taught myself to make
kissra—
the flat sorghum pancakes that we all loved to eat. Grandma was useless at making them and my mother was too ill. The best
kissra
has to be light and thin, like a crisp crepe. The secret lay in three things: getting the mixture just right; allowing it to ferment a little before cooking it; and handling the
garagaribah—
the special
kissra-
making spatula—correctly.
The
garagaribah
is a thin woody spatula, made from the pithy insides of a date-palm leaf. Once the batter is poured onto the hot cooking iron, the
garagaribah
is used to spread it out in a series of sweeping circular motions. I quickly learned that a good
garagaribah
would last for many months without drying or splitting if left in a cup of batter to keep it moist. I would add the cup of batter to the next batch, as a culture to aid in its fermentation. It was that which gave the
kissra
a slightly sour, fermented flavor.
Some six months after the gasoline incident my mother was pregnant again. The day my second brother was born it was as if a tiny version of Grandma had entered the world. He came out kicking and screaming, and demanding to be at the very center of attention. Grandma must have sensed that she was no longer alone in the world, for she was instantly inseparable from her angry, warlike grandchild. She and gentle Mohammed had never really hit it off, but now she had her tough little Zaghawa grandson with which to go to war.
In keeping with Zaghawa tradition my father gave his second-born son his surname—Omer. On the day of Omer’s naming, Grandma was so proud of her little warrior grandchild. She held the tiny bundle of energy and fight in her arms, beaming with happiness. Halfway through the day’s ceremonies, who should turn up but Grandma’s estranged husband. Yet nothing it seemed could put a damper on her good spirits. Soon she and he were chatting and laughing away as if they were long-lost friends.
“You’re such a hot woman,” Grandpa remarked, with a fond smile. “No other woman could have escaped like that, and stolen my children away . . .”
Grandma gave a fierce grin. “And don’t you forget it! I’m warning you—you try and cross me again and there’ll be hell to pay!”
Grandpa turned to my father. “How can you live in the same house as this hot woman—this fierce, runaway wife of mine?”
My father shrugged. “Well, she has her own place and we have ours. It works for us, doesn’t it,
abu
?”
Grandma smiled happily and tickled little Omer. She had a real liking for my father, in spite of their differences on how to bring up the children. He had given her a home and respect, and he never openly crossed her. Whenever she did something truly outrageous, my father was usually the first person to defend her. She was the elder of the family and we had to respect her, he’d argue. Even if she was wrong, we should learn to live with it.
Well, I could learn to live with most things, but right now I was having real problems with Grandma’s newfound fondness for Grandpa. I watched in amazement as she bounced little Omer on her lap and fed Grandpa choice tidbits from the feast. It was almost as if they were being
intimate
together, and Grandma was . . . well . . . she was
Grandma,
and far too old and wizened for that sort of thing.
That evening I went and found my mother. I plunked myself down beside her. “What
is
Grandma up to now? I mean, have you
seen
her and Grandpa . . .”
My mother smiled. “What’s wrong, Rathebe? They’re just making friends again, that’s all.”
“But why? I mean, are they divorced or married, or falling in love again or
what
?”
My mum laughed. “I don’t know. And you shouldn’t really ask. . . . All I do know is that no one’s ever been able to tame her. That’s just Grandma: She always gets her own way.”
This wasn’t the first time that Grandpa had been back to visit us, my mother explained. Ever since his surprise appearance at my
kissra—
the flat sorghum pancakes that we all loved to eat. Grandma was useless at making them and my mother was too ill. The best
kissra
has to be light and thin, like a crisp crepe. The secret lay in three things: getting the mixture just right; allowing it to ferment a little before cooking it; and handling the
garagaribah—
the special
kissra-
making spatula—correctly.
The
garagaribah
is a thin woody spatula, made from the pithy insides of a date-palm leaf. Once the batter is poured onto the hot cooking iron, the
garagaribah
is used to spread it out in a series of sweeping circular motions. I quickly learned that a good
garagaribah
would last for many months without drying or splitting if left in a cup of batter to keep it moist. I would add the cup of batter to the next batch, as a culture to aid in its fermentation. It was that which gave the
kissra
a slightly sour, fermented flavor.
Some six months after the gasoline incident my mother was pregnant again. The day my second brother was born it was as if a tiny version of Grandma had entered the world. He came out kicking and screaming, and demanding to be at the very center of attention. Grandma must have sensed that she was no longer alone in the world, for she was instantly inseparable from her angry, warlike grandchild. She and gentle Mohammed had never really hit it off, but now she had her tough little Zaghawa grandson with which to go to war.
In keeping with Zaghawa tradition my father gave his second-born son his surname—Omer. On the day of Omer’s naming, Grandma was so proud of her little warrior grandchild. She held the tiny bundle of energy and fight in her arms, beaming with happiness. Halfway through the day’s ceremonies, who should turn up but Grandma’s estranged husband. Yet nothing it seemed could put a damper on her good spirits. Soon she and he were chatting and laughing away as if they were long-lost friends.
“You’re such a hot woman,” Grandpa remarked, with a fond smile. “No other woman could have escaped like that, and stolen my children away . . .”
Grandma gave a fierce grin. “And don’t you forget it! I’m warning you—you try and cross me again and there’ll be hell to pay!”
Grandpa turned to my father. “How can you live in the same house as this hot woman—this fierce, runaway wife of mine?”
My father shrugged. “Well, she has her own place and we have ours. It works for us, doesn’t it,
abu
?”
Grandma smiled happily and tickled little Omer. She had a real liking for my father, in spite of their differences on how to bring up the children. He had given her a home and respect, and he never openly crossed her. Whenever she did something truly outrageous, my father was usually the first person to defend her. She was the elder of the family and we had to respect her, he’d argue. Even if she was wrong, we should learn to live with it.
Well, I could learn to live with most things, but right now I was having real problems with Grandma’s newfound fondness for Grandpa. I watched in amazement as she bounced little Omer on her lap and fed Grandpa choice tidbits from the feast. It was almost as if they were being
intimate
together, and Grandma was . . . well . . . she was
Grandma,
and far too old and wizened for that sort of thing.
That evening I went and found my mother. I plunked myself down beside her. “What
is
Grandma up to now? I mean, have you
seen
her and Grandpa . . .”
My mother smiled. “What’s wrong, Rathebe? They’re just making friends again, that’s all.”
“But why? I mean, are they divorced or married, or falling in love again or
what
?”
My mum laughed. “I don’t know. And you shouldn’t really ask. . . . All I do know is that no one’s ever been able to tame her. That’s just Grandma: She always gets her own way.”
This wasn’t the first time that Grandpa had been back to visit us, my mother explained. Ever since his surprise appearance at my
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