Tuma kwa hii number

It’s 11am and you’re already hungry coz you’re not really a breakfast kind of guy. You start your meals at around 1pm. There’s no food at all in the house—no groceries, ingredients or even left-overs. It’s just you and you’re empty stomach, and a dispenser full of tasteless water. You’ve made multiple trips to the kitchen, re-opening the fridge, each time hoping some food magically appears from the last 10 seconds you checked. Why did you even buy a fridge if it’s always empty and you eat so avariciously every night that there’s always barely any leftovers, you wonder.

Because you’re a frequent customer to deliveries, you know that orders take hours to prepare and to be delivered. So you order as early as 11am for a meal you want to take at around 1pm. Smart moves. But it’s the festive season still. Restaurants keep declining your orders left and right. “Festive season madness,” you tell yourself calmly so that you don’t get mad and hungry at the same time—a terrible combo. During such times, restaurants are overrun with in-house dinners, making deliveries a mere afterthought. The universe is basically telling you to get out more during festive seasons, that it is not the time to order pizza to eat as you wallow in your bed watching others have ‘the time of their lives’ on social media. But the universe and its messages can wait, you’re hungry and the only goal right now is to find something to eat, or else you’ll turn your anger on even the universe itself.

After countless failed attempts, you finally find a restaurant willing to accept your order. The app cheerfully claims your meal is being prepared. Relief washes over you, and you break a smile at the thought of something sweet on your lips. You literally can’t wait, and even watching a show or a rom-com doesn’t distract your mind enough from the hunger that is making your stomach rumble. Honestly, is there a feeling worse than hunger? I think people overrate heartbreak, just eat and it’ll be a touch better. At least be heartbroken, but full.

Your fantasies are rudely interrupted hours later when the order was… wait for it… cancelled! Cancelled, after three hours of you anxiously refreshing the app like a desperate gambler checking lottery results.

Frustrated and pacing around like a caged tiger, you resolve to try again. Hunger does strange things to a person. Here’s you, someone too lazy to cook, trying again! Who knew you had it in you? Cooking is out of the question because, well, as you know there is absolutely no food in the house. Not even the sad remnants of a forgotten onion. The thought of going to the store, shopping, cooking, and finally eating sometime around 4pm is also too exhausting to entertain.

Then comes the call that changes everything. A kind customer service lady informs you that your ordered food had already been packed but the restaurant cancelled the order for reasons she didn’t specify. You’re too hungry to even reason with her. You just want something to eat. Is that too much to ask? She offers to salvage your order if you are still interested. Are you interested? Of course! You are famished and desperate. So you give it another shot, hoping this would finally be the end of your misery.

Slow forward (because time doesn’t seem to pass when you’re hungry and waiting for food) to 3:30pm, enter the delivery guy—a disheveled dark man in his early 30’s, drenched, and looking like he’d survived an epic battle. His dark skin makes you think he’s probably a Sudanese seeking refuge in Nairobi, so the epic battle analogy is spot on for you. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries. Instead, immediately you open your door he gives you your deliveries, thrusts his phone at you, and says, “Madam amesema utume kwa hii number”. Confused, you ask about the payment details from the lady you spoke with earlier. Apparently she isn’t picking up her phone now. He reassures that she’s probably handling another customer call. “Unajua huu msimu buana watu wako wengi hapo, sasa kumpatako kwa simu ni ngumu.” That’s when it hits you: definitely not Sudanese. Luhya.

You sigh, chalk it up to the festive season chaos, and begrudgingly send the payment directly to the number he gave you. You obviously know it’s his number and not the madam’s, but you’re so hungry that you just want to get it over with. Madam and Luhya man will deal with it between themselves, the customer has already got his product. Hunger and desperation, a toxic couple.

No sooner had his phone buzzed than he bolted down the stairs. Again, no ‘thank-yous’ or parting words. The moment you raise your head from your phone it is like you were talking alone on the corridor. Rude doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Disappointment. That is what your fries should be called. Soggy, cold and oily. Yuck! All that wait, for this? But again, desperation is your best friend. What will you do? Throw away the only food you have between now and supper? Call the madam who used her own ways to get money from restaurant food, complain to her of poor delivery? The restaurant knows your order was cancelled, how can you call claiming your fries are soggy? They say the universe is a woman. Actually they don’t, but if it were it would tell you, “Aki woishe, sa utado? Na nilikuwarn.”

Now, here’s the thing about food deliveries. You’re placing an immense amount of trust in some random motorcycle dude. Will they keep your food intact? Will they resist the urge to snag a few fries or take a sip of your soda, and then fill it with water? Will your pizza arrive with all its slices accounted for? Some delivery guys go and have a drink first before delivering your food, and so it arrives cold and damp from all the heat trapped in the aluminium foil wrap. They go and have a laugh with their friends who are eating another person's order before they bring you yours. And then they want a five-start rating. Unbelievable. These guys need to be stopped. Okay, they shouldn't actually, coz how else will people like you get your deliveries and orders. They should be controlled. Tamed is the word, because they behave like animals at times.

Most of the time with deliveries, you’re gambling. And this time, you lost. The fries are soggy, the meal is suspiciously subpar, and your stomach is not happy about it.

You eat your soggy fries and wonder: a bright, sunny day with no hint of rain, and at 3:30pm, bro arrives late, sweaty, and drenched in a mystery liquid that definitely wasn’t just sweat. Seriously, who gets their boots and trousers soaked in sweat under the scorching sun? The timeline alone was maddening. You placed the order at 11 AM, dreaming of crispy, golden fries and a decent meal to save you from the barren wasteland that is your kitchen. But here you are late in the afternoon, eating, yes, but at what cost?

Later, as you make frequent trips to the toilet—thanks to what you suspect was a substitute meal from an entirely different, less hygienic establishment—you cannot help but reflect on the madness. Delivery guys who speed off the moment they get paid, restaurants cancelling orders without explanation, and those infuriating shops that insist on cash withdrawals instead of simple till number payments. Everything annoys you now. It’s a chaotic system that desperately needs fixing, one Luhya delivery guy at a time.

But here I am, knowing I’ll still place orders, still hoping the next delivery will restore my faith in Adam’s evil descendants. Or maybe next time, I’ll just brave the kitchen chaos and cook. Or maybe I’ll keep gambling, because the allure of convenience is just that hard to resist. Either way, one thing is certain: those fries were not from the restaurant I ordered from.

✍🏽Reagan.