[103] The Hands In The Making

In the village, this chore always brings the silhouette of a woman or girl, though sometimes boys show up sporting their might. Mostly it’s girls—pounding the pestle with a rhythmic thud—down, up, down, up, the ritual goes, as the mortar receives the pestle and creates its upward rise, like a living dance caught by willing hands. 

After all, rice and beans need husking to remove hulls. Palm nuts need milling for oil. Spices need grinding to create richness for the meals that await. Dried maize grains or cassava roots need grinding to make flour or paste from the harvest—earned by time-honored tilling, planting, and tending of the earth. 

With this timeless tool in hand girls wholeheartedly submit to the physical, melodic chore—creating song and game out of the moment as it echoes across the land.

I watched it a thousand times—one girl at the mortar, sometimes two on the same—speeding the process—making more fun in the game. And I, too, felt the magic, putting my hand onto the smooth strength of a perfectly carved wooden pounder, building satisfaction with every thud. 

One day, I heard this familiar sound in the distance, but a surprising clap-clap followed, and laughter filled the air. So, I followed this magnificent rhythm. And there it was—a quick rise and a brilliant clap-clap, and even clap-clap-clap of the hands—if well practiced—before the typical catch that controls the fall, along with the laughter of the girls making joy from the chore—embracing the moments that make up a life. 

While modernity continually bangs on our doors with more powerful tools creating more time from their use—it will always be the hands in the making that will forever bring the distinct, earthy aromas of good taste and the enchantment of culture served on a plate, that memory will never, ever erase.