Chapati has never waited for stew. At least not in our house.

Every Saturday, the sun would begin its slow descent as we disappeared into the neighbourhood to play. You could hear the symphony of childhood rising from every direction, skipping ropes slapping the pavement, laughter echoing around, and slippers kicking dust into the Nairobi air.

We knew the rules: be home before dark. But there was another reason we always came back by 6 p.m, the smell of chapati.

Without fail, my aunt would be standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a stack of golden chapatis already growing next to her, and she would always be humming a church chorus.

We never waited for dinner. We would storm into the kitchen, dusty knees and all, with the same shameless request every week.

“Auntie, tupatie moja tu ya kuonja before food.”

She’d pretend to resist, but eventually pull one from the pile, warm and soft, sometimes torn in half to be shared between two.

And in those few stolen bites, before the stew was done, before hands were even washed properly, was everything we needed. That was Saturday for us.

Years later, I still chase that feeling. And while mine never taste quite like hers, I try.

All you need is 3 cups of all-purpose flour, a teaspoon of salt, and some sugar if you like it sweet, a splash of oil, and warm water to knead it into a soft dough. Let it rest, divide it, coil each ball to get the layers, roll them out, then cook on a hot pan with a little oil until golden and puffy. And if you are doing it right, maybe hum a little.

Chapati pairs beautifully with anything: beef stew, Ndengu (Green grams), Kamande (Lentils), beans, or even simple stir-fried vegetables.

Chapati is more than just a flatbread; it is a symbol. A sign that something good is happening, or about to happen. It graces our tables during holidays, weddings, Sunday family lunches, and even quiet evenings.

It carries the weight of culture, love, and memory, soft enough to tear with your hands, strong enough to bring people together.