The bush wakes slowly. First the birdsong, then a thin line of gold at the horizon, then, if you are close enough to smell it, woodsmoke. By the time the sun has cleared the acacia line, Naomi has already been at the breakfast fire for an hour, turning skewers seasoned the night before under a sky thick with stars. This is the tradition our whole company grew from. A bush breakfast that is really a lesson in patience, followed at dusk by Juma's ember fire, where heritage cuts of nyama choma are cooked the way his father cooked them, and his father before him. Nothing here is plated for a photograph. It is plated because this is how you treat a fire that has earned your respect.
"You do not rush a fire that has been burning longer than you have."