“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.”