In every kitchen, there’s a moment of quiet before the rice begins.

Someone ties their kitenge or khanga tighter around the waist, opens the cupboard, picks the packet of rice like it’s sacred. There’s always a little ritual, maybe rinsing the rice once, twice, or five times; depending on how your mother taught you, or how your grandmother used to do it while humming an old taarab tune in the background.

Then comes the decision: how will we cook this rice today?

Some start with oil and onions, slow frying until they are golden, almost burnt but not quite. That’s how you know they’re ready. Then garlic, ginger, maybe tomatoes, maybe not. Then rice is poured in, the grains sizzling like applause. That’s one way.

Others begin differently. They boil the water first. Salted. Measured. No spices. Just clean, straight cooking. Nothing extra. Because that’s how they know it best.

Then there’s the artist, the one who brings in cloves, cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, coconut milk, food coloring, raisins, meat, vegetables. Th one who can turn rice into a festival.

Same rice, different kitchens, different hands, different stories. But still… rice.

Maybe this is not just about cooking.

Maybe it’s about life; how we live it, how we love, how we work, how we move through this world.

Because just like rice, we are all holding the same raw material, a desire to succeed, to be seen, to be safe, to feed our people, to sleep peacefully at night. But how we go about it… ah, that’s where the flavors begin to shift.

Maybe you’re the boiling-water type. You like process, order, step-by-step. Maybe I’m the onion-frying type, I go with instinct, rhythm, a little mess, a little music in the background. Someone else throws in all the spices they’ve collected from life’s journeys. Another person just wants something light, no seasoning at all. White rice and peace.

And maybe that’s all okay.

Maybe the mistake we keep making is assuming that there’s one correct way to get things done. That there’s only one path to a good meal. That unless your rice smells and looks like mine, it’s not right. But that’s not true. Some people season in silence. Others dance while cooking. The end is what matters.

Because the truth is, if the goal is to feed, and the food is cooked well, then why should it matter how it was made?

Maybe what matters most is this, Did the rice get cooked? Did it nourish? Did it do what it was meant to do?

If yes, then let the cook be. Let them own their fire. Let them use their hands the way they know how. Let the player of the day play. Not everyone needs to use your recipe. Not everyone needs to follow your steps. We’re not all aiming for biryani today.

And yes, there’s a place for asking, “Are there allergies?” That’s fair. We must care for each other. But don’t confuse your discomfort with someone else’s mistake. Sometimes, what you call “too spicy” is just someone else’s comfort zone.

So maybe next time we meet someone doing things differently; from their work style, to how they dress, to how they solve problems, we should pause and ask ourselves: “Am I judging their method, or am I just afraid it’s not mine?”

Let people cook. Wait for the aroma. And if it smells good? Serve your plate and eat.