The aromatic scent of the strong Somali tea.
The fragrance when sugar accidentally lapses.
Into charcoal fire and burns in smoldering flames.
The scent and sound of spices.
Being pounded in the kal iyo moyo.
Creating acoustical effects and abounding happiness.
Craving for the centuries old.
Sweet-smell of the mixture of sanjabil, dhagoyare, hayl iyo qorfe.
As they fusion in togetherness. And dance their way about in the hot boiling Somali kirli.
Fascinated by the charcoal sparkle and flicker as if singing to me.
And I recall the songs and cherished moments.
Of my childhood in Mogadishu and my mother making tea, under the pawpaw tree.
And how ceremonial tea cooking was, an art of its own.
An artistic ceremony, a process with many ingredients, sounds and smells oh so familiar.
And I watch in hallucination the abrupt transition from water to tea.
As it all unfolds right in front of me.
A vanishing loveliness as tender as the rush of the strong leafy teas.
And as golden as the rays of sunset like a polished coconut.
Feelings of accomplished ease. The clatter the transparent cups make, hitting each other.
As they are assembled on the Somali tray.
The sizzling sound of the tea being poured into cups in passionate waves, high and low magical movements.
And everyone waits patiently and watches in amazement the bubbles and froth that form on top of the transparent Somali teacup.
As delightful to the mind and as cool well-water to thirsty lips.
The Somali tea.