I dislike strawberry ice-cream. Its garish pink makes my eyes ache and its cloying sweet smell often makes me feel the slight coming on of a vomit. When I was about four or five years old, I got a nasty bout of food poisoning. My parents and I had been traveling back to Nakuru from Nairobi and they had picked up refreshments along the way. I could feel my insides boiling, which was followed by a torrent of half-digested food shooting out of my mouth. When that was barely done, I was rushing to the loo, barely taking off my pants before I felt myself explode into the bowl. My parents could not point out exactly what was contaminated but since the strawberry ice-cream that they had bought me was the most visible dish, I latched on to that and decided that is what had me sick. Thus began my aversion to it. They threw away everything they had bought and I could not understand why I was not allowed to have any more food or ice-cream, vanilla or chocolate this time.
All this is hazy and might even be inaccurate. I have always loved ice-cream. When I was in kindergarten, before my sisters showed up
and ruined my perfect world, I had it everyday after school, a ball-shaped cup, Lyons-Maid, any flavour but strawberry. I am not sure if I will ever shake off my distaste for it. A part of me admires people who eat strawberry ice-cream. In my mind they are some kind of rockstar. I am not even sure I would like to enjoy strawberry ice-cream one day, and therefore the title of this post is a bit misleading. For now, I can say I am using it as a way to trace the origin of my beliefs, whether they are unfounded or not.