02/28/2026
Today was one of those experiences you have to sit with for a minute.
We thought a cooking class would be a fun, low-key day. Meet a chef, shop a little, cook a little, eat a lot. Simple.
We met our chef extraordinaire, Nimoh, at the designated spot. She gave us several options of what we could prepare, and we enthusiastically chose the native dish of her tribe.
This may have been the moment the wheels gently rolled off the wagon.
As we headed toward the market, Nimoh smiled and said, “Today, you will experience the day like a Kenyan.”
And just like that… we were in.
First lesson: how to cross the street in Nairobi. There is an art to it. A rhythm. A confidence that says, “I belong here.” We were coached carefully and, miraculously, made it to the other side intact.
Then she informed us we would be taking a local bus to the market.
Not just any bus.
There are rules.
Rule number one: never choose a bus without music. The vibe is part of the experience.
Rule number two: pay attention to the color combinations. None of the buses have helpful signs, so you choose based on color and instinct. Naturally.
Our chariot? The Dollar Bus.
After waiting 20–30 minutes, it roared up in full glory. Music pumping. Colors bold. Energy high. We once again took our lives into our own hands, crossed the street, and boarded like seasoned Nairobi commuters.
And just like that, we were on our way to the market.
Follow along… because what happened next deserves its own chapter.
With music blaring and bass vibrating through the floorboards, we headed toward the market.
Out the windows, we watched Nairobi roll by — neighborhoods where children played and laughed in dusty lots and narrow lanes. It wasn’t “bucolic.” In fact, I’m not even sure that word would mean much in this part of Nairobi. This wasn’t storybook countryside. It was real life. Lived-in. Bustling. Honest.
And then, just like that, we arrived.
The market was alive.
We watched Nimoh move confidently among the stalls, selecting fruits and vegetables that looked as if they had come straight from the fields that morning. Potatoes. Pumpkin leaves. Onions. Tomatoes. Corn on the cob — complete with the mysterious tool that ensures the kernels will be tender. Ginger. Turmeric. Fresh coriander (cilantro, for my American friends).
She examined everything with a practiced eye, chatting easily with vendors. There was a rhythm to it — no hesitation, no second guessing. Just instinct and experience.
The chicken, she informed us, was already waiting at her apartment where we would prepare this feast.
As we followed Nimoh through the narrow pathways of the market, we couldn’t help but notice that we were… noticeable. A small parade of foreigners trailing behind a local chef makes for a bit of a spectacle.
But as we later learned, Nimoh teaches three classes a day. Foreigners in tow are simply part of her routine. It may have felt like we stood out, but to her community, this was just another Friday.
Bags full, senses overloaded, we boarded the Dollar Bus once again and made our way to Nimoh’s apartment to begin the next chapter: turning all of those vibrant ingredients into what we hoped would be a truly scrumptious Kenyan meal.
And that’s when things got even more interesting.
As we approached the 11-story apartment building, about five minutes from the market, we truly didn’t know what to expect.
When the elevator doors opened and we stepped into Nimoh’s apartment, we were immediately struck by its charm. The kitchen was modern and welcoming, centered around a large worktable where aprons were neatly laid out alongside very sharp knives — which always makes me happy.
After washing our hands, we got to work.
Peeling potatoes. Finely dicing onions and tomatoes. Carefully removing kernels from the corn — and not with a knife. That, we learned, was a definite no. The kernels had to remain whole, and there is apparently an art to doing this properly. We were gently corrected and quickly brought into line.
It followed the familiar rhythm of cooking classes I’ve taken around the world: shop, prep, cook, eat. There’s comfort in that pattern. But this one felt different — more personal, more layered.
As we sat down to the meal we had prepared, Nimoh began to share about life in Kenya. I don’t discuss politics on Facebook, so I won’t go into details. Suffice it to say, like many places in the world, there are frustrations. The phrase “better the devil you know” surfaced more than once. It was thoughtful, honest conversation — the kind you only have when you’re seated around someone’s table, sharing food you’ve made together.
After finishing our meal (which was absolutely delicious), and purchasing the most adorable aprons as souvenirs, our education continued.
We boarded a matatu — Nairobi’s lively minibuses — and made our way back to our meeting point. Between the music, the traffic choreography, and the full sensory overload of the day, the three of us know this is one of those experiences we’ll be talking about for years.
What started as “a cooking class” turned into something far richer: a glimpse into daily life, a ride through neighborhoods we never would have seen otherwise, and a seat at a real Kenyan table.
And that is exactly why we travel.
