African Memories

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.