I hadn’t made ugali in almost a year after moving abroad.
I didn’t realize how deeply I missed it until I found myself standing in a Kenyan friend’s kitchen, watching a pot of water slowly come to a boil.
That moment took me back to my mother’s kitchen preparing dinner with my siblings, surrounded by warmth and laughter.
Now, here we were, miles away from home, gathered as Kenyans, recreating a meal that carried our history, our culture, and our sense of belonging.
Food has a way of bringing up memories you didn’t even know you were holding, reminding you of where you come from and who you are.
At a previous gathering, we had used up all the maize flour friends had brought from Kenya. That evening, my friends and I were introduced to a different version of ugali, made with semolina flour rather than the maize flour we grew up with.
For most of us, it was our first time encountering semolina flour, let alone imagining it could be repurposed into ugali. But living abroad teaches you to adapt. Adaptation, I’ve learned, is the art of making the unfamiliar feel like home.
Just like at home, we started with water, adding a bit of butter and a splash of milk for flavor. Once the water came to a boil, my friend poured in the semolina and began the hard work, stirring quickly and carefully to prevent lumps from forming. Watching him mix the ugali felt deeply familiar, comforting in the best way. It was a technique passed down through generations from one kitchen to another.
That night, as we laughed and teased our way through the cooking, it wasn’t just about the food; we were remembering our roots. Though Kenya is home to more than 50 ethnic groups, certain foods, such as ugali, are shared across many of them. Moving around the kitchen, we barely noticed our differences. Thanks to Kiswahili, our national language, we slipped easily into shared jokes and familiar expressions, speaking one home language as we waited for the meal to come together.
Making Ugali Abroad
A friend from Zimbabwe had recently discovered a market that sold kale, a rare find where we lived. So alongside the ugali, we prepared our beloved sukuma wiki, cooked with beef, just as it’s done in many Kenyan households. And of course, as true Kenyans, our host brought out what might be the most treasured spice abroad: Royco mix.
We stirred the greens, chatting and laughing as the food simmered. Stories flowed easily, about home, about life abroad, about the small victories and the struggles of building new lives far from where we started.
When we finally sat down to eat, the ugali tasted better than I remembered. Or maybe it wasn’t just the food. Perhaps it was the shared experience, the familiarity, the comfort of being understood without having to explain yourself.
After living without ugali for so long, that meal felt like a homecoming.
Carrying Home With Me
Since then, I’ve relocated to yet another country. And, I found semolina. It has become my stand-in, my way of recreating ugali wherever I land.
I’ve since introduced my son to ugali, passing on a small but meaningful part of my culture. My husband, on the other hand, is still warming up to it. To him, ugali doesn’t have much of a taste, and maybe he’s not wrong. But he has grown fond of mukimo, another Kenyan dish that he tried for the first time when he visited Kenya a while back, and that feels like a small win.
Living abroad teaches you that home isn’t always something you return to. Sometimes, it’s something you cook far away from what used to be home. Something you stir patiently in a pot. Something you share at a table with people in a bid to share a little of the home culture with them.
Ugali, for me, is more than food. It’s comfort. It’s memory. It’s proof that even far from home, you can still feed the parts of yourself that remember where you come from. And that gives me so much joy and peace. And when I see my son enjoying every bit of it, I am filled with pride as a Kenyan mum.
Now, tell us, what food do you turn to when you’re missing home?