Sundays in this house smell like chapatis, wafting through the house right after service, the dough softly cooking on the flat round pan. A smell of ease, comfort, familiarity. A smell that reminds you of love and home, which is why they pack it in suitcases when they go to those snow countries.

Sundays in this house mean the sun is out bright and early, aware that today of all days, it’s needed. It’s needed so the Sunday bests can be seen; all the bright colours and beautiful fabrics that are preserved for days like this come out.

They come out in the shy yet excited laughter when the smartness is acknowledged by peers, better yet when the younger ones point it out too.

“Aunty uko smart!”

They come out when there’s time to stand by the roadside to talk after church, catching up on the latest gossip and making plans for the week, all whilst acknowledging how good, or boring, the sermon was today.

Sundays in this house mean lunch can stretch to three hours, taking the time to talk in between meals and laugh at re-runs of Inspekta Mwala, not caring that the food is getting cold or that the belt that came with the dress is getting tighter the fuller you become. Sundays allow you to not address things immediately, to sometimes sit in the slight discomforts of life and just be.

Sundays in this house mean there is time to doze off on the couch. A post-lunch nap, stirring awake for just a few seconds, then remembering that today is the day that The Lord decreed for rest, your rest, and closing your eyes in the comfort of the knowledge that today, your Father God wants you to sleep whilst the sun still shines, instead of making hay like you usually do.

Sundays in this home are not for lovers; they are for family. They are for women who can walk braless around the home without care of their bouncing breasts, for nephews who can burp aloud then laugh with their elders, and for people bonded by blood so they can chew with their mouths open and pick aggressively at a bone that’s almost bare.

Sundays in this house are for welcoming guests for a cup of tea, steaming hot and filled to the brim from that thermos that’s been used for years and doesn’t get a break even on this day that others do. They are for offering guests lunch at three pm, knowing that they have eaten in their own homes but this is what hospitality is: pumping food into each other as one does with mutura, stuffing the intestines for a delicious result that sizzles and bursts on the grill.

Sundays in this home are for calm.

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