I still have a vivid image of me sitting right next to the jiko that was bringing to life those chapatis, salivating in anticipation of the rare treat.
I remember us arguing over who would get the crust (of the bread) because it was always bigger than the inner slices.
Recently, a friend and I were marvelling at the fact that chapati is no longer the delicacy it was when we were growing up. Decades later, I still have a vivid image of me sitting right next to the jiko that was bringing to life those chapatis, salivating in anticipation of the rare treat, the smell permeating our small kitchen making my stomach rumble violently.
I’m not alone. My friend tells me that she finds it hard to believe that when she makes them, they last three days or even more. Yet she has three sons. In her childhood, she and her siblings fought over them, literally, on the rare occasions that their mother made them.
