Aura for Aura

My life looks very different than it did this time last year. Much different than I could have anticipated or hoped. Though my pre-occupations are the same, my days are not the same as they were then. They now consist of mid-day obsessions of fufu. Yes, fufu, the swallow. I think of it a bit too often. The thick mold, the colour, the smell, and most importantly, the taste.

For most people, this is really nothing. It is a simple "swallow" food, as wonderful as any other can be. But to me, this is an odd, odd, thing, especially because I had always been annoyed by the smell of it. That I can stop mid-work and lust after this particular swallow is not a usual thing for me. I may not consume it as soon as the desire for it arrives. In fact, I am not always in a rush to satisfy the need. But the mere thought of it, that searing longing for this odd ball of cassava, is what I enjoy. That tease, the memory of the last time I consumed it, the promise of another such moment to come. These are the thoughts that have crowded my mind in recent times. This is what my days now consist of.

My earliest memory of fufu is from a few months ago. You may snort because the way I began this sentence suggests that said memory was from a long time ago. Probably a time when my limbs were short or I could not pronounce my own name. That isn't the case. At the ripe and interesting age of 30, I had my first taste of fufu. In the home of my dear friend, K, it was offered to me as refreshment when I first arrived in this city. I initially looked at it with disdain, until it was offered with ogbono soup. For such a lovely soup, and the raging hunger in me, I let my bias for the odd-smelling morsel go. I put a morsel in my mouth and was pleasantly surprised by how much I liked it. That weird cassava taste hugged my tongue with such an intensity that I do not think any other meal has before. Since then, I have not looked back. I think about it often. I want to eat it often. I want to have that experience again.

This new life that I am in the middle of, has been interesting. 'New' because I am in a new city, in a new job, in a new sector. So many "news", it almost feels like I myself am new. It is an interesting thing. Paul Graham, in one of his many brilliant essays, explains that cities deliver specific messages to people. The crux of his point is simple; great cities make great people. It's a really nice piece with a great flow of thought. In digesting it, I came up with my own follow on thought and conclusion: cities make demands of people. Demand, insist on, require of, you. This is not particularly new or different information from what he already said. But I think the way I have put it evokes deeper meaning to me. If cities demand differently from people, that means that every constituent of that city is a tool to bend you to submission. The food, the roads, the culture, and definitely, the people. And so Cambridge, might demand intellectualism, New York, eccentricity, and Abakaliki (if that city really exists), probably quietude. Everywhere and the things inherent in them, demand something from you.

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Sometime last year, I took a road trip to Lome, Togo, with a few strangers. Our Nigerian tour guide, N, wanted to treat us to an authentic Togolese cuisine experience. That plan led us to this old but well maintained building in the center of the city. N, greeted the owner of the restaurant heartily and introduced us as her friends. The owner warmly welcomed us and asked what we wanted to eat. The options were not new. She mentioned a few soups that were common across the West African terrain. And then she asked if we'd eat fufu. I said a sharp and firm 'no' because Dolapomoye of the time, could not entertain the thought of consuming odd-smelling morsels of food. Almost immediately, N turned to us and whispered that what they called fufu, we called "pounded yam". For Pounded Yam, I could settle down. And so we did. A few minutes later, they brought us these bowls of food in clay pots. We washed our hands and proceeded to eat when we realized that the 'fufu' was cold. Not hot or warm as we would have any morsel in Nigeria be, but refrigerated cold, to be eaten with hot soups. We were amused. The rest continued to eat and enjoyed their meals. I did not. N smiled at us. "This is how they eat their fufu."

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When I have these long moments of "fufu-lusting", I think specifically of the one I eat when I visit my friend, K. K buys it from the fair woman on his street. They store it in these brown coolers that remind me of my secondary school dining hall experiences. When I think of fufu, I think of how I carefully remove the translucent polythene nylon from it. I think of my fingers touching and cutting from it. I think of all the ways I enjoy rolling it in my mouth before I swallow it. I think of that woman's specific fufu, and not another. But mostly, I think of how I couldn't stand the smell of this meal only a few months ago, and now it has created a compartment in my brain. I think of these and I smile in amusement.

At this point, it should be clear to see that this isn't about The Great White Swallow. It's about how I now like a thing. This is certainly not celebratory news deserving of applause. For me, this fufu that I have come to love means more for me. Will this city demand from me, apart from this fufu, an entirely new love for cuisine that I had brandished as awful before? Will it just be new to my taste buds, or will it also be cold to my fingers? Will I like such a dreadful thing as semovita soon? In all its demand placing, I just want to know; in what specific ways will my life change?

Again, this is not about fufu. It is also about how I am painfully aware that I do not know the new things to come. It is also about how I have no foresight in it.

Other than demanding my abject desire for fufu, there are other things that this city has demanded from me. It has taken each of my emotions in its hands and played them like juggling balls. Excitement, sadness, grief, fear, anger and joy, are all up in the air. I'm not entirely sure if it is the city or me, who is doing the juggling. But I am certain that like flaming balls, my emotions are up in the air, intermittently. In all of this, I wonder if there'll be a pause, if it'll give me a chance to catch my breath, to speak, before another emotion is thrown in the mix. I wonder if it'll allow me rest before it demands from me, again.

Paul Graham's essay does not speak on a vice versa situation. That is, the messages that people give to a city. To that, I'd like to add a rejoinder. I too have demands of this city. It can juggle my emotions as it pleases, but I expect it to give to me as well. It must give to me, relentlessness unto productivity. It must give me discovery. As it demands from me, I want it to rip into my heart and take the things I want to say, but struggle to. I want it to give me space and the audacity to say them. I want it to demand that the hidden beauty that exists inside of me, be exhibited. And that I am unafraid in said exhibition. I want it to draw out the truth. I want abundance. Not just in wealth, but in health, in joy and especially in love. I want it to answer to me, hurriedly so too. It must organise itself to favour me. These are my own demands. Will it give in, the way that I am and have for its own?

I want fufu, now. With afang soup. Or maybe alone. In truth, it is not only fufu that I want. Maybe I want the shock, the amusement, the satisfaction from that first meeting. I want to feel these for the things that scare me and the things that I think I do not like. I want to be shocked, amused and satisfied by the unknowns that are sure to come. This city has demanded that I love fufu. It seems to still be demanding more. Indeed, I will give it what it wants, as long as it does the same for me. "Aura for aura", fufu for fufu.