Every Saturday the ETCO compound fills with the ordinary miracle of shared lunch — children first in line, elders leaning on sticks, a few young people hovering between jokes and hunger. Excitement here is not hype; it is the hush before the prayer and the sudden bustle when serving begins.
Donors and volunteers make the pots possible — someone buys greens, someone carries water, someone washes dishes until their hands wrinkle. That chain is fragile and beautiful; break one link and the meal shrinks.
The elderly eat slowly, telling stories younger ones pretend not to hear — then repeat later word for word. Youth hover between appetite and pride, sometimes serving before they sit. Children are the loudest judges: they know exactly who ladles fairly and who tries to skip the line.
If you have been looking for a straightforward way to meet neighbours and feed kids, pick a Saturday and introduce yourself at the gate. We will find a job for willing hands.
Excitement, for our team, sounds like onions hitting hot oil and the first “karibu” when a shy child takes a seat. We feel it because we know what empty Saturday mornings used to look like — and because we refuse to go backwards while donors still answer the phone.
We keep a running list of what a full Saturday costs — vegetables, maize, salt, charcoal, soap — so partners know exactly what their gift becomes. Transparency is part of respect; nobody should have to guess whether help landed in a pot or disappeared into air.
