Sal Island, Cape Verde: A Homosexual Brushing.

It’s a random afternoon.

I’m walking around Santa Maria. I’m going somewhere.

I’m walking by Ocean Cafe – a really cool bar/restaurant/lodging space in front of the small city square, close to the beach.

Someone calls out to me.

I turn around to look at him.

Ah. It’s this guy.

It’s this guy – some Spanish speaking guy. He looks like he’s in his late fifties- or maybe he’s older, I’m not quite sure.

Every now and then we come across each other, and he’s always trying to start up a conversation somehow.

He’s from the Canary Islands I think. He speaks Spanish.

I don’t speak Spanish. I’ve been learning a little Portuguese-esque here and there, from my interactions with Cape Verdean natives in their Creole version of the language.

I’ve realized Spanish and Portuguese are actually very similar. Normally I would expect to still understand this Canarias guy somewhat, but his unfamiliar accent adds a-whole-nother dimension to his speech.

It feels like he’s talking very quickly, and so I never understand a word of anything he’s saying.

There was this day he invited me to join him at a table where I think he was having a drink. He looked very frustrated.

“Tralsjo su jasnxihsbal ciuhnxah fawusknfbahb kxaiusn,abx hkjknfxalwjk xbk aiskgjxfla!”

He ranted, waving his arms about in the air.

In my head I was like Okay, from the look of things there’s an issue. Okay.

I just sat there and tried to be empathetic.

---

Now I’ve come across him again.

One of his knees is in a brace. And he walks with a limp. I’ve always known him like that.

He also looks frustrated again today. He walks up to me and begins to utter some more utterly unintelligible sounds.

At some point he offers for me to come along with him. Says I look very untidy. Says I should come spend some time at his apartment.

I can make out that much from what he’s saying.

I say okay.

The past number of months have been me seriously thinking about my life. I’m currently on a gap year from college with practically no money. My intention is to utilize the ample time and space I have right now, to figure out my life direction.

My problem right now isn’t money – not really.

If I put in some effort I could probably get a job working hospitality somewhere on the island. Job in a hotel or something. I speak English, and that’s valuable here because you’ve got a good number of English-speaking tourists in a country that speaks primarily Portuguese (Creole).

But that’s not my issue. Working a job in hospitality somewhere and having enough financial resources to procure access to the usual living amenities – “Condição” as Cape Verdeans would call it – That has absolutely no effect on the higher-order ambiguity of overarching life direction that constitutes the existential quagmire I’m currently embroiled in.

What I need right now is time. Time time time time time.

Hygiene hasn’t exactly been on top of my priority list for a while.

So yeah. I probably look very untidy. He most likely has a point.

I go along with him. The Canarias guy.

---

We’re at the building where he stays.

It’s actually right behind the defunct hotel where I live.

The building where I live used to be a hotel owned by an airline. “Aeroflot” or something. Their air crew and flight passengers used to lodge there during stopovers, from what I heard. At some point the airline ran into some sort of a disagreement with the Cape Verdean government, and they were dispossessed of the hotel – something like that.

The building is fine – the location is actually great, it’s like 10 – 15 metres from the beach.

The studio apartment where I stay, has a super cool beachfront view.

The only issue is amenities. The building isn’t actively maintained by the government, and so that means there’s no electricity, running water, etc.

Over the past year I’ve really begun to deconstruct all of the different components that constitute living spaces. Usually when you rent out a living space, it’s really just this black-box that you procure access to, with money. It’s not exactly clear how all of the different components of the living experience, relate in a nuanced way to the money you just paid.

At Hotel Aeroflot I’ve got shelter, and I’ve got privacy. I’ve also got a super-cool view. I’ve got no security though. Those pesky Cape Verdean neighbours keep burgling the apartment every now and then – it’s so frustrating.

Electricity and money are the things that make it necessary for me to leave the apartment on a frequent basis.

---

We’re at the building where the Canarias guy stays.

We walk by the security guard. He’s a tall, muscular and very-dark-skinned Senegalese guy. I know him. Well, kind of. We have lunch together every now and then at Nongo’s place.

Nongo is a Senegalese artist who works from a studio apartment at Hotel Aeroflot. He makes interesting artwork of dancers I think, and silhouettes of people with wide straw hats paddling on canoes against the backdrop of idyllic sunsets.

We’re on the same hotel floor.

He’s got a group of like six people who work with him on the art. They make the pieces with paint, brushes and sand somehow. They use a good amount of sand.

In addition to working on the art, I believe Nongo manages the relationships with his retailers and stuff, who eventually sell the artwork to tourists on the island.

We met for the first time, on some random day. I was extremely hungry. I had absolutely nothing to eat. I was sitting down in front of the apartment where I stay, staring listlessly at the beach ahead. I was probably on the verge of dropping dead or something. Spending my last moments as a sentient instance of the Homo Sapiens species, staring at the glistening crystal-blue beach ahead of me – Praia Antonio Souza.

