A Story of a Hungry Gap-Year Student and some Untouched Hotel Food.

It is an afternoon on the island of Sal.

I am headed somewhere.

Maybe to find some electricity to charge my computer.

Maybe.

I am headed somewhere to do something.

My computer is in my backpack.


I am hungry. I am immensely hungry.

I have not had a decent meal in a good while.

Usually my sense of personal pride and agency is sustenance enough to withstand the discomfort of physical hunger.

But every now and then, even that gets depleted.

And then I resort to my tagline:

Hello, I’m a student on a gap year from college in the US. Do you think you could help me with some money?

Usually people are sympathetic. Cape Verdean natives are generally very generous. Not with money- not really, because they themselves might not have so much to spare. But with empathy, with goodwill, with food, with company, and with alcohol.

Usually the problem with generous Cape Verdean men playing board games at local bars, is that I end up with a hangover the next morning- From drinking ill-advised amounts of Grogue– their unfamiliar rum.

Tourists generally have more money to spare, but I’m even less inclined to ask them for money because usually they’re Europeans on vacation in the Cape Verdean islands. And so there’s a perspective from which it’s really just some disadvantaged Black guy- You know, just one of the innumerable disadvantaged Black people in the news, asking some White guy for money.

I think that’s an immensely horrible picture. And it’s just absolutely horrendous imagining myself as the disadvantaged Black guy happily receiving Aid.

I’d rather just stay hungry.

I don’t enjoy having to depend on people’s sympathy, and so I usually avoid employing that “Gap year student” tagline.

But every now and then, push comes to shove and I have to admit the reality of my current financial situation.


I am hungry. I am immensely hungry.

I am walking through a cobblestoned walkway in Odjo D’Agua hotel.

Odjo D’Agua is a four-star hotel on a rocky promontory of Praia D’Antonio Souza- Sal island’s southern beach.

I think it’s a really interesting hotel. It’s owned by a Cape Verdean native. I don’t know for certain that he owns the hotel, but it’s not unlikely. He definitely feels like someone with the means. Plus, he does not have the air of an employee. He moves with the air of someone who built something from scratch. Or maybe it’s just me.

I think Odjo D’Agua is really interesting, and I’m particularly fond of it because it’s the most prominent Cape Verdean hotel on the island. It’s the most prominent one which actually aims to promote Cape Verdean culture and tradition, in addition to providing a luxurious hotel experience.

Pretty much all of the other renowned hotels are foreign. They’re also really interesting, I’ve spent some time exploring a few. I just think it’s important for a good proportion of the most prominent hotels to be locally-owned, and designed to promote the native culture. Like, what’s the point of even spending time in a country if you aren’t going to soak in as much of the culture as you can.

I was in a conversation with his younger brother- The hotel owner’s younger brother, at his own restaurant in Espargos earlier in the year: Caldera Preta.

Caldera Preta. Black Pot. That’s the name of the restaurant.

Odjo D’Agua means Sea View.

It was my first time meeting him. I picked up the menu, wondering what to order. A dark-skinned man in a light white beard turned to me and said “Sorry, we don’t have pizza today”. In case I was thinking of ordering pizza.

We began to engage in conversation. Interesting guy.

At some point he mentioned his older brother- who I didn’t know at the time, and some issues he was facing with directing tourist streams towards his hotel.

A lot of the foreign-owned hotel chains in Cape Verde have their visitors book all-inclusive stays. So you’ve got tourists coming in from Europe and the US, booking their stay at these foreign-owned hotels- complete with food, island tours, recreation, etc, before even stepping foot into the country. And so most of the money they’re ever going to spend while in Cape Verde, is going to be spent inside these foreign hotels.

Of course that’s a problem for locally-owned hotels who do not have as much of an established presence, both online and in the scene of international tourism. Or locally-owned restaurants who don’t experience as much patronage because the tourists have all their gastronomic needs met in their walled-in, all-inclusive hotels.

Impecunious gap year student that I am, I definitely empathise with the local business-owners.


I am walking through a cobblestoned walkway in Odjo D’Agua hotel.

I am walking by the dining area, which is separated by some palm trees and decorative plants.

The owner of the hotel is having a meal. He seems to be having a date with some woman.

She looks very young. Relative to him at least. She looks like she’s in her thirties. The Odjo D’Agua guy on the other hand, must be at least Seventy. Or sixty-something.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a date. Maybe they’re just having lunch. Maybe I’m just reading into things.

I keep walking.


