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errors in consistency

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“This is a dish of our people,” Nakia says, “that is so basic my five year old cousin, Nesa, can already make it.”

Her spoon nudges the akamu gingerly; instead of bouncing back, it sinks to clink on the plate as the scoop’s shape collapses. T’Challa is frowning at his own plate, which shows a similar degradation of structural integrity.

“Perhaps,” Shuri offers from beside him, “it will taste better than it looks, brother?”

“Perhaps,” he agrees dubiously. “I think that I will need another lesson to get this right.”

Nakia smirks at T’Challa. “Nesa has afternoons free.”

Shuri snorts.