Mûriûki, the high school cook, was always in a foul mood, rarely smiling. Perhaps it was due to the mild deformity on his left hand; he was born with six fingers, the sixth one dangling dangerously from his true pinky. He must have endured a tough childhood, with people mocking him because of this deformity. Maybe he had learned to wear a stern look as a warning to potential jesters.
One day, Mûriûki returned from a long leave. His extra finger was gone, but I hadn’t noticed until days later. How I learned about it left my stomach churning. After we had demolished a huge helping of ugali with the coveted ‘ndûngû’ (meat) as motivation, my friend pulled me aside as we left the dining hall.
He whispered in my ear, “Have you noticed that Mûriuki’s finger is gone?”
“No, I hadn’t noticed,” I answered, “what happened?” I inquired curiously.
My friend smiled. “You really want to know? Okay, I’ll tell you.”
He explained that Mûriuki had tied the finger with a tight thread to get rid of it. Gradually, the thread cut through, and that afternoon, it had fallen off into the ‘mwambû’ (huge cooking pot) brimming with maharagwe (beans), mboga (cabbage), and gallons of ‘thubu’ (watery soup).
“What?!” I barked in disbelief.
He nodded convincingly and asked me to detour through the serving bay adjacent to Manyatta dorm to confirm the story. He swore that if he was lying, he’d buy tomorrow’s quarter (bread) at tea break.
My heart raced as I briskly walked down the long flight of stairs. Approaching, I slowed, observing Mûriûki who was serving seconds (‘gatanga’). I stood at a distance, staring for a while to confirm my worst fears. The finger was indeed missing, replaced by a tiny red bump—no wound, no scar.
At that moment, my full stomach began to turn vigorously, threatening to spew its sumptuous contents. Unable to help it, I hurried away, vomiting the rest of the way to Ngandori dorm.
