Every day, I scroll through timelines drenched in pastel backgrounds and bold fonts screaming “you got this,” “heal at your own pace,” or “trust the process.” The words float around like warm air — nice to look at, easy to like, but somehow hollow. And then, there it is — a small video clip of someone tearing open a brown paper bag and revealing something golden. Mandazi. My thumb pauses mid-scroll. Suddenly, every motivational quote I’ve ever read feels redundant.

Because nothing, and I mean nothing, speaks life into a dull day like a piece of hot mandazi.

I am in the office, staring at another spreadsheet that feels like it’s mocking me. My mind is tired, my coffee has turned cold, and life feels like a long to-do list I never finish. Then a colleague walks in with a plastic bag, the kind that shines slightly with oil stains. I don’t even need to ask. The smell hits first — that unmistakable mix of vanilla, coconut, and something divine. Suddenly, everyone’s posture changes. We are no longer employees — we are believers in something sacred.

Mandazi has that pull. That holy temptation that breaks through fatigue and formality. It doesn’t care about your title or your troubles. It just sits there, warm, round, soft — daring you to taste joy again.

At home, it’s even worse — or maybe better. Someone mentions mandazi and immediately, the kitchen becomes a battleground of anticipation. The frying pan sizzles, the air grows thick with aroma, and I start counting before they even float to the top. I tell myself I’ll only eat one. I know I’m lying. Everyone knows I’m lying. The first bite makes promises the rest of the world can’t keep.

Sometimes I eat them in silence, sitting by the window, watching the world pretend to be serious. There’s a comfort in that soft chew, a rhythm that steadies you. No deep message. No quote. Just dough and memory. Just sweetness and peace.

I think about the people who chase new trends — detox drinks, mindfulness routines, affirmations on sticky notes. And I smile because I’ve found my therapy in a triangle of fried dough. It’s not fancy. It doesn’t come with instructions. But it never fails. One bite and I’m instantly eight years old again, waiting beside the stove, hoping my turn comes before the plate empties.

Even now, when life feels heavy, mandazi doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t lecture or promise transformation. It just sits there, warm and golden, whispering, “breathe, eat, smile.”

In matatus, offices, dorm rooms, or quiet balconies, the story is always the same — someone unwraps mandazi, and suddenly, the air feels lighter. The mood shifts. Strangers become companions, laughter resurfaces. There’s a softness in its simplicity, a joy that doesn’t need hashtags or filters.

And honestly, in a world where everyone is quoting someone else’s wisdom, maybe what we truly need is to remember the quiet miracles — the small, delicious proofs that happiness doesn’t always come with meaning. Sometimes, it just comes with a bite.

I am still here, scrolling, thinking, craving — and somewhere, someone is frying another batch. I can almost hear the sizzle. And before another motivational post can load, I already know: today will be fine. Because somewhere out there, a mandazi is waiting to make sense of everything again.