Not so long ago, I was having a conversation with a tourist couple from the UK on the Santa Maria pier. The man was mentioning to his wife about the fibreglass job on one of the fishermen’s boats, and how it was similar to that on their own boat in the UK.

I was curious what fibreglass was, and they seemed like friendly people so I asked them a question.

We ended up talking for about thirty minutes on the pier.

We talked about the man’s profession and his career decisions, we talked about their recent Safari vacation in I think, Tanzania. When I mentioned I was studying Computer Science in the US, he told me the husband of one of his daughters worked in Tech, and was doing VERY WELL. Like, VERY WELL in Caps.

That’s one aspect of the entire conundrum I’m grappling with during this gap year. Everyone says Tech is a great professional domain to venture into. I’ve got the skillset for it, but I don’t feel like that’s the path for me. Usually people are primarily concerned about the financial prospects of a career path. That’s usually enough motivation to forge ahead. For some reason I’m not really like that.

How am I like? What am I like? I don’t know. That’s why I’m here on some island in Cape Verde with no money in the first place. To figure things out.

At some point our conversation touched on the Odjo D’Agua hotel. The man said they had been vacationing in Cape Verde for a number of decades. He said initially the entire southern beach of Sal island used to be empty. There was nothing there. No one. No businesses, no restaurants, no Windsurfing schools, nothing. Just the Odjo D’Agua hotel.

I found the span of his perspective immensely interesting. That was something a person my age would just like, never know. Just because they weren’t alive or usefully sentient back then. That was something I could really only learn from talking to someone much older than me.

Given that one piece of information, it was very possible to visualise the trend of business-population formation on the beach over time. Initially it was just the Odjo D’Agua guy. And then as both the tourist numbers and the awareness of tourism as a stream of national income increased, businesses gradually began to dot the beach.

In your head, you could practically visualise the beach populate over time.

I thought that was really interesting to think about.


I am heading back.

I am walking back through a cobblestoned walkway in Odjo D’Agua hotel.

The Odjo D’Agua guy and his “date” have left the table.

The hotel owner guy left his food practically untouched.

I need to get back to the—

—-

WAAAAAIIIITTTTTTTT

The hotel owner guy left his food practically untouched.

There is Food on that table. Food- There is Food on that table. Practically untouched Food.

What is going to be done with the Food???

Yeh! What is going to happen to the food??!!

In this very moment, my body ceases to be my own. My legs begin to march around the palm trees and decorative plants, towards the hotel dining area.

What Rubbish.

Because he owns a 4-star hotel he thinks he can waste food however he wants.

What Nonsense.

I find myself seated at the table. My backpack is on the ground, resting against one of the table legs.

The rice in the plate ahead of me begins to rapidly disappear.

As I sit there, munching and fuming, face practically buried in the plate of rice, I vaguely perceive a uniformed being hovering over me.

I am completely incapable of processing what is happening. All of the currently ensuing events are far outside the circumference of my shrunken consciousness.

My sole concern in life right now, is effectively seeing to the plate of rice before me.


I am about to finish the rice. Hunger somewhat assuaged, my sense of environmental-awareness gradually begins to expand to its usual extent.

Now I have the cognitive resources to process the visual signals I was receiving earlier.

The hovering uniformed being was a waiter at the hotel.

The waiter carted away the bowl of chicken on the table.

Ah that’s true, there was chicken.

A pang of grief stings me. I find myself grieving the departed chicken.

Why did the waiter take the bowl of chicken away? Couldn’t they see I had plans for it?

I finish up with the rice.

At some point my ears begin to function, and I can hear the ocean waves crashing against the beach a number of metres to my left.

I couldn’t hear all of that before.

I drink some water and prepare to leave, fuming sub-vocally at the overzealous waiter.

I pick up my backpack and sling it across my shoulder, as I find my way out of the hotel dining area.

Today has not been such a bad day.

Not so bad. Not so bad at all.


Image: Random day at the Santa Maria Pier, with the Odjo D’Agua Hotel in the background.

Psych Ward Diaries. 04.

The preceding piece in this series can be accessed here.

It’s a calm evening in the ward.

It’s always a calm evening.

In this place you’ve got about half a dozen inpatients, incessantly plied with food and antipsychotics throughout the day.

Evenings are always calm.

You’re usually either full, or faced with a new meal you have no choice but to consume.

And there aren’t so many ways to expend energy.


I feel like I spend my entire time here digesting food and adding weight.

The chief Psychiatrist instructed Mr Dayo to take us through routine morning exercises.

I recently realised I hate mandatory exercise.

