Chapter 3: The Rise and Fall of my Sourdough Dreams

Amidst the chaos of the global pandemic, when the world was sanitising bananas and holding Zoom meetings in pyjamas, I too found myself swept up in the great lockdown quest: mastering the elusive craft of sourdough. Because honestly, if you weren’t baking or dancing on TikTok, were you even quarantining properly? Armed with nothing but an empty pickle jar, some flour, water, and Olympic-level optimism, I set out to create my own sourdough starter. Now, let me explain something, growing up in Zimbabwe, sourdough wasn’t a thing. At all. If my mum had ever served us sour bread, we’d have stared at it suspiciously and whispered, “Muchembere aka chinja zvekudya here?”  (Has the old woman changed what we eat?) Because in our house, bread was soft, straight from Lobels, and definitely not fermenting on purpose.

But alas, lockdown FOMO is a powerful force. With the entire internet acting like they were born in a boulangerie, I gave in. I nurtured this starter like a president of a struggling nation, giving it every grain of wheat I had while depriving myself of the bread I knew how to make. By day five, and I was feeling myself. In my mind, I had graduated from beginner baker to honorary French pâtissier. Then came Bake Day. Now, I must confess, following instructions is not always my ministry. I have been known to eyeball a recipe and say, “close enough.” So, of course, I decided I knew better than the YouTube girl giving precise measurements and clear warnings.

The result? Eish. That bread was a disaster. Even chimodho would have looked like gourmet French toast next to it. A true crime against carbs. It was so sour, even the ancestors would’ve clicked their tongues and gone, “Aiwa, mwana!” (child, no!). I tried jam, butter, even a silent prayer but nothing helped. It tasted like I washed the jar with vinegar and thought, “Yeah, let’s bake with that.” Growing up in my mum’s house, bread was precious. You didn’t just eat it freely, no, you were handed two slices, and that was that. Lobels bread was sliced so thin, if you held it up to the sun, you could probably read the Bible through it. But we still ate it, stale or not, you ate and thanked God. But this bread? This thing I made? It was so bad, even one see-through slice wasn’t worth it.

What really hurt though was that everything was looking good in the beginning. It had risen so well I thought I was killing it. You know that feeling when you think life is finally going your way, and then boom, it betrays you? That was me. I was already planning Instagram posts in my head. “Look at me, baking my feelings like a mature adult!” Hah. The bread had other plans. Next thing I know, I’m doom-scrolling through Instagram like someone who just got ghosted. Everyone else’s bread was golden, crusty, fluffy inside, basically what mine was pretending to be. I started wondering if there was a secret WhatsApp group I missed where everyone shared the real tips?

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to throw out the leftover starter. I just left it in the jar, hoping, wishing, praying that maybe, just maybe, it would fix itself. Like one of those dodgy boyfriends who promises to change if you just give him one more chance. Because in Zimbabwe, we don’t throw things away easily, we keep margarine containers long after the margarine is gone. We reuse peanut butter tubs for everything, from storing relish to hiding money from your little brother. And don’t get me started on the old ice cream containers with sadza inside. So no, I wasn’t about to toss out my sourdough starter after one flop.

Talking of ice cream containers with sadza inside, listen, let me tell you a story that still sends me into a fit of laughter every time I think about it.

So, there I was, in Zim for my male cousin’s marooro (dowry) This was not the warm-up; this was the main match, the bride price negotiations. Ties were tied, doeks were ironed, and the uncles had prepped their coughs and grunts for emphasis. You know how it goes. Now, as per tradition, the groom’s family is given a room to sit and wait while the bride’s family works through the process with Munyai (go between), numbers are whispered, elders consult with ancestors (and calculators), and the Munyai delivers updates like they are running a diplomatic mission. During that wait, the bride’s family will only serve you water, and if they really like you, a fizzy drink or two. But this bride’s family understood the assignment. They came correct. These people didn’t just bring a few bottles, they rolled in with an actual deep freezer filled with cold drinks. I’m talking Fanta Grape, Cream Soda, Coke, you name it, it looked like a Tuckshop. Classy, respectable, high-tier in-law energy.

