The Night I Had Beef, Hunger, and a Working Gas Cylinder — But Still Slept Hungry Because Life Is Petty Like That

Image of uncooked raw beef and Vegetables.  Photo/Getty images. 

There are many ways life can humble a man. You can get dumped via text. Lose your last 50 bob to an ungrateful mpesa reversal. Or worse — go to bed hungry with uncooked beef staring at you from the kitchen counter. All because of one missing item: a matchbox.

Yes, dear readers, this is not fiction. This happened. To me. A grown man. A bachelor. A man of modest means who knows how to fry beef and boil water with respectable skill.

Let me set the scene.

It was one of those Makutano nights — the kind where you do your usual rounds: check on humanity, take mental notes for your next article, and hydrate your throat with a cold something. You know… social journalism.

I came home slightly tipsy, but happy. In my possession:

Half a kilo of boneless beef (no bones because I don’t fight two wars — meat and alcohol are enough).

Some leaves of sukumawiki that a kind mama mboga blessed me with.

Ugali flour sitting quietly in a corner, waiting for greatness.

I had the holy trinity of a perfect Kenyan bachelor meal: Ugali, Sukumawiki, na Beef (USB — yes, the only connection we truly believe in).

I even did the sacred act of washing dishes before cooking. You know it's serious when a man does that. I chopped onions, sprinkled salt like a chef on TikTok, and reached for the meko to begin my culinary opera.

Then... silence.

I turned the gas knob. Nothing.

Again. Nothing.

Why? No matchbox.

At first, I laughed. Surely, there had to be one lying somewhere. I mean, matchboxes are like socks — they just exist, right?

Wrong.

I searched the entire house like a man possessed. Inside sufurias. Behind the curtain. Inside coat pockets I haven’t worn since the handshake era. I even checked under my mattress, because why not? The desperation was real.

But it was gone. Fire had abandoned me.

Let me tell you something, reader: you have not truly felt betrayal until you are hungry, fully prepped to cook, and denied the simple privilege of flame.

And the worst part?

It was midnight.

Shops? Closed.

Neighbours? Asleep.

Estate dogs? Too judgmental.

So I did what every broken bachelor does — I stared at the beef, apologized to it for failing as a provider, and dragged myself to bed.

Hungry. Angry. And painfully sober.

Moral of the Story?

Never underestimate the value of small things. It’s not always the rent or the heartbreak that will finish you. Sometimes, it's a five-bob matchbox missing in action that will remind you just how fragile your grip on life really is.

Since that cursed night, I now own matchboxes in bulk. I hide them in drawers, under the bed, even behind the TV. You can mock my socks — but not my fire.

Because my people, hunger waits for no man. But fire? Fire is petty.

About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a freelance journalist with a background in Communication and Media, and a Master’s degree in Public Policy and Administration. He writes with wit, honesty, and the kind of humor only found at the intersection of daily struggle and quiet resilience. Based in Makutano, Felix draws inspiration from the realest place of all — life itself.