This came as a surprise to me, given that I’m generally a physically active person.

I think it’s the fact that the exercise isn’t self-motivated.

Every morning Mr Dayo rounds us up to do some weird shuffle-jogs around the corridors.

Mr Dayo used to be a hockey coach.

I imagine he’s in his element taking all of our unfortunate selves through this annoying routine every morning. He’s probably done this with tons and tons of unwilling students in his life.

Yemi’s own fitness passion seems to be Yoga.

Yemi is the guy with sleeve tattoos.

He’s very good at it. Yoga. Taking everyone through the poses and stuff.

I don’t like it. Or maybe it’s just this place. Yoga feels too slow-paced and static and somewhat ostentatious for me.

I don’t quite get the appeal if I’m being honest. I just don’t get it.

There’s also the topic of Yemi’s stature. Or at least my perspective of it.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but he seems small in a way that makes me feel like I’m too big.

Like I’m too tall.

And like my head is too big.

And like my limbs are too long.

I don’t understand it. I don’t get it at all.

This is even more confusing for me, because my physical stature is actually something I’m very happy about. Like, I have no complaints. None.

And so this feeling is one I do not understand at all.

I don’t get it at all.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this place and the drugs messing with my head.


I am in the room. In the room I share with two other patients.

One very annoying thing about being in this place is the significant absence of personal space.

I am twenty-two years old.

The past few years of my life have seen me gradually grow into increasing personal independence.

In addition to me getting used to having my own personal space and having a predominant say in the affairs of my life, this independence and personal space is becoming a part of how I assess my quality of life.

I could be like: “Oh I don’t like this apartment- I feel like there’s not enough personal space. So I need to get a new place to stay. Somehow.”

It has become a part of how I assess what direction in my life constitutes forward movement.

And this?

Oh God.

Sharing a room- One room, with two people- Two Entire Separate People who have no personal relationships with me?

Like I’m in some slightly-upgraded boarding school environment.

Oh God.

Being woken up at God-knows-what-time every morning for exercise?

Like I’m in primary school?

Oh God.

Mr Dayo seems pretty calm about being here. And he’s in his late fifties.

Although I can imagine how a much older person might be less bothered by all of this spoon-feeding and monitoring and lack of significant personal agency.

They probably already know who they are and have a pretty definitive idea of their place in life.

All of this micromanaging on a personal level might not take so much from them, because they know the moment they leave this facility they’re back to their normal lives- Back to whatever place they’ve carved out for themselves in life. Something like that.

For me, it’s like everything is still very vague. Nothing is clear- I don’t even know so much for certain about my future and what my life is going to be like.

Pretty much everything about my future is just plans and ideas and feelings right now. Not so much exists in tangible reality.

And so fighting for things like personal space and independence is still this very intense psychological battle.

That makes being in this place feel like profound backward movement. I feel like a lot of my personal progress in the past few years has been completely eroded.

I don’t know if that is actually true, but I can’t help feeling that way.


Uchenna is on his bed, wistfully thinking aloud.

“Men, today na Friday. If to say I dey my area right now, I go just dey one bar with some correct beer and correct smoke, dey get myself right now.”

“Man, today is a Friday. If I was in the area where I live right now, I would currently be at a bar with some solid beer and respectable weed, seriously getting in touch with my inner man.”

I burst into laughter.

You miss the simple things in this place.

A quiet evening with drinks. Just chilling.

Music. Music of your own choice. Music you want to hear, the way you want to hear it.

You miss the simple things in this place.


Image: Chinese dinner in Ikeja, Lagos.

Cape Verde: A Story of a Faulty Quad Bike and Visualized Chicken.

It is evening.

I am outside. Outside the multi-storey building in which the studio apartment which currently serves as my living space, is located.

I am hungry.

I’m walking about, thinking about what to do.

I come across a Cape Verdean neighbor. He should be in his forties thereabouts. He was born on a different island. Got romantically involved with a female european tourist. That should have been like in his twenties.

He spent a number of decades living in Europe as her boyfriend. Or maybe husband. I don’t really know – I’m not even really sure what the difference is.

They had a number of kids.

At some point though, the relationship broke down.

I think somehow, the legitimacy of his stay in Europe was predicated on his relationship with said woman.

And so given the end of the relationship, he landed back in Cape Verde, with like nothing. No partner, no kids, no means of sustenance – or at least none that I was aware of.

I feel like his general grip on life was through the aperture of that relationship, and so given it’s dissolution, life was pretty much back to zero for him.

I am hungry.

