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Now it’s in this room withdrawn from everything 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