I hate matooke (boiled banana’s). It’s no secret. Many of my dreams comprise matooke trying to kill me. . Through choking, heartburn, etc.
My hate-affair with matooke began at a very early age. In primary school, I’d very gladly forego 100% in that SST exam because it was much better to just get 99 than to have to answer that question, “what is the staple food of Uganda?”
I hate matooke. In fact, on my birthday, before I’d blow the candles, my one wish was usually that all matooke disappeared.
This loathing followed me well into adulthood. Often, when regular interaction would kick off between a potential suitor and I, I’d ask him if he likes matooke, and if he said yes, I put his number on auto-reject. Yes, friends, it is that bad.
However, this note is not about a yellow hot mass of socks-flavored Ugandan food. It is about an extraordinary experience. It is about finding the one person I would gladly cook matooke for. It is about God sending that person to me.
As is the norm, I asked, “do you eat, live with people who eat, sit near people who eat or possess pets that eat matooke?”
I held my breath. He is my soulmate. I cannot lose him to a bunch of green pointy gundis.
I waited for his reply. I was dying inside. And then he said, “Yes” and I didn’t mind. And it was magical.