Intimacy and Cassava

Cassava nsima is the stickiest thing I have encountered in this life: worse than chewing gum, or wood glue, or prejudice. After coaxing the porridge to a boil over a fire, I am taught to clutch the pot with the soles of my feet and twist the cooking stick in laborious circles. Despite much gritting of teeth I can hardly move it through the glutinous mass, which amuses the spectating children to no end. Embarrassment mingles with awe as Brenda takes the pot and deftly wrestles the porridge into submission.

I had no idea what supper would be when I was awoken that morning by the very first blades of dawn undulating off Lake Malawi, directly into my sleeping face. Every morning I am sure I can hear a fleshy thump as the scarlet light-ribbons kickstart me into consciousness, and my hazy dreams recede. This is my third week in the rural lakeside town of Nkhata Bay, and life begins at daybreak.

I met Brenda at the market. Between the piles of drying fish and mountainous tomatoes, beside scorched-maize sellers and roaming dogs, she somehow heard my enquiries about cassava nsima and promptly invited me to eat with her. Six hours later, I wander in the direction of her home, and am struck by the disparity between the humble unplastered houses and the regal heights of the faraway mountains, disappearing into a gauzy lilac sky. The village should have a cricked neck after being crammed into a tiny valley for all these years.

We eat inside, this woman I don’t know and I. The sticky nsima works its bonding magic as we quietly palm the food from one pot into two mouths. Brenda whispers into the silence: “I don’t think my boyfriend really loves me.” Our differences melt waxily into the past, and we spend hours talking about the most fundamental of human emotions as the honeyed night creeps under the mango trees. When I leave, I feel that Brenda and I are joined by a bond that may be even more sticky and durable than my new favourite meal.