Old Madala, a picannin friend and I passed time in mouth-watering anticipation. Under the Mopana tree, which stood near their khia at the end of our garden, we sat watching Katie cook the traditional evening meal.
We played yet another game of Stones, (a dozen hand-sized, shallow pits in the ground with three tossing-stones and dust rising at each grab). Wafted gently by the myriad of wonderful smells of Africa, I tried hard to concentrate and be patient. .
Hungry. Aware of Katie stirring the mealie-meal-meal in the pot until it clumped together like a hot snowball over the crackling fire. The bundu smell of bush burning; the soft, regular swish of the wooden spoon against the side of the cast iron pot - too heavy for my young hands. The gentle poofs of steam, tiny, red-brown fish bubbling softly, losing their shape as the heat dissolved them into a thick tempting gravy.
Katie's "Wash hands! made me jump to eagerly obey. In my fertile imagination, already tasting the tantalising treat, and praying that my mother wouldn't call before we could eat. Sausage and Mash at our white-linened, upright table, with a knife and fork and our best manners, is never quite the same.
At last, all taking turns to grab (with fingers) our share - straight from the steaming pot. The sensual experience of expertly rolling a perfect bite-sized ball of Mealie-meal one-handed. Dragging it through the aromatic Kapenta to coat only half.
Finally, hurriedly, popping it into my wide-open mouth, squashing slowly with my tongue. I rapturously squeeze each morsel of forbidden flavour.
THE END
