Nshima, Nshima, and More Nshima!

“You don’t have mealie meal in the US?”

No, I said, looking into a frowning brow of disapproval.

“Teacher ________________, Hannah just said they don’t have mealie meal in the US.”

The other teacher matched her colleague’s furrowed brow and gave the Zambian grunt of displeasure.

I had never heard of nshima before I had my YAV interview to come to Zambia. Nshima is dried maize (corn), pounded into a very fine powder. To cook it, you fill a pot with water nearly to the top. When the water boils, you start pouring the powder into the pot. You let the milky white water heat for another ten minutes or so and then pour more mealie meal into the pot by the bowlful. This must be done while stirring rapidly, yet carefully, so as not to push any of the mush out of the full pot. This step is extremely tricky, at least for me, because I always seem to stir too fast and spill all over the stove, and at the same time, I also stir too slowly because my nshima turns out clumpy. An expert nshima cook, aka all Zambian women over the age of 12, know exactly how to push the long, flat wooden spoon back and forth to remove all clumps while not spilling a thing. After the nshima has been stirred and is at the right consistency, the pot is covered, and it cooks for another ten or fifteen minutes. Then again, the big spoon pushes the nshima back and forth, now quite heavy, until it is thick and ready. Then another utensil is used to spoon the thick mush into ovalular globs set into a silver dish with a matching lid that all Zambian families seem to own.

Nshima, at the village stay, in the open dish with a red rim

At the table, Zambians wash their hands before eating. This is important in a dusty surrounding and when no utensils are used to eat. A Zambian usually takes one to three globs of nshima on their plate. That is a lot of nshima, let me tell you. One rips off a large piece and rolls it in their right hand. Once in a ball, the nshima is used to pick up a leafy green relish, or a bit of fish or chicken.

Meal times are usually around 1pm and then 7:30pm. Meals are late, spread out, and then fairly large to accommodate this eating schedule. Once one has eaten nshima, one doesn’t feel like they need to eat for a very long time.

My first time eating nshima, I found the experience quite fun. I felt rebellious getting my hands messy at the dinner table. Touching one’s food with their bare hands is a very interesting and intimate experience. I’ve never really thought about how forks and knives create distance, but they do. How often have you felt, I mean, really felt your vegetables? Or the sinews of your chicken, or the bones of your fish?

Early on in my time in Zambia I talked with a CCAP pastor about how much time Americans spend just deciding what to eat. I am notorious for this myself. When I go into a restaurant I have to read the entire menu and then really examine how I am feeling, what else I have eaten that day, what I plan to eat later, and what I plan to do later, before I choose the perfect meal that is delectable, nutritious, and practical at the same time. And that’s not even mentioning how much time I can spend in the aisles of a grocery store deciding what food to bring home. I wonder what else I could do with this abundant time I have the privilege to spend on food. Not time spent growing, harvesting, preparing, or cleaning up after said food…just time deciding what I want.

Zambians don’t have this issue. No one asks, “What’s for lunch?” Everyone knows the answer is nshima. “What’s for dinner?” You guessed it! Nshima!

A good friend told me that if she hasn’t eaten nshima, she feels like she hasn’t eaten. This is why my fellow teachers were literally in disbelief that my country does not cook nor sell mealie meal to make nshima. As far as I know, you can’t buy the stuff in the US, and making nshima with cornmeal, which I tried last year, does not yield the same dish.

In my interview for YAV, my site coordinator described nshima and asked if I would be able to eat a foreign substance everyday. Considering myself an adventurous eater who now thanks my mother for instilling the “no-thank-you-bite” for every dish put on your plate, I answered that I was excited to try something new. There’s not much I don’t like, so why should this nshima stuff be a problem. Now I know that because of my cultural perspective I really didn’t have the means to fathom nshima culture.

My experience with nshima has been a blessing and a challenge. I’ve shared common bowls with strangers and friends. It is always offered in abundance. I’ve spent dark evenings during the many power outages in Lusaka learning worship songs with my sister, Precious, as she stirs a pot over a charcoal fire. There would be no Zambia without nshima and so I embrace it.

But I don’t always eat it. After weeks of feeling bloated and too full for my own comfort, I’ve had to learn how to be a thankful guest while also realizing how important food is to our souls, moods, and bodies, and therefore feeding the soul, mood, and body that I have personally been bestowed. It has meant introducing the concept of raw vegetables to some of my friends and it means reassuring them over and over again, that yes, I am satisfied. I’m still figuring this out and I oftentimes feel guilty and out of place eating separate food. What comes first—solidarity or health?

Breakfast has become a cherished time of solitude and delicious nourishment. I treat myself to having yogurt and granola stocked in the kitchen as often as I can. Before school or taking my time on a weekend morning, breakfast has become my time to eat what I love, read and reflect, and start my day right. This morning, my six-year-old brother loitered around me as I set out of my foodstuffs. Despite his cuteness, I’ve recently had a serious problem with him respecting my privacy and I found my feelings of annoyance growing inside me. Can’t I have my time of peace? But how could I serve myself and not serve him? What could I give this young, budding child? I searched for what he normally eats for breakfast. The corn flakes were out. No white bread, either. There was only my food. Only my abundant and healthy food. I honestly did not want to give it to him at first. This food had come to symbolize my comfort. I looked at what has become my comfort: this healthy, abundant food—available to me, but not to others…not to my family that I live with, and I thought once more about how much privilege I have. I have the privilege of an education and health system that taught me what is good for my body. I have enough wealth to secure this lifestyle for myself. Many times we think of privilege as luxury—diamonds and fancy cars—but in reality privilege actually comes in the basic form of healthy eating and even exercise.

I shared my food… and my brother enjoyed his granola, yogurt, and milk. But don’t think of me as some sort of saint. If I am quite honest, I was in a situation in which I could not ignore the unfairness of how much I have compared to others. I sat at the table across from my brother, food all around me, nothing around him, and the feelings of guilt and discomfort got so great, that I shared. I hope I can have the strength to share in a more profound and widespread way when the table I sit is no longer physical but figurative, when I am back in the United States and my brother sits in here in Lusaka. I hope I can give freely without guilt, without discomfort, and I hope I can put my comfort in things that are not in effect indirect exploitation or unequal.

Even as I eat and watch others eat nshima every day, I have trouble fathoming Zambia’s culture of food that is so narrow, yet profuse. Nshima is cheap and abundant so it fits in a nation where sixty percent of the population is officially considered poor. Nutritious, abundant, and varied food is certainly a privilege.  Don’t forget it.

Ps. Today is my little brother’s birthday. Had no idea…