I have a complicated relationship with chai. Kenyan chai, not the Indian version. The milk is warmed first, before the water, the tea-dust — fragrant Kenyan tea from the Rift Valley highlands —, and the sugar are all added. It is all done by eye. I have never met a family who follows a recipe.
Chai is what we serve to guests. It is the first thing we have in the morning, and probably the last thing we have before sleeping. It smells of community, of home.
But also, I feel a sense of fear when I see a kettle with hot chai, or when I see chai being poured into a cup.
You see, when I was eighteen months old, learning to walk, I happened to support myself by grabbing onto a metal kettle full of piping hot chai.
I don’t remember the pain. But I am told I had to spend months in hospital. And now, I have a scar from the scalding on my right hand, and parts of my chest.
But what caused the scar is also what reminds me of home, and of community. This is my complicated relationship with chai.
— Nick
Image by Mikkilynx. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license via Wikimedia Commons.