And then, in between the bottles were two iconic ice cream containers. You know the ones: blue lids, slightly frosty, carrying the hopes and dreams of everyone in the room. My other cousin, who was handling the drinks, lifted one like Simba being presented to the kingdom and shouted, "They even bought us ice cream!" The room lit up; we were impressed. Ice cream at roora? These people were elite. But then my aunt wisely said, “Let’s not eat it yet in case the negotiations don’t go through”, because let me tell you, failed roora negotiations are a real thing. The aunts will repack everything faster than ZESA takes power. Luckily, everything went well, the bride price was accepted, uncles clapped hands, cows were metaphorically (and sometimes literally) exchanged, and the tension in the air dissolved like Mazoe in water.

Then came the feast, sadza, roadrunner chicken, beef stew and the mighty coleslaw. Aunty cooking in a headwrap and flip-flops like she was on Top Chef: Mbare Edition. Bellies were full and spirits were high. Then came the big moment. "Let’s have the ice cream." You would have thought the heavens opened. I was sent to fetch bowls, you know nieces are unofficial PAs of family functions, allowed into any room. I went to the kitchen and confidently asked one of the little girls, “Can we get bowls for the ice cream?” She blinked at me confused and looked at her aunt, who looked at her, then said, “okay we will bring the bowls”. At least half an hour later, they brought real bowls and actual ice cream, strawberry, vanilla, the real deal.

We were all sat there, confused, because wait for it, we already had ice cream in the freezer. But here's where it gets interesting: someone had literally been sent to the shops with the clear instructions, “Vakuwasha vati vanoda ice cream.” Translation? "The sons-in-law said they want ice cream." Simple, right? But in Zimbabwe, when we talk about the groom’s entourage, we refer to them as vakuwasha, so you can imagine the anticipation.  All eyes turned to my cousin, our unofficial 'ice cream expert' for the day. He looked at us, cracked a grin, and then absolutely exploded with laughter. “Guys! That first tub wasn’t ice cream. It was maguru (tripe)!” MAGURU?! My aunt’s jaw almost hit the floor, and she muttered “unotinyadzisireiko kudaro” (why have you embarrassed us). The ancestors were having a good laugh at our expense that day, we had spent the entire afternoon guarding a tub of offals like it was Haagen-Dazs. In true Zimbabwean fashion, we all burst into laughter, tears streaming down our faces, and we ate the real ice cream.

So, in Zimbabwe, nothing is ever what it says on the container. That butter tub? Definitely rice. The yogurt container? Most likely gravy. And that ice cream tub? Well, it could be maguru, mabonzo, or who knows, maybe a second-hand pair of sandals. Always proceed with caution when it comes to food packaging. You never know what you're really getting. So, here’s the deal: next time you are at a roora ceremony, and you spot an ice cream tub chilling in the fridge? Don’t get your hopes up. Chances are, it’s just dinner dressed up in a tub, ready to make you question every container you’ve ever seen.

And if they really do bring real ice cream? Just know, we walked so they could scoop.

Trendsetters by accident. Pioneers of confusion.

My Zimbabwean jokes aside, but here’s the lesson learned: sometimes your bread will flop. Sometimes it will taste like heartbreak and vinegar, like the ghost of every unwashed pickle jar that came before it. And that’s okay. You rise, eventually. Just like dough. Sometimes you just need more rest. A little warmth, better jar, and a Wi-Fi connection that doesn’t freeze the second the recipe says, “Now fold carefully, this part is crucial.” These days, whenever I see a perfectly scored sourdough on Instagram, with its golden crust glowing like a Renaissance painting, and the caption smugly reads, “baking is therapy”, I just laugh. I know the truth. Behind that artsy crumb shot is someone who’s definitely cried over at least one failed bake and asked themselves: "Is this edible, or forensic evidence?"

Because honestly? If your lockdown loaf didn’t once resemble a medieval weapon, did you even really bake? So no, my sourdough era didn’t end in a cookbook deal or a TV appearance with Martha Stewart. But it did give me something else, a story. One that smells faintly of vinegar, broken dreams, and stubborn hope. And that’s how it starts.Not with a perfect rise, but with a flop, a laugh, and a quiet decision to try again.

From failed loaves to future triumphs, ticharamba tichi baker (will keep on baking).

We move.