Millet and a pestle

Memories of holidays spent in my father’s country side home become fonder every passing year.
It’s my fathers home because – I’m an African woman, a married African woman. When I said “I do”, Sam’s people became my people, his home became my home.
I embraced a new culture.

My father enjoyed company and celebration so, what was a party in Teso without ajon? - the local brew.
My recollection of what went into preparing ajon went something like this;-

Women harvested millet from the garden; they loaded it up in sacks and unburdened it in the courtyard.
Later, in the cool of the day, after a meal of “Achok keda ekyadoi” (sweet potatoes and greens) – they selected thick sticks and pestles to thresh the millet.
They saddled their babies on their backs and thumped the sacks to a rhythm. They swayed the sticks high over their heads in a circular motion, gained momentum and brought them down -hard onto the sacks.
The threshing went on for close to 30 minutes, spaced with intervals to turn the sacks over. In the process, the babies were lulled to sleep from the rocking movement – who needed a pram or stroller?

The thrashed millet was poured out on to large trays and the women proceeded to separate the grains from the stalks.
I watched with fascination.
The sifting process was my favorite part.
Gauging which way the wind blew, they stood with their backs against the breeze, raised their large trays into the air and poured the grains onto the ground.
I watched in amazement as the grains easily separated from the chaff. The grains fell to one side and the chaff was carried away in the wind – magically, beautifully, gracefully.
I wonder who came up with this idea.
One thing is for sure, man will survive some how - it’s in built, without a classroom to teach him how.

To avoid getting their hair all grainy, the women wrapped their heads in scarves, the girls didn’t care much for hair - it was short and could be washed as they showered later.
If the sun didn’t set too soon, the women dusted their grinding stones (usually kept in the granary), carried in the millet and set to grinding it to a powder. It had to be done in an enclosed area because the wind was likely to blow the fine grains away.
This was a perfect opportunity for the older women to study the girls grinding, to see whether their mothers had raised them right, if they would make good wives and if they were hard working. It wasn’t just another activity – it was loaded with hidden and not so hidden connotations.

The finely ground millet was placed in a huge saucepan filled with water and left to ferment for days.
I loved the taste of the millet just before it officially fermented – usually around day 3.
It tasted mmmm! so sweet; we called it "ebibi cee", yes, just like saying “ABBC”. I think it means “in the process”. Children ate ebibi cee a lot; sometimes we even added sugar and hot water - that made it heavenly.
If you miscalculated the appropriate time for ebibi cee, you were done for – the line between the sweet stuff and the real fermented brew was thin.

When the brew had been tasted and officially declared potent, pots were washed and prepared while the straws which we call “epeeyi” were tested; another interesting session.
The straws were soaked in water for a while. To ascertain that they were good for use one had to suck up water through the straw.
If the water didn’t come up, that indicated it was blocked or broken.
If it was broken, there was an attempt to mend it or throw it away.
If it was just blocked it was swung in quick caning motions to get it unclogged.
I always found it funny watching as the straws were tested – cheeks sucked in, the mouth muscles working like crazy, veins on the temples. If it was blocked that was even more hilarious because there was a bit of sweating – kind of like sucking thick yogurt through a small straw - you can truly work up a sweat.

Visitors flocked in. They sat in clusters and talked about whose goat had given birth, the chicken they sold in the market or how Okello’s wife had packed her bags and run back to her parent’s home.
In the mean time the women filled the pots to about half way with the brew; they carried a pot to the center of each cluster and placed it on a fiber woven in a circular format to prevent the pot from tilting over.
The women poured boiling water into the pots – filling them to the brim.
Before she got up to leave, she had the honors of taking the first sip - to confirm that it wasn’t poisoned and to know the taste of what she presented.

The men prodded the straws in the pot, leaned forward and drew up on it. The women anxiously stood in a corner and waited for the reaction. They hoped to hear “aberu, abeyite ejok ajono!” (woman, this beer is good), then they would hurry off to the kitchen to cook - occasionally checking to see if the men needed more hot water.

A sneak peek into tradition from the land of emorimor – (the chief in Teso).