The African Kitchen

In my travels I have come to appreciate the roots of my African homestead. I've had a little of the taste of the rural wade. All plain town mice? Ney! I've got patches of country on me. I recall the times I was full of energy,of course with very little meaningful direction. I was quite the tame lad-not outgoing, intrusive yet not aloof. Trouble never really got a hold of me, but when it did, pardon was ready to tap me on my shoulders-I wonder where it has all gone now. I enjoyed the company of the older folk, for they took many of life's blows aimed at me. Perhaps I was never my own responsibility.  Freedom from self? Perhaps
Days came by and left in a rush,with no itinerary for me. Duty was not always pleasant, and with time, I had learnt a few tricks of the trade, factitious behaviour -pretend to be ill, and you'll not only get waned from the task, you'll get yourself a 'sick child's treat. Of course time weeved in me the realization that falsehood was probably more like a boomerang, it always finds you out.
Getting dirty was like obsession, one couldn't help it. It ran it's course, till mom called for a bathe. What a dread it was. Peradventire one of the reasons a lad of my age then would stay squicky clean-the dread of mom's bathe. It was an ordeal-first you're dipped into the tab or basin, then came the ire of the soap. Finally, like a grinders machination, a rock of offense was latched to your body, grinding away every taint of dirt as it where. Yet the outcome was worth the process. All clean, you were the darling of the home. But all too soon the dirt called. Rainy season saw young rascals like myself venture on rather unwonted play-mud slide. One would stand at a distance, aim for the wet spot, and dash off in a frenzy and like an expert skier, slide over the rain kissed mud. A few bruises may be incured, but the price was little compared to the amount of endorphins released at the end of the escapade. Germs were then not common! Or at least they gave one the leeway to a little joy.
Every young lad was entitled to at least one occasion of a fall from a tree or breaking of a bone. I did not get the later, but the former.
The  best memoirs , however were to be found in the kitchen. Whether it be a little old smoking hut, or a modern array complete with switch ignited cooker, or semi modern with charcoaled braziers ,  the kitchen was as sacred to my stomach as the family alter to the soul. I watched as the fire was lit, the stove turned on-the heat was the one most important reactant in the equation. Pots rang out, knives squicked. The water was brought to the boil, pulses of corn meal (mealie meal)  were made-nshima. Rice , pasta and all other pastries were a reserve of the affluent, or holidays that doted the calender year. One dared not interrupt the queen of the kitchen as she majestically tentacled her hands on everything needed for the task. One risked facing her wrath, bolstered by her instruments of mass destruction -the cooking stick, the serving spoons and the frying pan or pot. Only get close if your hands were needed.
I watched as the onions were choped, the fumes from it got me soaked in tears, yet I stood my ground. She butchered the tender reds-tomatoes, and a few other secretes of the trade . Soon the whole kitchen was in a frenzy-sometimes the fried portions of delight would catch a flame- I would scream out-"fire!" yet in calmness , she would put it out. Sometimes it was simply a concord of grains, nuts-pounded and whole, and litany of other nitty grittis. The sweat on her brow testified to her efforts -non could gainsay. Soon the aroma would begin to permeate through the air. A growling of the stomach was a respone, yet one had to stay the trend just till the right moment. All marauders such as flies and roaches were unwelcome to the feast. They sure did know better than to mess with mamas cooking. Unless they were ready for the stake.
When all was done, a transformation occurred . The Warrior's armour was put off, the sweat marked brow now aglow. Her cheeks dimpled with love. And a smile of relief and tenders care. She walked pleasantly as it were a bride walking down the Isle ready to say 'I do' or a princess ready for coronation. The tables were set, well, the floor in any case. But it mattered little, whether we reclined on the table or sat with legs crossed on the less than marbled floor encircling a bowl or two of pudding , soup , pulse or any other delicacy. My greatest delight however was in the effort attached to the process. The meal was often meager, yet the love was seldom less than plentious. Non dared miss mom's meal. We all ate as one, and our white patched lips put on a new shine, complete with a smile.  Non would dig in before the cleansing rite-all hands had to be washed clean in a lava, as it were.
Belching was an unpardonable offence, yet we oft found ourselves committing it one too many times. The punishment was meted out-sentenced to dish washing.