Toothy Bhajia

To tell you about the tooth, I first have to tell you about Joy. But before I get to Joy, we need to talk about Bernadette. And to understand Bernadette, we have to start with my wardrobe choices and a nickname—CEO.

Back in campus, I was that guy. The one who walked into lectures looking like he’d just come from a board meeting—pressed trousers and polished shoes—while everyone else embraced the "just-rolled-out-of-bed" aesthetic. My friends found it endlessly amusing. “Here comes the CEO!” they’d announce, with all the mock reverence of employees greeting their boss. And with that title came an unspoken duty: picking up the tab during our Friday escapades along Kimathi Street.

Enter Tracy, my friend’s girlfriend, who swore she had an inside plug for the best jeans in Nairobi. “Best in 254, hands down,” she said with the conviction of someone testifying in court. That’s how I met Bernadette—a woman with skin the colour of caramel lattes and a smile so dazzling, it could make a traffic cop forget your expired insurance. The date is seared into my memory: February 11, 2014. The day everything changed.

Through Bernadette, I met Joy.

Ah, Joy. The name was ironic because she had the temperament of someone who had beef with the entire universe. Joy ran a small perfume and toy stall, and later, we became business partners in what, in hindsight, was the worst entrepreneurial idea since someone tried selling sand in the Sahara—pepper spray. In Nairobi. A city where even pickpockets are more armed than the police. But that’s not the story I’m here to tell.

No, we’re here to talk about the tooth.

Now, Joy wasn’t just particular—she was the kind of person who could hear a mosquito contemplating life decisions from across the room. If there was a one-degree change in temperature, she’d feel it. If the fridge light flickered, she’d notice. “Does anyone else hear that weird buzzing?” she’d ask, while the rest of us wondered if she was tuning into frequencies only audible to extraterrestrial beings.

Our favorite hangout spot was Slush, a small joint near Jamia Mosque. It doubled as our unofficial business headquarters, though, by then, our pepper spray empire had crumbled faster than a stale mandazi. One particular evening in 2015, Joy was in rare form—complaining about the fan (too loud), the service (too slow), and imaginary flies near the kitchen (invisible to every living creature but her).

Then came the bhajias.

Normally, Slush’s bhajias were legendary—crispy, golden, the kind that made you momentarily believe in love. But that day, something had gone wrong. Thanks to a malfunctioning fryer, they emerged extra-crispy—the type of crispy that challenges your dental insurance.

Joy picked up a piece, took one bite—then froze.

Her expression went from mild annoyance to full-blown existential crisis in half a second. She chewed once, twice… then, with the horror of someone uncovering an ancient curse, reached into her mouth and pulled out a small, solid object.

A tooth.

Not just a chip. Not a sliver. A whole premolar sat in her palm, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a relic from a crime scene.

The restaurant didn’t go silent, but in my memory, it might as well have. The mood shifted instantly. Joy went nuclear.

“WHAT KIND OF PLACE SERVES TEETH IN FOOD?!!”

She demanded the manager, her voice climbing octaves that probably triggered alarm systems across Nairobi. She was on the verge of calling in health inspectors, lawyers, and possibly the United Nations.

That’s when I made the single worst decision of my life.

“Uh… are you sure it’s not yours?” I asked, ever the rational thinker. “Maybe… check?”

The look she gave me could have struck me dead on the spot.

She turned to obliterate the manager, armed with righteous fury—and then she stopped.

Because somewhere in the middle of her outburst, she had done the thing I’d suggested. She’d run her tongue over her teeth. And there it was. Or rather… wasn’t.

The tooth hadn’t come from the kitchen.

It had been hers all along. Betrayed by an overcooked bhajia.

There was a pause. A silence thick enough to be sliced with a butter knife. And then? We ran.

The speed at which we left Slush that night would’ve impressed Olympic sprinters. Joy never spoke of the incident again. Our pepper spray business died a merciful death shortly after, though I suspect the tooth situation sped things up.

Sometimes, I pass by Slush and wonder if the staff ever figured out what happened to that furious customer who stormed in about a tooth in her food, only to disappear before the manager could even offer a replacement.

But mostly?

I wonder if Joy ever went back.

 

 

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