I remember the smell before I remember the faces. It was always there — rich, heavy, dripping with the fat of roasted meat. It filled the house from kitchen to corridor, a smell that clung to walls, curtains, even prayers. It was the smell of plenty. Yet in that same house, my stomach often sang hymns of hunger.
I lived in Karen, Nairobi. Not as a visitor, not as a guest, but as one who kept the rhythm of someone else’s comfort. It was a fine house — wide windows, white walls, tall trees guarding the gate. If you passed by, you’d think laughter lived there. You’d think faith lived there too; after all, the homeowner was a leader in church. Her Bible sat proudly on the coffee table, next to a vase of plastic lilies that had never wilted. She loved saying “Praise God” with a smile that could warm the air, but her warmth was like candlelight — bright for a moment, then gone the moment you reached for it.
I had come there with hope — the kind of hope that only people with empty pockets but full hearts carry. I believed that working in a Christian home meant kindness. I believed that faith meant fairness. I believed that when we called each other “sister” in Christ, it meant something deeper than words. But life, I would learn, cooks a different gospel in some kitchens.
The first day, the woman who inducted me pulled me aside. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, as if we were speaking about a ghost that might appear if we said its name aloud. “If you want peace,” she said, “don’t eat boss food. Don’t touch her spoons, cups, glasses, or plates. She is mean. If you do, she will be mad at you.”
I looked at her, half laughing. I thought she exaggerated. I thought a woman who prayed in tongues could not be a miser in the language of kindness. But I was wrong. I learned it the day I touched one of her cups — not to use it, just to move it from the sink. Her eyes widened as though I had spilled poison in her tea. Her lips trembled with fury. Her voice cut through the air like boiling oil. From that day, I understood what “pots of meat” meant — to live near them, to stir them, but never to taste.
Every day I prepared meals fit for kings. I cooked sizzling meat barbecue, pizza, enchiladas, lasagna, burgers — name it. The plates were polished, the cutlery shone like mirrors. But when the dinner table filled with laughter, I retreated to my corner with a plate of leftovers or a slice of dry bread. My food was simple, cheap, and tasteless — but it was peaceful. I told myself peace was better than conflict. Yet deep inside, I began to taste the bitterness of invisible hunger — not just of the body, but of dignity.
What haunted me most was not the hunger itself. It was the irony. That all this happened not in a house of unbelievers, not in a home of strangers, but in a house where the Bible was read daily. We prayed before meals, even the ones I never ate. The same lips that thanked God for the “abundance of His blessings” could curse you if you touched the wrong glass. And so, like the Israelites in the wilderness, I began to remember the words: “We used to sit by pots of meat.” They had seen the steam rise, smelled the aroma, even stirred the stew — but they never ate. And I? I lived that verse.
It wasn’t famine. It wasn’t poverty. It was something more complex — a famine of heart. I began to see it wasn’t just me. Around me were thousands like me — people who cooked but never ate. The poor in a family. The poor in a church. The poor at work. The poor in a nation. Each day they prepare the feast that others enjoy. They polish tables they will never sit at. They bake bread whose smell feeds everyone but them.
Yet, here is the strange truth: if those who eat bread stopped working, those who eat meat would go hungry. The world depends on the cucumber eaters — the ones who carry loads, clean homes, staff hospitals, raise children, and build cities. But society pays them in crumbs. They are invisible, yet indispensable. The donkey of work, as some would call it — carrying the burden of meat eaters while chewing on dry straw.
Sometimes at night, when the house was quiet, I would look at the kitchen counter where the leftovers slept. I would think about how faith had become a performance. How a woman could preach love on Sunday and practice cruelty on Monday. How someone could build a ministry but destroy mercy. How God’s name could be used to decorate the walls of injustice. I would whisper to myself, “If this is Christianity, then where is Christ?”
But I did not hate her. I pitied her. Because she was full but not satisfied. She had meat but no peace. She had a table full of food but a soul starved of joy. The meat she ate did not nourish her — it weighed her down. Meanwhile, my bread, though plain, became holy because I ate it with humility.
Still, something in me kept burning. I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell the world that poverty is not only about money. It’s about who gets to eat and who gets to serve. It’s about who gets the glory and who gets the crumbs. It’s about the systems — in homes, churches, and nations — that train us to be content near pots of meat.
And that is why I am writing this book — because silence is no longer peace. Because bread alone, though humble, cannot fill the soul forever. Because even cucumber eaters deserve to eat meat sometimes.
I am writing for those who cook meat but eat bread. For those who labor behind curtains of praise and titles. For those who wash plates they’ll never dine on. For those who have learned to live near blessings they never taste. For the invisible hands that keep the world running while being told to stay invisible. I am writing to say — you are not crazy, you are not bitter, you are not alone. You are the reason the table is full.
