This evening, on the last evening of this month of heritage, of amagugu or amafa, I cook amadumbi.
They’ve been bubbling away on the stove for a good while, the dense smell of rye bread baking in the background, and I have tested them a few times. When I can feel the fork pierce them easily, and see that the skin is peeling away from the flesh, I hoik two of them out.
I gather rock salt, and chili flakes, and pepper, in a small bowl.
I peel the tubers, feeling the latent heat in their soft white flesh.
I dip them in the salt mixture.
I am back home, sitting outside the kitchen at Kintail, listening to MaDlamini and MaSithole discussing the latest events on the farm.
I am a child again, unburied, sitting in the sun under a guava tree, eating amadumbi.