Cooking Sukumawiki, Ugali in a Tin: Dr. Kalua and Father's Struggles in Nairobi

Dr. Isaac Kalua Green

Today, we start the serialization of an explosive and tell-it-all book; Green for Life, an autobiography of Kenya's iconic environmentalist and the Chief Steward of Green Africa Foundation; Dr. Isaac Kalua Green, who is also an entrepreneur per excellence.

The nerve gripping book captures his childhood moments which includes venturing into crime as a school boy, smoking bangi but later finding purpose in life. 

The book documents Dr. Kalua's life's journey in passionate detail, the struggles and his father's unwavering faith in God. 

This here is our first episode. It's a direct extract from his book - Green for Life. Enjoy! 

......... “Welcome to Nairobi Mūnene,” my father told me, his smile reassuring.

He was stretched out on the mattress, a Bible resting on his chest.

He had been calling me Mūnene — the elder one — since I was a toddler. It was a name that carried the weight of responsibility and hinted at the pivotal role I would later play in our family.

During my month in Nairobi, life battered us. A simple act like cooking required ingenuity. My father didn’t have any cooking pan so we used a two-kilogram tin of the then-popular Cowboy cooking fat as a cooking pan. It was in this tin that we would cook sukuma wiki, then dish it out so that we could use the same tin to cook ugali.

What will happen to me in future after I finish school? With Nau’s financial situation, it will be impossible for me to secure a good college and consequently a good job. Although these questions buzzed in my mind like irritating mosquitoes, I wasn’t too depressed, partly because other, faith-based scenarios often played out in my mind. After I complete school, I will somehow still find a good college and a good job. I will also start a great business that will make me good money.

However, these scenarios were as improbable as Kenya winning the football World Cup.

The only certainty during these trying times was my father’s devotion to God and to his landscaping job. His days started and ended in prayer, which made me associate prayer with a pillar that could keep one grounded. In the quiet moments of dawn and dusk, his whispered supplications rose like mist from parched earth, nourishing the roots of his faith. Prayer became his sanctuary, an oasis in the desert of adversity, where hope bloomed like a stubborn flower pushing through concrete. With each uttered word, he planted seeds of resilience, watering them with unwavering belief in the divine gardener who tends to all souls.

In addition to prayer, he constantly sipped from God’s word.

From sunrise to sunset, he would draw upon a given verse to address a given issue. If there was no food for lunch, he would quote divine providence verses like Philippians 4:19 

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“Don’t use too much cooking oil,” Nau would tell me quietly, “it’s not good for your health.”

I sighed, preferring to dump more oil into the sukuma wiki. But I knew that if the oil ran out before he got some money, we would end up cooking sukuma wiki without oil.

After cooking the vegetables, I would rinse the tin and boil water in it for a few minutes. Nau would then rise from the mattress and cook ugali. This entailed vigorously mixing maize flour in the water until it coalesced and formed a soft dumpling. We would then enjoy a sparse but peaceful dinner. Despite my young age, I would always notice the mixture of hope and weariness in Nau’s brown eyes.

When the financial trickle from the tree nursery slowed to a near stop, our stay in Nairobi became unsustainable. Nau decided it was time to return to the village. On the eve of our departure, he sat on a lone, creaky wooden chair facing me. The dim light from the single bulb hanging above cast long shadows across the room. I sat on the mattress, feeling the rough fabric beneath me and the cool air creeping in through the gaps in the window. 

The room smelled faintly of damp earth and wood polish, a mix that seemed to cling to everything. Outside, the distant hum of the city was barely audible, a reminder of the life we were leaving behind. Nau’s face was etched with lines of worry and determination, his eyes reflecting the weight of his decision.

“Let me tell you something, my son,” Nau said, his weathered hand resting on my shoulder. His voice was low and gravelly, brimming with years of hard-won wisdom. “Although we are returning to the village tomorrow, it’s not the end of the world. You must look beyond tomorrow.”

The looming prospect of leaving the city, with its bustling streets and promise of opportunity, unleashed a torrent of anxiety in my stomach.

Nau’s eyes, warm and brown like freshly tilled earth, locked onto mine as he shared a profound insight about a wheelbarrow pusher. “He can only look immediately ahead of the wheelbarrow. That’s the only way he can steer it successfully.”

As he spoke, I could almost see the man he described — muscles straining, hands calloused, eyes fixed on the narrow path before him. The metaphor hung in the air between us, as tangible as the mosquitoes buzzing around the lone bulb above us.

Watch out for our next episode. You can get your copy at only Ksh3500/