The first time I walked into Garden City Mall I felt like I was in a different country. Everything looked brighter and louder, and somehow more confident than I was. Mega City Mall in Kisumu was big, and I was used to it because I went there all the time, but it still did not feel this big. My sister had just joined Kenyatta University, and I was still in primary school, tagging along and trying to look like I understood how malls worked. Escalators felt like a threat to my aura. Glass storefronts reflected a version of me that looked smaller than I felt. We had gone to treat ourselves, siblings with city dreams and a very modest budget.

We ordered too much KFC, as you do when you are young and convinced that adulthood means finishing your own bucket. Then ice cream to cool it all down. At the time my entire understanding of ice cream was shaped by the 20 or 30 bob cones sold on the street, reliably vanilla or chocolate, nothing more, nothing less. But my mother had always said that when you go somewhere new, you should try something new. Do not cling to what you know. So when the vendor asked for my flavour, I lifted my chin and said caramel.

I did not know what caramel was. I only knew it sounded refined and familiar, like Clarabelle Cow from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, a character I watched obsessively at the time. If it sounded elegant, it had to taste elegant.

The first spoonful humbled me.

It was not the sweetness I expected. It was heavy, almost smoky, too grown up for my tongue. I had never tasted anything like it, and I immediately wished I had not. My sisters were happily enjoying theirs while I sat frozen, weighing my options. Do I spit it out and risk embarrassing everyone? Do I march back and inform the vendor that ice cream from home does not taste like this? A bowl cost around 200 shillings, which felt like a small fortune at the time for a comrade, so asking for another flavour was not realistic. I let it melt slowly, pretending to be full, silently betrayed by my own bravery.

That evening as the sun went down over the parking lot, its light catching briefly on the tall yellow poles that held up the roof above us, I decided I must be lactose intolerant. It felt easier to blame biology than my adventurous taste buds. To this day, I occasionally announce this self diagnosis when offered dairy, just to watch people rearrange their mental menu for me.

Years passed, and along the way caramel returned, this time dressed as popcorn at the cinema. I had gone to watch Crime 101, hopeful in the way you are when you see a cast stacked with familiar faces. Chris Hemsworth, Mark Ruffalo, Barry Keoghan and the badass beautiful Halle Berry on one poster feels like a guarantee of greatness. It promises distraction at the very least.

Before the movie even began, I spotted a poster for Avengers: Doomsday outside the theatre and felt more excitement for that two dimensional image than for the feature presentation I had paid for. Still, I settled into my seat with a large packet of caramel popcorn, ready to be impressed.

The popcorn was aggressively sweet, the kind of sweetness that coats your fingers and makes your teeth ache in protest. Halfway through the film I stepped out to buy another packet. Part of me blamed the sugar. The other part admitted that the movie was simply not holding my attention. It was one of those movies where you can see the acting. You can almost picture the green screens, the rehearsed pauses, the careful delivery of lines meant to sound spontaneous. Every scene felt predictable. The tension never quite built. Even Hemsworth, forever etched in my mind as the god of thunder, seemed slightly misplaced, as though the role did not fit him the way that hammer does.

Walking out of the cinema I felt the same quiet disappointment I had felt years earlier at Garden City. A dull ache of unmet expectation. I began to wonder whether movies have changed or whether I have. Have they stopped making immersive stories, or have I consumed so many good ones that my standards have quietly rose without informing me?

Of course it is easy to criticize from the comfort of a cinema seat, caramel sticking to your fingers. But I also recognise that creating anything meaningful is difficult. I feel it every time I sit down to write, convinced I have a brilliant idea, only for it to refuse to translate onto the page the way it lived in my head. Sometimes the concept sounds as rich and promising as caramel. And sometimes the final product melts into something you barely recognise.

✍🏽Reagan.