If you’ve ever been to a small Kenyan market on a Saturday, you know it’s packed with  beautiful chaos; goats arguing with their ropes, chickens squawking like they’re auditioning for a choir, and mamas bargaining as if the economy of the entire nation depended on the price of onions and tomatoes.  This story begins in such a market – Sidindi, Siaya County, 2021.

Meet Mama Sabina, my Aunt, a talkative widow in her early 50’s, known for two things: her hearty laughs and her ability to make the best chapatis in all of Western Kenya.  If there was ever an Olympic event for chapati flipping, my aunt, Mama Sabina would have brought home gold.

That Saturday morning, she was at her usual spot selling chapatis and tea under a blue umbrella that had seen better days.  I was there too, helping out with serving customers.  Her day was moving smoothly until she noticed a young boy, about 12 years old, standing nearby, staring at her food stall with the kind of longing you usually see in people watching a Nyama Choma (Roasted Meat)  advert.

His clothes were torn, and his slippers looked like they were holding onto his feet purely out of loyalty.  He had been standing there for nearly 20 minutes, pretending to look at the ground but sneaking glances at the steaming chapatis.

Finally, Mama Sabina called out, “Wee Kijana, Kuja hapa (You boy, come here). Are you going to buy chapatis or just look until the tea gets cold back home?

The boy shyly walked over.  “Ï don’t have money,”he said softly, “but I can wash your plates and cups or even sweep.”

Something tugged Mama Sabina’s heart.  She poured him a cup of tea, handed him two chapatis and said, Ëat first, work later.  An empty stomach cannot sweep.”

The boy smiled, a wide, toothy grin that could melt the hardest heart.  As he ate, he told her his name: Paul, an orphan living with his grandmother who sold vegetables, but sometimes there wasn’t enough for both of them to eat.

Mama Sabina listened, nodding, and said, “You are a good boy, but next time, don’t just stand there like a lost sheep.  Say something.”

Paul laughed.  He helped her pack up that afternoon, washed the cups, and even chased away a rogue goat that had tried to steal her mandazis, you know how market goats can feed on anything.  Mama Sabina found his company refreshing, a mix of mischief and innocence.

When they were done, she gave him another pack of chapatis to take home to his grandmother.  Paul refused at first, but my Aunt insisted.  Ëh, go, go! Otherwise, I’ll make you eat them here and carry the plate home.

The Chicken Incident 

A week later, something hilarious happened that would turn Mama Sabina into a local legend.

It was another busy Saturday.  Mama Sabina was frying her mandazis when she heard some commotion; people shouting and running across the market.  At first, she thought maybe a thief was being chased (as is tradition, half the market would always run to watch).

Then she saw something,  a fat brown chicken sprinting down the dusty road like it was being chased by a dream.  Behind it, flailing his arms and yelling, was Paul.

 “Mama Sabina! Stop it! Stop the chicken!” he screamed.

 Now, Mama Sabina had never been particularly athletic, but something in that moment took over her. She threw down her frying spoon, hiked up her leso(Shawl), and joined the chase. The market erupted in laughter as she ran,  her slippers flapping dramatically, her shawl sliding off like it had given up on the situation entirely.

 “Catch it! Catch it!” the crowd shouted.

 After a chaotic chase involving three women, one wheelbarrow, and an unlucky sack of maize, Mama Sabina cornered the chicken near Ngeno’s butchery. She triumphantly grabbed it and lifted it in the air like a trophy.

 The crowd cheered. Paul arrived panting and explained between breaths, “It’s… it’s my grandmother’s chicken! It escaped while I was tying it for the market.”

 Mama Sabina  laughed until she had tears in her eyes. “You mean I ran across the whole market to save your future dinner?”

 From that day, everyone in Kapsabet called her “Mama Kuku”(the Chicken Mama). She even embraced it, proudly writing “Mama Kuku’s Chapatis & Tea” on a small wooden sign above her stall.

 The Ripple of Kindness

 After the chicken incident, Paul started helping Mama Sabina every weekend. He became like a son to her,  fetching water, washing utensils, and chatting with customers.

But Mama Sabina noticed something else. Since that first act of kindness, her business had mysteriously started booming. People who heard her story came from neighboring villages just to meet the famous “Mama Kuku” and taste her chapatis. She didn’t know it then, but her kindness had become her best advertisement for her small business.

 Months later, Paul stopped showing up. Mama Sabina was worried. When she finally went to check on him, she found out that he had fallen ill, and his grandmother couldn’t afford medicine, let alone taking him to hospital. Without hesitation, Mama ‘sabina gathered some of her savings,  money she had been keeping to repair her leaking roof,  and used it to buy him medicine and groceries.

 When Paul recovered, he told her quietly, “When I grow up, I want to be like you,  always helping people, even when you don’t have much.”

 Mama Sabina smiled and replied, “Ehe, don’t grow up to be like me. Grow up to be better.”

 Five Years Later

 Fast forward to 2026. The market had changed tremendously, new stalls, new faces, but “Mama Kuku’s Chapatis” still stood proudly in the same corner, now with a shiny new umbrella.

 One afternoon, a young man in a smart jacket walked up to her stall. She didn’t recognize him at first.  “Mama Sabina,” he said, grinning, “you don’t remember me?”  She squinted funnily. “Wee, young man, unless you used to owe me money, I might not.”  He laughed. “It’s me,  Paul!”

Mama Sabina’s eyes widened. “Eeeeh! Look at you! You’ve grown taller than my umbrella!”

 Paul told her he had finished school and, with the help of a local NGO that supported orphans, he was now working as an assistant teacher at a nearby school. But that wasn’t all.  He handed her an envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter and a small bundle of cash. The letter read:

 Dear Mama Sabina,

You once fed me when I was hungry and gave me hope when I had none. You chased a chicken for me,  I will never forget that day. This is not payment; it’s a thank you for believing in me. I am helping build a new roof for your stall. May God bless you as you blessed me.

 Mama Sabina, known for her laughter, suddenly found herself crying,  loud, ugly tears of joy that made her customers stop midbite.  Then, wiping her eyes, she said, “Ah, look at me, crying like a broken tap! Come, sit down. You’ll eat chapati first before I start crying again!”

 The Lesson (and the Laugh) 

Today, Mama Sabina’s stall is still known far and wide. Not just for her chapatis,  though they remain unmatched,  but for the story that began with one small act of kindness and one runaway chicken.  When people ask her about it, she says with a wink,  “Kindness is like ugali, if you share, it never runs out. But if you keep it to yourself, it gets cold and hard.” Her laughter still fills the air, and somewhere, a boy she once helped continues passing that same kindness forward.  And as for the chicken? Legend has it, it was never eaten. Mama Sabina kept it as a pet for years, calling it Mzee Survivor.