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 until I got so full br I had to take a nap br Now it’s in this room withdrawn from everything br Comfortless, empty….amasi is maas and br I get them from the mall.