churches that feed the poor instead of praising the rich. It means families that share decisions instead of silencing the humble. It means workplaces that measure success not by profit, but by the joy of their workers. It means a world where everyone can sit at the same table and call each other equal.
When I close my eyes now, I sometimes see that kitchen in Karen again. The same counters, the same pots, the same smell of roasted meat. But in my memory, I am not standing by the stove anymore. I am sitting at the table. The woman of the house is no longer my master; she is just another person at the table. We are both eating, both human, both free — at least in my mind. Because in truth, the table turns long before it turns in reality. Freedom begins in imagination. Every liberation starts as a dream you dare to believe possible.
I have tasted that dream. I have eaten that meat. And I now know that life was never meant to be lived near blessings but within them. That every person deserves to taste the fruit of their effort, the joy of their purpose, the warmth of their contribution. God never designed humans to be shadows in someone else’s story. He created all of us to partake — to live, to enjoy, to belong.
So when I say eat the meat you cooked, I am speaking to everyone who has ever been invisible — the mother who sacrificed her youth, the worker whose pay was never fair, the believer whose service went unnoticed, the child who always came last. I am telling you, Your time is coming. The world cannot run without you. You have been the fire, the hands, the heart — now it is your turn to eat.
And when you finally sit at your own table, do not forget the ones still in the kitchen. Call them over. Make space. Because justice is not complete until everyone eats. That is the gospel I have come to know — not the one shouted from pulpits or printed in manifestos, but the one written quietly in the lives of those who endured hunger and found courage to feed themselves.
Eating the meat you cooked is the final act of dignity. It is saying, I matter too. It is standing before the world, not in defiance, but in truth — the truth that all hands that serve deserve to be fed, and all hearts that labor deserve to rest. Now, when I eat, I no longer taste guilt. I taste grace. I taste balance. I taste freedom. And for the first time, the smell of meat no longer reminds me of what I lost — it reminds me of what I reclaimed.
Eating the meat you cooked is not about food. It is about restoration. It is the moment when your labor and your reward finally meet each other without a wall in between. It is when you no longer live near blessings, but within them. It is when you stop working only to fill others’ plates and start feeding your own life too.
For years, I thought fulfillment belonged to others — the employers, the leaders, the “chosen ones.” I believed my role was only to prepare, to support, to serve. I thought holiness meant humility to the point of self-erasure. But I have since learned that humility without self-worth is slavery dressed as virtue. There is nothing godly about shrinking so others can shine. There is no righteousness in starving while your work feeds the world.
When I began to eat the meat I cooked — to enjoy the fruit of my labor — something shifted inside me. I felt my humanity return, piece by piece. My laughter became louder, my prayers more honest, my sleep deeper. The guilt that once haunted me for wanting better began to fade. I realized that wanting to eat is not greed — it is gratitude. Gratitude to the God who gives both hands to work and mouths to eat.
I started small. I began to save what little I earned, refusing to spend it all on survival. I started planning for myself the same way I used to plan for others. I cooked meals I wanted to eat. I sat at tables without apology. I said “no” when I meant no. I let go of the fear that used to keep me obedient. I stopped asking permission to exist fully. And each of those decisions was a bite of meat — rich, satisfying, and powerful.
I also learned that eating the meat you cooked is not selfish; it is spiritual balance. The world runs on giving and receiving. If one side only gives while the other only takes, life tilts into injustice. For too long, the poor, the silent, the unseen have given endlessly — time, sweat, creativity, forgiveness. Now it is time to receive — not as charity, but as justice.
There was a day I visited the marketplace in Nairobi after leaving my old job. I walked through the stalls — the smell of roasted maize, the colors of ripe mangoes, the laughter of women selling vegetables. Everything felt alive. I realized that for the first time in years, I was walking without fear. I was not hurrying back to serve anyone. I was serving myself. I bought meat that day — a small portion — and when I cooked it in my tiny rented house, I cried. Not because of sadness, but because of gratitude. The sound of sizzling oil was no longer the sound of servitude; it was the sound of freedom.
Eating the meat you cooked also means celebrating your journey without shame. It means looking back at the kitchen of your suffering and saying, “I survived that fire and still smell sweet.” It means forgiving those who ate while you starved — not because they deserve it, but because you refuse to let their greed own your spirit any longer. Forgiveness is the seasoning that makes victory tender. Without it, freedom turns bitter.
When I forgave, I didn’t forget. I just chose not to carry the taste of resentment into my new feast. I stopped waiting for apologies that would never come. I stopped needing acknowledgment from people who thrived on blindness. Instead, I began to write, to speak, to share my story — not as a complaint, but as nourishment. My words became my new meal, and every page I wrote felt like chewing truth.
Eating the meat you cooked is also about sharing it. Once you’ve tasted dignity, you cannot eat alone. Freedom that is hoarded is just another form of greed. The true proof that you’ve healed is your desire to see others healed too. So, I started teaching younger people about their worth. I told them: “Do your work with excellence, but do not lose yourself in it. Serve with heart, but know your value. Respect others, but never worship them.” Their eyes lit up the same way mine did the day I first realized I was more than a servant. The fire was spreading — not the fire of rebellion, but of realization.
I began to see the pattern everywhere. The world changes whenever the ones who used to bow start standing tall. When the maid starts to dream. When the driver learns to invest. When the factory worker demands fair pay. When the believer questions manipulation. When the citizen demands transparency. That is the aroma of justice rising — the meat finally cooking for everyone.
And it is not only about individuals. Eating the meat you cooked means healing as a society too. It means governments that finally serve the people instead of themselves. It means churches that feed the poor instead of praising the rich. It means families that share decisions instead of silencing the humble. It means workplaces that measure success not by profit, but by the joy of their workers. It means a world where everyone can sit at the same table and call each other equal.
When I close my eyes now, I sometimes see that kitchen in Karen again. The same counters, the same pots, the same smell of roasted meat. But in my memory, I am not standing by the stove anymore. I am sitting at the table. The woman of the house is no longer my master; she is just another person at the table. We are both eating, both human, both free — at least in my mind. Because in truth, the table turns long before it turns in reality. Freedom begins in imagination. Every liberation starts as a dream you dare to believe possible.
I have tasted that dream. I have eaten that meat. And I now know that life was never meant to be lived near blessings but within them. That every person deserves to taste the fruit of their effort, the joy of their purpose, the warmth of their contribution. God never designed humans to be shadows in someone else’s story. He created all of us to partake — to live, to enjoy, to belong.
So when I say eat the meat you cooked, I am speaking to everyone who has ever been invisible — the mother who sacrificed her youth, the worker whose pay was never fair, the believer whose service went unnoticed, the child who always came last. I am telling you, Your time is coming. The world cannot run without you. You have been the fire, the hands, the heart — now it is your turn to eat.
And when you finally sit at your own table, do not forget the ones still in the kitchen. Call them over. Make space. Because justice is not complete until everyone eats. That is the gospel I have come to know — not the one shouted from pulpits or printed in manifestos, but the one written quietly in the lives of those who endured hunger and found courage to feed themselves.
Eating the meat you cooked is the final act of dignity. It is saying, I matter too. It is standing before the world, not in defiance, but in truth — the truth that all hands that serve deserve to be fed, and all hearts that labor deserve to rest. Now, when I eat, I no longer taste guilt. I taste grace. I taste balance. I taste freedom. And for the first time, the smell of meat no longer reminds me of what I lost — it reminds me of what I reclaimed.