I lived in Karen, Nairobi. Not as a visitor, not as a guest, but as one who kept the rhythm of someone else’s comfort. It was a fine house — wide windows, white walls, tall trees guarding the gate. If you passed by, you’d think laughter lived there. You’d think faith lived there too; after all, the homeowner was a leader in church. Her Bible sat proudly on the coffee table, next to a vase of plastic lilies that had never wilted. She loved saying “Praise God” with a smile that could warm the air, but her warmth was like candlelight — bright for a moment, then gone the moment you reached for it.
I had come there with hope — the kind of hope that only people with empty pockets but full hearts carry. I believed that working in a Christian home meant kindness. I believed that faith meant fairness. I believed that when we called each other “sister” in Christ, it meant something deeper than words. But life, I would learn, cooks a different gospel in some kitchens.
The first day, the woman who inducted me pulled me aside. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, as if we were speaking about a ghost that might appear if we said its name aloud. “If you want peace,” she said, “don’t eat boss food. Don’t touch her spoons, cups, glasses, or plates. She is mean. If you do, she will be mad at you.”
I looked at her, half laughing. I thought she exaggerated. I thought a woman who prayed in tongues could not be a miser in the language of kindness. But I was wrong. I learned it the day I touched one of her cups — not to use it, just to move it from the sink. Her eyes widened as though I had spilled poison in her tea. Her lips trembled with fury. Her voice cut through the air like boiling oil. From that day, I understood what “pots of meat” meant — to live near them, to stir them, but never to taste.
Every day I prepared meals fit for kings. I cooked sizzling meat barbecue, pizza, enchiladas, lasagna, burgers — name it. The plates were polished, the cutlery shone like mirrors. But when the dinner table filled with laughter, I retreated to my corner with a plate of leftovers or a slice of dry bread. My food was simple, cheap, and tasteless — but it was peaceful. I told myself peace was better than conflict. Yet deep inside, I began to taste the bitterness of invisible hunger — not just of the body, but of dignity.
What haunted me most was not the hunger itself. It was the irony. That all this happened not in a house of unbelievers, not in a home of strangers, but in a house where the Bible was read daily. We prayed before meals, even the ones I never ate. The same lips that thanked God for the “abundance of His blessings” could curse you if you touched the wrong glass. And so, like the Israelites in the wilderness, I began to remember the words: “We used to sit by pots of meat.” They had seen the steam rise, smelled the aroma, even stirred the stew — but they never ate. And I? I lived that verse.
It wasn’t famine. It wasn’t poverty. It was something more complex — a famine of heart. I began to see it wasn’t just me. Around me were thousands like me — people who cooked but never ate. The poor in a family. The poor in a church. The poor at work. The poor in a nation. Each day they prepare the feast that others enjoy. They polish tables they will never sit at. They bake bread whose smell feeds everyone but them.
Yet, here is the strange truth: if those who eat bread stopped working, those who eat meat would go hungry. The world depends on the cucumber eaters — the ones who carry loads, clean homes, staff hospitals, raise children, and build cities. But society pays them in crumbs. They are invisible, yet indispensable. The donkey of work, as some would call it — carrying the burden of meat eaters while chewing on dry straw.
Sometimes at night, when the house was quiet, I would look at the kitchen counter where the leftovers slept. I would think about how faith had become a performance. How a woman could preach love on Sunday and practice cruelty on Monday. How someone could build a ministry but destroy mercy. How God’s name could be used to decorate the walls of injustice. I would whisper to myself, “If this is Christianity, then where is Christ?”
But I did not hate her. I pitied her. Because she was full but not satisfied. She had meat but no peace. She had a table full of food but a soul starved of joy. The meat she ate did not nourish her — it weighed her down. Meanwhile, my bread, though plain, became holy because I ate it with humility.
Still, something in me kept burning. I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell the world that poverty is not only about money. It’s about who gets to eat and who gets to serve. It’s about who gets the glory and who gets the crumbs. It’s about the systems — in homes, churches, and nations — that train us to be content near pots of meat.
And that is why I am writing this book — because silence is no longer peace. Because bread alone, though humble, cannot fill the soul forever. Because even cucumber eaters deserve to eat meat sometimes.
I am writing for those who cook meat but eat bread. For those who labor behind curtains of praise and titles. For those who wash plates they’ll never dine on. For those who have learned to live near blessings they never taste. For the invisible hands that keep the world running while being told to stay invisible. I am writing to say — you are not crazy, you are not bitter, you are not alone. You are the reason the table is full.
