Sadza, Finger Food Royalty."

 “Sadza, Finger Food Royalty."

By Jez of Wander and Weave

A plate of sadza, white and bold,

Steam curling like stories once told.

Not just maize that's stirred with grace—

But the sacred soul of a Zimbabwean place.

No fork, no problem—it’s finger food royalty,

We scoop and swirl with cultural loyalty.

In every bite, a tale is spun,

Of family fires and setting sun.

In our home, sacks of maize stood tall,

A golden sign of wealth to all.

"Une chibage?"—you’ve made it for real,

That was the flex, that was the feel.

Sadza wasn’t just a meal to serve,

It was our pride, our nation’s nerve.

Sadza isn’t just eaten—it’s experienced, you see,

A symbol of strength and unity.

I remember plates we used to share,

Elbows flying, no time to spare.

If you paused to drink—ah, rookie move!

Your portion vanished with family groove.

We didn’t just eat—we gathered and grew,

Stories flowed, and laughter too.

The pot was hot, but the moments were warmer,

Sadza and love—there’s no dish calmer.

Now oceans away, I sit and sigh,

Craving that love, that home-cooked high.

No supermarket aisle holds that taste,

Of thick sadza love—rich and chaste.

Sadza: the glue of Zimbabwean hearts,

It holds our souls in all their parts.

From Harare to Tokyo’s glowing street,

Nothing matches that sadza heat.

Roll it up, dip it deep,

In derere dreams that make you weep.

Or with matemba—tiny, fierce delight,

Sadza slaps harder than a Friday night!

It’s stiff, it’s proud, it stands its ground,

The anthem of our culture’s sound.

Turn maize into magic, one plate at a time,

It’s home, it’s heart, it’s rhythm, it’s rhyme.

So here’s my cry across the sea,

For a plate of home and memory.

Sadza: the heritage that fills my plate,

And feeds my spirit long past eight.