I survived my commute, safe and sound.
Sameer and I stopped alongside the row of shops where Reminia’s was. He and Sean breakfast here every day. He warns me that each time that they bring someone new, something changes.
Today the change is that the samosas are dry. But no matter. I’m not eating those meat-filled little triangles. Pole kinywa, Sameer.
I’m having mandazi, essentially fried dough. Usually shaped into triangles or squares, here it’s a big, puffy round.
The tea has plenty of tangewizi—ginger—in it, but it’s a bit unbalanced. I like the mix at Mama Freddy’s much more. The mandazi, though—the best that I’ve had yet.