Be Our Guest

You ever smell the person your talking to and they smell so bad that you can hear what they're saying over the sound of your judging thoughts? And then you realize your the one that smells! Yea me neither.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.