He is also hungry.

We exchange greetings and head out for a walk.

We were having a chat at his place a while back. For some reason he refused to believe that I spent a number of months living in Germany the previous year.

And so in-between puffs of weed, I began to regale some of my experiences of the general Berlin terrain. Talked about Alexanderplatz and Rosenthaler Platz and a number of other “Platz”es and stuff.

By the way, I don’t understand how or where these people get weed. Very frequently, they find themselves in situations where they’re hungry and have no food to eat. But somehow it seems like there’s always weed to smoke- I don’t get it, I don’t get it at all.

Ahahahaha!!! You was in the Germany, you was in the Germany!!!

He began laughing and pointing excitedly at me. At that point he was convinced.


There’s a guy by the road with a quad bike. Tourist, from the looks of it. Or maybe one of those initial tourists who end up setting up tourist experiences. Like renting out quad bikes and stuff.

The quad has a problem. I think it won’t start. We agree to help him push it up the hill.


We’re at the destination. The quad has been successfully transported. The quad guy offers his appreciation. We respond- You’re welcome etc etc.

The Cape Verdean guy looks like he’s turning to leave. I don’t understand what he is doing.

What the hell is he doing? Is he not hungry anymore? This is dinner right here!!

Bruh, there’s no time to grovel in pointless inhibition this evening. There is hunger.

I express to the quad guy that we would appreciate some units of physical currency in addition to his verbal expression of gratitude.

Bruh we’re very hungry. “Thank you” is good, but we’re going to need more than that if we’re to remain alive and conscious pls

He reaches into his pocket and extracts some euros.

The Cape Verdean guy begins to smile very widely- expressing relieved excitement at the emergence of an assuaging answer to the problem of his (strangely repressed) hunger.

We receive the euros with thanks, and keep moving.

I feel encouraged. This night has started off on a positive note.


We’ve bought some light stuff to eat. Some other Cape Verdean guys have joined us. I have no idea where they came from.

We keep moving.

Onde esta Galinha?

I’m not exactly satisfied with the relatively austere things we’ve been eating so far. I’m in the mood for some chicken.

Galinha!!!

He is laughing very loudly. He turns to the other Cape Verdean guys and tells them I’d like to eat some chicken this night. They also begin to laugh at me.

Galinha hahaha!! You have sweet mouth!! We in Cape Verde call it “Muta Sabi”!!

He turns to the other guys- they’re all laughing and making fun of me and voicing the expression: Something something muta sabi.

I don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m just in the mood for some chicken this night.

The closest thing to “Muta Sabi” in Nigerian Yoruba would be maybe “Oju Kokoro”.

It literally means “Eye of an insect”. It’s used to describe people who are generally perceived to lack contentment.

Nobody should even piss me off with these annoying traditional expressions this night. It does not make sense to be content with an undesirable situation, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting tasty things in your life.

We keep moving.

Conversing with a Cocaine Dealer.

I used to be so famous!

He pronounces the word “famous” strangely. I think it’s amusing.

But he is looking severely despondent right now- I cannot afford to laugh. In fact, I do not think I am capable of laughing right now- I myself am not in the most flamboyant of situations.

All over this island. Everybody knew me. Calling my name everywhere.

Famous! Everybody knew me!

He is hungry.

I just made some rice. I put some spice and cloves and chopped garlic in it. There’s this interesting seasoning I’ve been trying recently. It’s in a bright yellow pack. It’s really tasty. I put some of that in the rice too. And then I broke some eggs over the rice when it was almost done. I’m not quite sure what that method of cooking eggs is called. I don’t think that’s poaching.

He takes a spoonful.

Mmm. This rice is sweet.

Usually when someone from Nigeria describes food as “sweet”, they mean the food is delicious.

Thank you very much.

I am glad he likes my cooking. I know the food tastes good and so I am not so much in need of his culinary validation, but at least the compliment could be perceived as some sort of compensation for my shortened ration.

We keep talking.

I am trying to get some perspective on what happened to him in the first place.


How did all of this happen?

I don’t know, I don’t know!

He is dejected. And confused. And disoriented.

I feel sad for him.

I was kicked out of the apartment because I was behind in my payments. Now I have no place to stay!

That Cape Verdean girl never gave me rest. Always causing me trouble and spending my money as quickly as I was making it. Ah!

He is staring into the blank space ahead of him, like his past is right in front of us.

He looks like he has a bitter taste in his mouth.


Where is she now?

She left, she disappeared once there was nothing anymore!

Oh man. Oh man.

