Eating amasi reminds me of my childhood
Our round Zulu hut and of my grandmother
I remember how we would walk across the donga
To buy fresh milk from the Boer’s farm
Which would later rest three days in the sun
On the rooftop
The UV rays (I suppose) would catalyze
The slow transformation of milk into amasi
I would return home from school one day
To the welcoming smell of phuthu burning
Not because over done, but because of how
It should be, I would know by then that the sun
Has, once again, completed its most crucial role…
Over the soft white gravel now cooled a bit
The thick sour sweet cream would roll slowly
The clockwise motion of the silver spoon
Would guarantee a perfect mix, ready to gobble!
Ndi faca! ndi faca! ndi faca! until I got so full
I had to take a nap
Now it’s in this room withdrawn from everything
Comfortless, empty….amasi is maas and
I get them from the mall. But I think of her, our
Round Zulu hut, and of myself as a young boy; when
I smell burnt phutu, or go ndi faca! ndi faca! ndi faca!
LLM Mbatha
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amasi/
