Becoming The Muse

My paternal grandma went by the moniker Mbuyahwe… Family legend has it that the name was coined because when you called for her, “Mbuya!” meaning grandma, she would acknowledge “Hwe!?” and when she was late to acknowledge there was a particular grandchild who would cry out “Mbuya… hwe?”  Which to a toddler with limited vocab conveyed everything from; where are you to why are you not answering?…. And that’s how she became known as Mbuyahwe.

Mbuyahwe was a resourceful sort of woman, maybe its something that comes with age, grandmothers are built different, or is it that after outliving their spouses, watching their kids grow up and even burying a few along the way… their perception of life changes.

I remember when my crazy hair journey begun, an uncle raised the issue with his mum i.e. my grandma that I was turning into a lil rascal… She asked him if anyone had made them cut their hair, when they were rocking their Afros back in the day. Oh, and these guys used to have the wildest of Afros.. Family albums are a wonderful thing, they served as evidence….

You can tell Mbuyahwe was cool people, so I did not mind visiting her at the family homestead. When we were growing up it was sort of the family tradition to go visit each holiday, alternating between my maternal grandparents and my paternal ones… Fair’s fair.

I don’t know if all grandmothers are like that but both sets of my grandparents were similar, that as soon as you visited, they made sure to feed you, as if their purpose in life was to fatten you up to the best of their ability. The day you arrived most likely a chicken would be caught and prepared for dinner. Depending with season you would be plied with anything harvested from the fields, peanuts, gem squash, pumpkins, water melons… No, would not be taken for an answer. 

I remember the first time I paid Mbuyahwe a visit all by myself. She hadn’t known I would be coming and I arrived just shortly before sunset. It was quite dark by the time we had finished the post-greeting-pleasantries; you know when you get interrogated if everything is well, the welfare everyone, how they have grown since the last time…and why they didn’t come along….

On later visits when I was older, the conversation would also include when I would introduce a bride and give her great-grand kids…. and none too subtle hints that she knew some nice girls, if I needed a bit of help in that department… *wink wink*

By the time we had finished catching up, she exclaimed that she had not been planning on cooking dinner, let alone factored in having a guest who needed feeding. I tried to reassure her that I could just join her in having evening tea with the bread I had brought. But she was adamant, no grandchild of hers would go to bed without a feast for a king in their belly.

Did I mention she was efficient? In no time at all, she had a fire going on the kitchen firepit, with vegetables frying in the pan and water boiling in the pot.. Shortly after that, the mouthwatering aroma of her cooking wafted in the air and you could almost taste it… Flame cooked meals have this smokey flavour that transforms an ordinary dish into… something magical.

Dinner was served by the flickering light of a dimly burning candle that hid more than it revealed. Salt had been added to the candle wax to make the candle burn longer, but consequently, it had a tiny flame, just barely enough to keep the darkness away.

One could hardly see the contents of the plate in front of them and went by feel and texture to know what had been served, the sadza, the vegetables, the soup and the meat…

The meat was juicy, tender and slid right off the bone. Oh yes, but of course, I remembered that with old age, people have trouble chewing and prefer their meat soft…

I suspected it might have been a baby chicken on account of the relatively tiny drumsticks and the tiny wings, judging from the bones in my plate. But there was a flavour I could not quite place, something… fishy? Had the chicken been fried in fish oil perharps? Still it was a scrumptious meal and I finished every morsel.

After dinner we retired for the night.

The next day started with the good morning pleasantries… “Did you sleep ok? Are you sure? Did anything bite you while you sleeping…” “Sorry what!?” “Oh there’s some bugs, nothing to worry about…” Afterwards I finally got a moment to ask a question that had been at the back of my mind.

“Mbuyahwe, did you go and catch a chicken to cook for me in the dark last night?”

“Homu yatatani” she replied

“Huh?” I responded trying to understand what she meant.

She explained that Homu yaTatani meant Daddy’s Cow, a royal dish for the man of the house, otherwise known as a bull frog.

Bull frog!!!

And that is how I ate my first frog and as she also shrewdly pointed out, I had enjoyed it and there was nothing I could do about it….

What would you have done?

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