THE GOOD BREAKFAST

I just tried to have a 'good' breakfast - not cooked by me - at a place called Farmers. All I got was late for work and high blood pressure. If you're in a hurry, don't go there. If you wait for ten minutes and nothing is ready, don't bother waiting, it's not worth it.

Not looking down on farmers in general or anything but man, that place, all its workers, cooks, blah, blah are nothing short of the rural Kenyan farmer defined. 

They're slow, ill-mannered and do not understand the concept of time. Granted, it is a Monday morning and everyone is still half asleep, a business like that needs to hire people who 'get it'.

"Hakuna Toast..."

"What?"

"Tukupatie mandazi instead ya Toast..."

Flummoxed, I say "fine" then "no".

"Ama tukupatie an extra sausage?"

I like that idea so I say:

"Sawa."

But now that I think about it, how do they stay afloat? it's somewhere I have been before and gotten pretty horrendous service. And for two years, I stayed away. Didn't remember why I'd stayed away all that time until this morning.

"Juice gani? Mango ama Passion?"

"Passion," I say.

For a few minutes, I'm anticipating the taste of passion juice, sausage, eggs and bacon on my tongue. Then she comes?

"Hakuna Passion. Kuna Cocktail, na Mango."

"Ah! You people!" I say. "Leta Mango."

She takes about five steps before I look down at my coffee. So I call her back and say:

"Wachana nayo. How much is this coffee?"

"40 bob," she says.

"Sawa," I give her a hundred bob and tell her to hurry up with my change. I sip the coffee in the meantime, it tastes like dirty water was used to make it. I put it down and think of all the homeless people I'd walked by near the old Globe roundabout brigde. They'd probably not be as choosy as me.

She stands next to me with stained coins. Looks like they've been through a fire. I take my change and don't realize that instead of 60 bob, she's returned 30bob.

I attempt one more gulp of my hot coffee and give up. I'm annoyed, it tastes bad, there's no way I'm going to sit here without breaking something. Some poor fool comes in just as I'm standing to leave. He has no idea. Or maybe he does but does not mind the mediocrity Farmer's offers.

Never mind. I've had enough and I walk out and towards Moi Avenue. I stop next to the magazine stand where that old fuck tried to steal from me once. I look at the 30bob in my hand and head back to the restaurant, ready to call my waitress and bloody thief.

I'm stopped short when they produce a receipt. It's stamped. I take it and walk away saying something about their efficiency and service and how much it sucks. The cashier calls me back and says:

"Take this one, it's not that one."

I take the one she's offering me, and study it. it's exactly the same except, it's not stamped. Just to piss them off. I reject it and pretend to huff off with the one they'd given me first.

Only I'm not pretending, I feel cheated. 70 bob for dishwater-coffee and bad service. Next time, I'll just give my money to the homeless and drink free waiting room coffee. At least there, you always know what to expect.

And thus, my February begins.