Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Lunch

By Sandra A. Mushi


We all loved watching Uncle Aziz eat. Was it the towel that was the attraction or the big belly or the shirt? Mohamed and John from down the street once fought over that. They argued heatedly until their fight of words turned into a fight of fists. We never knew what it was that drew us but we were always drawn to that dining room window during lunch hours. The street would suddenly become quiet when Uncle Aziz ate; all games on the dusty street would cease, the laughter of happy children would cease, the critter clutter of dirty running feet would cease.

We would all huddle outside the window watching him – waiting to see the towel - with our ball of old socks for a make shift football next to us. Our dirty little stubs of fingers would cling on the chipping window sill staring. The flowers that were once under the dining room window not flowers anymore, but a tread mat to cushion our grubby feet.

Even baby Maria, who was a difficult eater. Aunt Miriam would place her on a mat in front of Uncle Aziz, as if hypnotized by the movements from the towel to the face then back to the plate and eventually mouth, baby Maria would stare open mouthed and quickly Aunt Miriam would spoon feed her.

Uncle Aziz had a big laughter, as big as his belly. He always laughed when the table was being laid, his big throaty laughter that sounding like Mount Kilimanjaro rumbling.

Aunt Miriam always set the table, making a clattering noise as she lifted and moved the ceramic dishes. The clanking noise of the dishes was a sign for Uncle Aziz – this was when he would go inside to his room and change from the trousers he had been wearing during the day into a kikoi. We always wondered why he never left the shirt in his room when changing as he always took it off eventually.

Uncle Aziz would walk into the dining room, laughing – the small overflowing room vibrating with his laughter. The small room becomes even smaller with his big frame swallowing each corner of it. His big belly would bump into a chair or two as he walked to his chair, sometimes knocking over the already cracked vase with plastic flowers – the centre piece of the old mninga dining table.

Aunt Miriam would place a plastic table cloth on top of the white starched cotton table cloth with her famed immaculately stitched colourful embroidery. She would then place several plastic table mats before placing a big plate. Then the big jug of ice water cold water and a long glass would follow. The jug was always covered with an equally immaculately stitched colourful embroidered doily.

Re-wrapping her loose khanga and wiping the sweat off her brow, Aunt Miriam quickly would walk from the kitchen to the dining room with plates and bowls of dishes – until the table was crammed with a plate of ugali or mihogo or wali, the coconut milk in rice or in the cassava fragrancing the room; a bowl of maharage, Uncle Aziz always like sultanas in his beans; a plate with pieces of meat stew or deep fried sato, meat stew swimming in oily sauce of potatoes, green peppers, nyanya chungu or the fish glistering with oil; a bowl of matembele or kisamvu, the potato or cassava leaves cooked in peanut butter; a bowl of chachandu, the strong fragrance of the chillies and garlic condiment overpowering our young noses; a glass of mtindi, the fresh yoghurt sweetened with honey and a bowl of fruit salad with mangoes, pineapples, pawpaw and bananas. Finally the towel would be placed on the right side of the big plate, a white starched neatly folded towel.

Uncle Aziz would then walk to the sink tucked at the corner next to the china cabinet and quickly wash his hands. As he passed his chair, Uncle Aziz would unconsciously finger the towel – as if feeling if it is well starched. Just as quickly he would dry his hands on the fading blue towel draped on the loose once chrome towel ring.

He would massage his stomach in circular motions before finally sitting down. His chair the one at the head of the table, next to the china cabinet; before sitting he would take off his shirt, then drape it warily on the posts of the old mninga chair as if careful not to crease it. Even if the weather was cold, Uncle Aziz always took off his shirt. His big belly would make a jelly movement as it spilt out from the shirt. We would stifle giggles as we watched the jelly freedom dance as we called it. We always thought of it as a relief dance – relieved of being released from being squeezed in the shirt. He would then pull out the chair, while all the while eyeing the towel.

He would then unfold the towel and place it on right shoulder. We would all shift comfortably under the window sill watching more closely now, Uncle Aziz totally unaware of his young audience.

Uncle Aziz would then move the big plate closer, and start dishing out – a bit of this and that, maybe a bit more of this and that and then he would pour some ice cold water in the tall glass, his laughter still ringing resonating in the room, and the towel slowly shifting from his big naked shoulder. He would then take the towel and wipe the little spots of sweat slowly forming on his forehead, before taking a sip of the cold water. John who believed it was the towel that was the attraction would giggle gleefully.

With his right hand, Uncle Aziz would start eating. Swiftly the dance with his hands from the plate to his mouth to the towel to his face and finally back to the plate again would start, his shirtless belly shaking, while we stared in amazement.

4 comments:

  1. Hi Sandra,
    Lovely piece.

    The title worked for me perfectly well. ‘Lunch’ fits with the feeling of the story.

    But in my opinion, the greatest strength of the story lies in its imagery- the use of words to evoke the five senses. I could see the silent street in the afternoon (in my mind it was one of those narrow streets such as in Ngome Kongwe Zanzibar). I could see the jelly belly, see and smell the delicious food as it ‘fragranced’ the room and hear Uncle Aziz’s laughter resonating in there as well.

    I remember as children we used to peek through our neighbour’s windows to watch TV. This story has reminded me of that.

    Ok, here are some technical parts i thought needed some attention.


    - He always laughed when the table was being laid, his big throaty laughter that sounding like Mount Kilimanjaro rumbling
    I thought ‘that sounding’ should been ‘that sounded’.


    - His big belly would bump into a chair or two as he walked to his chair,
    Is it ok sometimes to repeat a word in the same sentence, like ‘chair’ here? I would like to hear what you think


    -Uncle Aziz always like sultanas in his beans
    Should that be ‘always likes’

    Ok, thats it from me.
    thanks for the nice read.
    Looking forward to the next one...

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  2. I think you are very brave, very few people can put as much detail in such a short story and it comes out without sounding like a text book. I enjoyed the read.

    While I enjoyed the read I feel that it should be longer. Otherwise it doesn’t not fit into the genre of a short story, not that you said it is.

    If it is, I would think “Okay, you loved to watch him it and then?”

    There is a good introduction, a build up and then a sudden fizzle……

    I think we need something to happen because the story just ends when we are just about to climax.

    In terms of stylistic devices, you have used lots of imagery that I liked. There is also a lot of repetition, for example you repeat the word cease three times in the first chapter and repeated the word fight twice in the same sentence in the first stanza. I know it is for emphasis but it doesn’t go that well.

    All in all, I want to watch Uncle Aziz eat.

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  3. I believe this kind of story is called a vignette.
    Defined as : a sketch, brief literary description.

    These 'slices of life' do not necessarily have conflict them, they just present a single moment in life in exquisite detail.

    Just like a beatiful paint. A moment captured and frozen by the writer for our admiration.
    I think its as close as prose can ever get to poetry.

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  4. Eric, I am the most impatient person ever such i hatrdly ever go back and edit my stories. yeah, I know it's a bad habit, lol.

    But thanks for the comments, Eric and Morris - I will force myself to edit in the future and try to avoid repetition as well. Lol.

    Morris, the story as just about watching Uncle Aziz enjoying his lunch. Lol. There is no suspense, romance, twist or anything. A vignette. A short impressionistic scene.

    I believe a story can be just a story as long as you can just caprure the audience.

    ReplyDelete