Did you love her? 

He did not even wait for me to finish.

NOOOOOO!!!!

NOOOOOO!!!

He is wringing his hands.

She is not the woman of my love!!

The woman of my love is in Praia!!!

Oh man. Oh man.


We keep eating.

So what’s the plan now?

Ah, I just need some money.

He begins to gesticulate with his hands.

Once I mix the four gram with the eight gram, I’ll begin to multiply the money. I have my people. My people know me. Once I tell them I’m back, they’ll begin to come. Once that begins to happen, things’ll gradually get back to normal.

He is talking about grams of cocaine. He is extremely confident in his proficiency as a cocaine dealer. I can see him already counting the money with his fingers. He just needs some capital.

I have some research funds coming from an NGO in Nigeria in a few days. It’s not much, but it’s something.

I caution myself, so I do not begin to actively consider a possibility involving a narcotics investment.

We keep talking. I try to offer some words of encouragement. Ask some critical questions with the hope that they would inspire some proactive, optimistic thinking. Try to up his mood and motivation somehow.

He looks at me with a faint smile.

Ah! You are the one I should have been talking to since all these days!

All the people I used to spend my time with, they would never tell me anything like this. They would never ask these kinds of questions. Ah I love you so much!

I’m not quite sure how to feel about his compliments. I am going to need all of these evidently laudable cognitive qualities to convincingly prove themselves in my life first.

Mister Smart Guy whose life is not smart.

We keep eating.


Image Credits: https://alert-ab.ca/public-safety/illegal-drugs/cocaine/

A Senegalese Consortium/Tribute to Ursula Le Guin.

A number of fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room.

I tell this story now, not as who I was at the time when I was an audience to it- at the time while I was immersed in the related experience, but as who I am now.

Who I am now.

I was reading Ursula Le Guin’s “Those Who Walk Away from Omelas”, earlier today.

Yesterday while browsing the internet, was when I became aware of the fact that Ursula Le Guin had died.

The online page making me aware of her death, was what reminded me of her.

Not at all to imply that Ursula Le Guin was not an important person, but right now I wonder what people one will need death to be reminded of.

A lot, I imagine. A lot.

A number of fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room.

I tell this story now, not as who I was at the time when I was an audience to it- at the time while I was immersed in the related experience, but as who I am now.

I got that from her book- that technique.

In “Those Who Walk Away from Omelas”, Ursula (intriguingly in my perspective) was surprisingly bold at inserting her own voice as an author. While she described the scenery in Omelas to the reader- she periodically interjected in first-person voice- acting as some sort of exuberant intermediary between her story and her reader.

I liked that.

Now I find myself doing it.

Ursula Le Guin lives on?

A number of fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room.

The floor is robed in thick rugs.

I like the rugs. They are furry to the touch, and they help me keep warm.

In this room with me, are about twenty other men. Or thirty. I am not sure.

There is more than one style of writing I picked up from “Those Who Walk Away From Omelas”. I might not be able to say what and what and what precisely, but I feel it.

In this room with me, are about twenty other men.

They are listening to the man seated in front.

I say “they”, and not “we”. Precisely because I am not listening.

These people appear interested in the ongoing sermon.

I really am just here for the food.

The Senegalese have interesting food. Very interesting food.

You should see me eating when it’s time. Oh you should see me. You should see me eating their food.

A number of fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room.

At previous meetings, a wood fire was the central source of illumination.

Now there are fluorescent bulbs.

Is that to be taken as progress? Really?

Are these people better now because now they employ these phosphor bulbs for light, and not a wood fire anymore?

There are rugs now. I am much warmer now at these meetings. There is also more food. There is much more food. That is progress. Life is better. Life is much better.

But with bulbs, really I feel it’s not nearly as clear-cut.

Let me explain why:

The Senegalese have their food. They have their clothes. They have their culture. The people in this room with me, have their religion. One I actually have no business with, because the food is my target variable. But that aside.

The Senegalese do not have bulbs. There is no such thing as a Senegalese bulb, I do not think so.

 

Working with that, if we designate fluorescent bulbs as some sort of metric for progress, then it means the Senegalese people are always going to be behind whatever people in the world that it is, design bulbs.

And so I am not thinking like that. It’s illumination. In my beachfront studio apartment I employ candles for illumination. And I like them. In my opinion, I am no way behind anyone else, just because they appoint fluorescent bulbs as being responsible for their own illumination.

But I like these rugs.

I’ll stay behind after the meeting to enjoy the rugs some more.

A number of fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room.