African (Tea) Time

‘’It’s all about the mousse!’’, he told me as he poured the syrupy black liquid into four tiny glasses on a tray. His knees tucked neatly under his ample cotton boubou, I could see, he took matters of the mousse seriously.

It was almost a meditation. Arm lifted high, the spout of the diminutive enamel teapot expertly aimed at the tea glass almost a metre below, he focused intently as he poured, lifting his arm up and down to build up the bubbly layer of mousse. Once all the glasses had been filled, he promptly took each one and poured it back into the tea pot. He went on to do this twice more, then looked up and smiled.

Now satisfied that the mousse, a frothy layer of foam, was thick enough, he was ready to serve. It was a parched, 40 degrees plus, Tuesday afternoon. At 4pm, the sun was at last, abating preparing to usher dusk into the dusty town of Djenne in Mali.

My travel companion, Idrissa, had suggested we stop at the tea spot for a much needed rest after haggling the day away at the Djenne market since dawn. Idrissa’s favourite tea maker, Abdou, was renowned for his tea-making acumen, authenticated by the layer of mousse that he meticulously created in his tea ritual.

We had come at the right time. The Chinese gunpowder green tea leaves had been bubbling slowly on the gas flame for at least 15 minutes before we got there. We arrived in time to see Abdou perform round one of a tea ceremony - his ritual offering of liquid relief in the scorched desert sands of the Sahel. Abdou did nothing else from morning till sunset.

His tea house, rustic, minimalist and enigmatically cool, was an oasis of calm in the bustling Djenne marketplace. Abdou’s tea was as a famous as the mystical stories he shared with market traders and shoppers alike as they trailed through the tea house all day, every day.

We were hot, the tea was hot and it was good and incredibly refreshing! The mousse, an avant-gout to the dark, sweet heady tea- Abdou style - was still in the glass after the two swift sips it took to drink. Real mousse always stays behind. A quick rinse of the glasses, a little more water added to the bubbling pot and round two was on its way! Abdou raised his arm and poured, building the mousse, filling each glass and pouring it back into the pot again and again. We stayed till round three (le troisième), each time the tea was lighter, less sweet and even more refreshing.
Tradition has it that unless you really have to run, it is proper to stay and drink till the third round. This way, the tea will sate your thirst and you will bless the tea maker and the house in return for the blessings bestowed on you through the ritual.

Idrissa was a tea connoisseur and master tea maker. As we drove to his home in a Djenne suburb a few kilometres away, I heard how his father, now late, had taught him the art of making a good cup of tea. Tea was a daily evening ritual in the communal homestead of three generations of Idrissa’s lineage. Much more than a choreographed series of elegant arm movements, the art of the tea is bound up in the tea maker’s intent to bring peace to the drinkers, to nurture the spirit through good conversation and to create an atmosphere for soul connections. African time at its best!

The tea ceremony at Idrissa’s family home came after supper. This was a time when, after a hearty meal, the family, kids and adults alike, kicked back on the low-living mattress-loungers that lined three sides of the living room.

Idrissa took pleasure in making tea most nights. It was his way of relaxing and connecting with the family. Friends often came, and the hours flew by as stories, laughter and polity went on way into the early hours. No-one would never dream of leaving until they had the troisième. It was never mentioned, just understood.

Taking up the baton after his father passed, Idrissa prepared his tea spot in the corner of the room with measure. Incense burning, he sat on a low stool, tucked his legs under his boubou, much like Abdou, and placed the pot on coals. An uncle, visiting from a neighbouring town sparked the conversation and as if summoned, he began to talk about his brother, Idrissa’s father’s love for tea. Badara, the family griot animated the room with anecdotes of family history and songs that were family favourites.

A delicious sense of calm enveloped the room as the potent smell of incense grew stronger and the atmosphere palpably balmy as the evening drew on.In the corner of my eye, I saw Idrissa angling the teapot above the row of glasses, and just like Adbou had done earlier, but with a touch more dramatic flair begin to build the mousse that would later stay in the glass.

As he passed the tray around for the troisième, I had journeyed to other lands, laughed with ancestors and visioned the perfect future. A space in time where African (tea) time was practiced as ritual affirmation of the sacred time that we need to simply be.