There it was, silently sitting beside her lazily unveiled by the dim light of the fire. One would swear it could hear our thoughts, the way it just stood still and stared back at us. We had seen a lot of strange and mystical things claim mum’s basket throne, but this one seemed to be the most mysterious heir of them all. “What could it be this time?” our little heads pondered. “What could this carefully wrapped treasure contain?” The suspense was sucking the life out of everybody. But, you could tell mum was enjoying it the way she just went on talking about her toils and adventures in the city. I know we always loved to sit at the fire and listen to the narrations, but for the first time, we all wished to fast forward past storytime.

Every year most of the elders from my village would travel to the city on an annual shopping pilgrim- age. We were a small village stretching along the river banks of the vast Okavango river. This artistic landmark runs for miles and ends off into the world’s largest inland delta and has been the source of livelihood for our small community of farmers and fishermen since the ancestral era. Even though we had most of the necessities to lead decent lives, it was still necessary for our parents to travel more than a thousand miles to the city. They needed to go and get their hands on most of the stuff we couldn’t produce for ourselves. These essentials included farming and fishing equipment for men while the ladies went for sewing machines, fabrics, some exotic ingredients, and spices for those special meals back home. My mum has been embarking on this journey ever since I could remember, and every time she brought back new things. These ranged from household conveniences, herbs and spices to our much-awaited Christmas clothes. And as a special addition, every year she brought back some kind of souvenir to mark each trip.

This year’s souvenir was more fascinating and got everyone excited. Because for the first time, it was something edible rather than some exquisite piece of junk disguised as “artwork and human creativity.” She never mentioned what it was or said it was food; it was our small genius brains, which somehow de- coded that part. “Otherwise, why would she have her apron on and take it along with her to the fire?” exclaimed my second eldest brother feeling like the great Sherlock Holmes. The matriarch’s arrival night was always marked with curious faces soaked into the narrations and stories of “The city that never sleeps.” And you could hear the late-night chatter in the village hanging heavenly in the moonlit sky as the mothers and uncles returned home after weeks and some times months away from home. But this time, we just weren’t into the small talk and tales. We had our eyes locked on that paper-wrapped jar she brought along with her.

Finally, the time came, “Would you please pass me the milk and spoon,” the words that declared the end to an era of held peace and wonder. She carefully unwrapped the paper cover off the jar, and I can still remember that loud whispering sound it made as it took centuries to come off. At long last, the jar was free; like a newborn baby, we passed it around the fire admiring but still wondering upon its magnificence with gazing eyes. It was almost astronomical the way it took a slow revolution around a blazing ball of flames. We all couldn’t wait for our turn to hold it and be set free from all the haunting voices of wonder screeching in our heads. The jar had a yellow plastic cover, with some magical words inscribed on the outside. I confidently waited for my turn to hold and read out the scroll, but those dreams were abruptly shattered. “It reads Banana custard,” my brother proudly announced before I even could lay my hands on it. Now you know why I hated him so much; he always robbed me of my glory.

Besides being announced by my halfwit brother, the name sounded fancy, appealing and familiar, but yet still new. I had heard of custard before; it could’ve been in some food memoir or textbook from school. But before then, it was just another one of the exotic foods I had heard of and wished to have someday when I finally got to leave the village. Now, as curious and excited as you could tell I and everyone else was, we were forced to take another shot of patience by a disheartening announcement. “The instructions say I have to preheat the milk, so don’t open it yet.” A split second of disappointment followed, but we quickly responded to this world crisis. We brought in a pile of firewood to heat the milk quicker, so we wouldn’t go insane waiting. This act was obviously unnecessary as milk is not as stubborn as water to heat up, but it somehow felt fulfilling to pretend we were doing something about the problem. Finally, a few moments later, we were all awestruck, observing her read through the instructions and slowly stir the magical yellow powder into the milk. We watched as it thickened under the hypnotizing hissing sound of the simmering mixture. There was enough milk to make enough for every- one so that instinctual worry was tucked away safely.

At last, she uttered the another set of magic words that summoned everyone back to consciousness from our state of coma, “Everyone grab a bowl.” She had asked my aunt to make some fruit salad to go along with the custard. I could easily pick out the apple and some other fancy fruits in there she had once brought home on previous city voyages. We all sat by the fire with our legs crossed like Buddhist monks meditating upon the blessing in our bowls. I took a first spoon full gulp, and I slowly felt my eyes peacefully shutter, followed by a moan full of intense pleasure and fulfillment, delicious! Everyone seemed delighted and fascinated by this new exotic taste and texture. It diffused into your tongue, leaving behind traces of fruit pieces from the salad and a lingering sweet taste of banana flavor. We all start- ed chattering and laughing with our faces so full of life and bowls held safe in the sanctuary of cautious hands. The aroma and banana flavor decently joined our conversation. “It tastes funny,” exclaimed my grandmother, forcing everyone into laughter and pity at the same time. The old lady just wanted a good piece of steamed fish for dinner as she was having a hard time appreciating this new sensation on her taste buds.

What a great night it was, as we stayed up late and ate the custard slowly. The ultimate goal was to eat slow enough to make yours last longer because it somehow earned you bragging rights as a kid. It was such a memorable night. That next morning I embarked on a noble and evil plan. I packed some custard in my lunch box for my friends at school, and you should’ve seen their priceless reactions. They also had a similar face of delight, but most importantly, they were oozing with envy. “My parents never bring any food from the city,” one of them cried out. That day I finally got certified as the ‘city boy’ in my class, and that title was mine to keep. As silly as it might sound, the banana custard night was to for- ever be my motivation to study hard and get to the city. I didn’t just want to go shopping once in a while like my fellow villagers. I wanted to live in the city and have all the banana custard and delicious things they had there, and school was my best bet to achieving that dream.

Fast forward to about ten years after the magical night; I did earn my ticket to the city. My family was very proud, and at the same time sad because this wasn’t a shopping trip, I was going to stay there. I was finally going to live in the famous ‘city that never sleeps,’ and indeed, it was always awake. The traffic buzz, lights, and crowds were a very overwhelming experience for someone from a village as small and desolate as mine. I had visited the city some years before the actual move on an educational school tour. But, I wasn’t as overwhelmed and nervous as now moving away from home alone. The two places were ages apart, and I had to adapt to the new scene I was to stay for at least the next two years studying my A-levels. So there I was facing the struggles of fitting into my new high school and suburban neighborhood. But through all these, I knew what would lay all my anxieties to rest.

So I finally stepped out on the hunt for mum’s magic jar, the yellow powder that would restore all my joy. Now here is the thing, I did find it of course, and I did enjoy a couple of bowls in the first few weeks. But over time, it just wasn’t magical anymore. Firstly it wasn’t as rare and precious as it used to be, nor was it a special meal in the city. Can you believe it? Banana custard wasn’t even a thing to brag about here. Secondly, I could afford it, and the act of being able to walk right into the corner store and pick it up at will somehow made it less fascinating and valuable. It’s interesting how food tastes different when you can finally afford it. Or maybe my grandmother was right that it didn’t taste that good, and it was our curiosity and fascination about the ‘magic jar’ that deceived us into believing so.

Now look here I am today, a former worshipper and believer of the banana custard doctrine. It’s interesting how things become less valuable when you can easily have them. Or maybe it wasn’t the custard; it was the struggle, love and mum’s long trips to the city we tasted that night.

Omogolo Pikinini