While clearing the backyard shrubs in my backyard in preparation of our garden, I remembereda deep conversationI have been having with various people over the last year or so. I remembered the long process dealing with poor soil when I first started out over 17 years ago. The soil in this small space has really challenged me about conventional ideas about investments. How can I equate the value of a house and the value of the soil in my backyard? I find that as the house prices go up, I sleep less and less hours every night. As if that isn't enough, the taxes follow a one way road that only goes up.
Yet the quality of my life inside that house stays the same, at least assuming I am of above average intelligence to equip my self with adequate defense against malevolent forces that come modern day lifestyles. One of those challenges being colonized food. The kind of colonialism I am talking about is not an abstruct idea. One can be excused for the tendency to associate colonialism with national and racial entities. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. One does not need any special heuristic skills to understand the logic behind the above supposition.
While on a flight from Kenya to France, I used the 8 or so flight to think about the concept of food colonialism. It might be helpful to mention that I boarded the plane with everything I would need throughout the length flight except a parachute, a bathroom and water. In my person, I had a yams and Macadamia nuts from village, avocados and a sweet piece of cultural delicacy known as rùkùri. Rùkùri was masculine equivalence to red roses in western culture, except.
A man would cure the best part of a goat known as ikengeto and store it in an old bee hive. That piece of delicacy could last for years and was only shared between best friends. A traditional man's hut was rather simple in early days of my grandfather.
As far as fate would have it, my seat was in the first row facing the first class in the plane. I sat down comfortably in a reflective mood as I re