I am like the porridge, Obushera.
Uninteresting, cold and limp.
You pour cold water over me
I jerk into semi-lifelessness.
You mix me round and round in your coldness
You mix me with your wooden spoon.
Just a little heat to animate me.
Smiling now, moving, excited.
The heat makes me rise
Up down
Up down
Yes… Yes…
Move me… move me…Higher higher
Faster faster
You stop to taste the Bushera
Not yet ready.
I rise higher
Bubbles of elation burst all over you.
You turn off the heat
I am now ready.
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