They said, “We remember the meat we ate freely in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.” Those words have echoed through centuries — a cry of memory and misery from people who once lived near plenty but fed on little. They lived near pots of meat, yet their bellies were hollow. They were close enough to smell abundance but too bound to taste it. It is one of the cruelest forms of poverty — to stand beside what you desire and never touch it.
I did not fully understand that scripture until life led me into a house where the same story was being rewritten, only without pyramids or Pharaohs. It was not Egypt with sand and slaves; it was Karen, Nairobi — a place of polished homes and perfumed gardens. The house was filled with every sign of blessing: stocked shelves, expensive cutlery, prayers before meals. But in that house, I too lived near pots of meat. I cooked them, served them, watched others eat them — but my portion was bread, and sometimes plain rice.
The first time I stirred a pot of beef in that kitchen, I thought of those Israelites in the wilderness. I could see myself in them — the one who cooks the aroma that feeds everyone else. The steam touched my face like a mocking whisper. I was part of the process but not part of the pleasure. I was near, but not within. My hunger was not just for food; it was for fairness.
Every day, I lived the same pattern. I prepared food fit for a feast — meat roasted golden, rice fluffed like clouds, vegetables glistening in oil. I set tables that looked like heaven’s banquet, yet I ate in corners with old bread and weak tea. The smell of spice became a symbol of separation. I was trusted with everything that built comfort, but never trusted with comfort itself. I was the unseen presence that kept the visible ones satisfied.
What made it worse was that it all happened under the roof of faith. The woman of the house — my employer — was a leader in the church. Her Bible was always open, her lips often prayed, her face always smiling that polished smile of holiness. But her kindness stopped at the edge of her plate. Her prayers thanked God for blessings I prepared but never shared. It was there that I learned something hard: holiness without humanity is hunger dressed in Scripture.
I used to think hunger was a physical ache, but it’s deeper. It is the silence that grows when your effort is invisible. It is the ache of being necessary but unacknowledged, of serving without belonging. That hunger follows you — to the church, to work, even to your thoughts. You begin to wonder if the world was designed for some to eat and others to serve.
But even in that confusion, I began to see a pattern. The world is full of people living near pots of meat. The poor in families. The poor in workplaces. The poor in nations. The poor in churches. All of them contributing to abundance they do not enjoy. They carry the weight, do the work, light the fires, and yet go to bed with only bread. Their stories differ in setting, but the script is the same: others eat while they serve.
And yet, something inside me refused to die. Maybe it was the small flame of dignity that no misery can fully smother. I began to look at the meat I cooked and whisper to myself, “One day, I will eat this too.” Not out of greed, but out of rightful belonging. Because I had learned that the meat of life is not just food — it is fairness, voice, and value.
This book is born from that realization. It is not a complaint but a confession, not revenge but revelation. It is the voice of one who lived near pots of meat and finally learned that proximity is not privilege — participation is. It is for everyone who has ever served without being seen, who has given without being thanked, who has survived on crumbs while holding the recipe for feasts.
The story begins in a kitchen, but it stretches far beyond it — into homes, churches, offices, and nations. It is the story of invisible people who make the world run. It is the story of hands that feed others but are never fed. It is the story of how the tables turn, slowly but surely, when those hands remember their worth.
I write this not to shame the meat-eaters but to awaken the bread-eaters. To remind them that the smell of meat is not meant to tease but to invite. That the table of life is large enough for all. That no one should live near blessings they helped create and still die hungry. And so, this is where it begins — near pots of meat. Where the air is rich with flavor, the eyes full of longing, and the soul quietly asking, “When will I eat what I’ve cooked?”
I did not fully understand that scripture until life led me into a house where the same story was being rewritten, only without pyramids or Pharaohs. It was not Egypt with sand and slaves; it was Karen, Nairobi — a place of polished homes and perfumed gardens. The house was filled with every sign of blessing: stocked shelves, expensive cutlery, prayers before meals. But in that house, I too lived near pots of meat. I cooked them, served them, watched others eat them — but my portion was bread, and sometimes plain rice.
The first time I stirred a pot of beef in that kitchen, I thought of those Israelites in the wilderness. I could see myself in them — the one who cooks the aroma that feeds everyone else. The steam touched my face like a mocking whisper. I was part of the process but not part of the pleasure. I was near, but not within. My hunger was not just for food; it was for fairness.
Every day, I lived the same pattern. I prepared food fit for a feast — meat roasted golden, rice fluffed like clouds, vegetables glistening in oil. I set tables that looked like heaven’s banquet, yet I ate in corners with old bread and weak tea. The smell of spice became a symbol of separation. I was trusted with everything that built comfort, but never trusted with comfort itself. I was the unseen presence that kept the visible ones satisfied.
What made it worse was that it all happened under the roof of faith. The woman of the house — my employer — was a leader in the church. Her Bible was always open, her lips often prayed, her face always smiling that polished smile of holiness. But her kindness stopped at the edge of her plate. Her prayers thanked God for blessings I prepared but never shared. It was there that I learned something hard: holiness without humanity is hunger dressed in Scripture.
I used to think hunger was a physical ache, but it’s deeper. It is the silence that grows when your effort is invisible. It is the ache of being necessary but unacknowledged, of serving without belonging. That hunger follows you — to the church, to work, even to your thoughts. You begin to wonder if the world was designed for some to eat and others to serve.
But even in that confusion, I began to see a pattern. The world is full of people living near pots of meat. The poor in families. The poor in workplaces. The poor in nations. The poor in churches. All of them contributing to abundance they do not enjoy. They carry the weight, do the work, light the fires, and yet go to bed with only bread. Their stories differ in setting, but the script is the same: others eat while they serve.
And yet, something inside me refused to die. Maybe it was the small flame of dignity that no misery can fully smother. I began to look at the meat I cooked and whisper to myself, “One day, I will eat this too.” Not out of greed, but out of rightful belonging. Because I had learned that the meat of life is not just food — it is fairness, voice, and value.
This book is born from that realization. It is not a complaint but a confession, not revenge but revelation. It is the voice of one who lived near pots of meat and finally learned that proximity is not privilege — participation is. It is for everyone who has ever served without being seen, who has given without being thanked, who has survived on crumbs while holding the recipe for feasts.
The story begins in a kitchen, but it stretches far beyond it — into homes, churches, offices, and nations. It is the story of invisible people who make the world run. It is the story of hands that feed others but are never fed. It is the story of how the tables turn, slowly but surely, when those hands remember their worth.
I write this not to shame the meat-eaters but to awaken the bread-eaters. To remind them that the smell of meat is not meant to tease but to invite. That the table of life is large enough for all. That no one should live near blessings they helped create and still die hungry. And so, this is where it begins — near pots of meat. Where the air is rich with flavor, the eyes full of longing, and the soul quietly asking, “When will I eat what I’ve cooked?”
