The Sunday News
GROWING up, inopi (melon porridge) was a constant source of three kinds of joy for me. Firstly, it was one of the two African dishes in which sugar was permitted. Secondly, I loved its aroma and its melon-flavoured taste. Finally, the meal included a treasure hunting trip for the children. Every child set out to look for melon seeds in the porridge. Spotting these treasures with the naked eye was not allowed. We sat cross legged round a big communal bowl and competed, each sticking to his side and moving to the bowl centre, we spooned out the yellow porridge without checking for seeds. When one felt a seed in the mouth, you announced: ‘‘kuzwa, umlomo wejaha/ntombi elidala!’’ (Wow, the mouth of an old boy/girl!)
At the end of the meal we tallied our finds. The seeds told our futures. For boys, each seed represented the number of cattle one was going to have. For girls, it was the number of children.
The average number of finds per competitor was four. Not happy with the few cattle we were going to have, the boys modified the rule. We agreed to multiply the future number of cattle we would have by 10. Girls stuck to the rule.
Our worst nightmare was when Aunt Jester prepared inopi. Her taking out of the seeds from the raw melon was thorough. It was not unusual for the entire pot to have only one seed. At times, not even a single seed survived her ruthless purging.
“Can I help you prepare inopi,” I offered Aunt Jester one Saturday. ‘‘I will take out the seeds.’’
“It is a beautiful day out there child of my brother,” she said with a smile. “Go out and play.”
“No Aunty, the sun may be out but it’s freezing out there. I would rather stay here and help.”
“You are freezing because you are not exercising. Off you go,” she waved her hand.
I trudged out of the kitchen and joined other kids at the street corner. My sister Patricia suggested that we do some acting. “I will play the part of my heroine Super girl,” she said.
“Forget it Patricia,” I said. “We all know you can’t act.”
An hour later I rushed into our kitchen almost out of breath. “Please help Aunty, Patricia tried to fly from a branch and has been injured. There is no adult in sight.”
Aunt Jester ran out and I followed. We found Patricia still lying on the ground under a jacaranda tree. She was clutching her ankle and wriggling in pain. My friends milled around, confused and frightened.
“I will take her to the clinic,” Aunt Jester said. We helped put Patricia on aunt’s back and started on the half kilometre walk to the clinic.
“Go back home,’’ she commanded me, ‘‘and take out the firewood from the stove. Inopi is now ripe.”
Patricia’s injury turned out to be no more than a slight sprain. Indeed by evening she, with her bandaged ankle, was dancing under the street light like all of us.
A memorable meal awaited us that evening. The heated inopi slid down our throats driving out the mid July chill. On top of that, we harvested a bounty of melon seeds. I managed to get seven. Patricia did not fare badly. She got three.
Poor Aunt Jester could not understand it. She paced the floors with the dejected look of a goalkeeper who has let in several easy goals during a cup final.
“Can someone explain this,” she kept muttering and shaking her head. “As always, I was thorough . . . the melon slices were thin . . . I personally extracted the seeds . . . how then did this happen?’
“Cheer up,” Mother comforted aunt, putting a hand round her shoulders. “It happens to the best of us.”
Later, Patricia confronted me. “Do you still think I can’t act? I had Aunt praying all the way to the clinic that I had no fracture. I even convinced the nurse that I was really injured and was rushed to Mpilo hospital.”
“You were super,” I admitted. “I was not bad myself. Aunt Jester believes when I came back, all I did was pull out the firewood from the stove. The old girl still has no idea where those seeds came from!”
Patricia and I fell asleep with smiles on our faces.
As predicted that evening, Patricia went on to have three children. As for me, well, the number of my cattle is still in single figures. But like a vulture, I am patient. I know I am destined to boast a herd of 70 cattle.
Last night my family had inopi for supper. I explained to the children how the seed game worked and asked them to play it.
My nephew scowled. “Change the rewards,” he said, “let us make one seed represent a sports car.”
“Or a holiday abroad at a five-star hotel,” another kid suggested.
I shrugged. Not exactly my kind of rewards but perhaps only then will the game survive in this changing world.
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