We usually take chai after dinner with friends. The starkest memory/emotion is the stress of preparing it when my wife is not around.

Chai is a sacred drink in Kenya, and most of my friends tend to like it the way their mother prepared, based on the region they grew up.

So I, a mzungu man, stand in the kitchen over the boiling, pot of water and milk, with fear in my head. I measured, but the leaves seem both too many and too few. Stirring is forbidden, so I watch and wait as white turns just brown enough, but not too brown. It always seems both too long and too short. I add cardamom, but it also seems too much and too little.

A confident person would pour directly for the guests, but I always sneak a small taste just in case. Not until that moment can I relax that it’s just right. Not as good as mother would make, but good enough!