Wonderful. Because I can eat the beach.

Nongo was walking by. He could probably tell I was hungry somehow.

At some point he invited me to come join him and his artisans for lunch.

“Come come! Comé! Comida! Mangé mangé!”

He made gestures with his hand – moving his hand towards his mouth.

I gladly obliged. With the final quotient of energy left in my body, I lifted myself up to my feet.

They were having Chebujeri – it’s a Senegalese dish of rice cooked in spicy tomato sauce. They had seasoned cabbage and fish and all sorts of good stuff. Apparently there are a number of Senegalese spots in Santa Maria that make traditional Senegalese food for the community here.

Chebujeri is similar to Jollof rice – a dish found in a number of West African countries. Like Nigeria.

That was a wonderful afternoon. That was an immensely wonderful afternoon. Nongo is such a great guy.

---

We’re at the building where the Canarias guy stays.

We just walked by the tall muscular Senegalese security guard.

He also works security at Odjo D’Agua hotel. Odjo D’Agua is a beachfront four-star hotel about five minutes away from here.

There was this day he saw me at Odjo D’Agua. Having something to eat and using the internet. I was with my computer. It’s a 15″ MacBook Pro I bought in San Francisco.

I imagine it was an astounding sight. There I was, sitting at a four-star hotel with a computer that was worth like a few thousand dollars (or something), but I was frequently in situations where I had no food to eat.

I was eating food at this really-nice hotel not because I had ample money, but because I needed a reason to spend as much as time as I could using their wonderful Wifi network.

That Odjo D’Agua wifi is something else.

I imagine it was extremely confusing for him. The Senegalese security guy. I imagine it was.

Honestly it’s confusing for me too. I myself don’t understand my life.

The next time I was at Nongo’s place for lunch, I could hear a conversation erupt between the security guy and everyone else the moment I left.

He was about to regale them with tales of me and my expensive computer.

As I walked away, I could hear him yell “Original!” amidst some other things he said in Wolof.

---

We’re at the Canarias guy’s apartment.

It’s an interesting space. It’s on the topmost floor of like a four-storey building. With an interesting view of the beach.

I would probably have found the apartment much more awe-inspiring if I didn’t live in the building right in front. With an even closer view of the beach.

We talk for a bit. He says he used to be a journalist. He’s retired now.

He shows me a couple of newspapers and stuff.

I say Hm interesting, interesting stuff.

At some point he suggests I should go take a shower.

I oblige. I could definitely use a warm shower right now. There’s no hot water at Hotel Aeroflot.

---

I’m in the shower. Covered in lather.

At some point the Canarias guy walks in.

I’m not sure what he’s doing.

Like dude I’m naked, can’t you wait till I’m done.

I’m not too bothered by it though. I spent about four and half of my six years of high school in Nigeria, in boarding school. In the male hostel I frequently had to take baths in an open space with tens of other flailing, naked, lather-covered boys.

And so I’m not entirely uncomfortable being naked around guys. Not really.

I keep washing my body.

At some point I feel a hand trying to slither through my legs.

HAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHAT IS THATTTT?????

I open my eyes.

MISTER CANARIAS!!!!!

CANARIAS GUYYYY!!!!

AHHHH SO THIS IS WHY YOU WERE PERSISTENTLY INVITING ME OVER TO YOUR APARTMENT!!!!

AAHHHHH!!!

OHHH SO YOUR PLAN ALL THIS WHILE HAS BEEN TO GET ME NAKED IN YOUR BATHROOM!!!!!

Ahhhhh, now I get it. Now I get it!

I express to him that I’m not homosexual, and that I’m not up for any of this.

He tries to persist.

I express to him some more that I’m not interested.

I’m careful not to physically touch him.

He’s this very frail-looking guy limping about in his knee brace.

I can touch him ever so slightly, and he’ll end up falling on the floor and hitting his head on something.

I’m not interested in being the guy who killed a Spanish tourist in Cape Verde. I’m still debating with Cape Verdean law enforcement on the validity of my visa-free stay in this place.

I don’t want problems please.

I verbally express some more that I’m not interested in his current intentions.

I finish up my bath and quickly head out of Mister Canarias‘ bathroom.

---

Image: In the bathroom mirror of the Hotel Aeroflot studio apartment.

Mercado Municipal

I’m standing on the first-floor balcony of the Mercado Municipal– A brown two-storey building which houses Santa Maria’s Farmer’s Market, as well as a good number of offices.

It’s a new building. I think they recently commissioned it. A considerable number of the offices haven’t even been allocated yet.

There’s this empty office in one corner of the second-floor. I sneak up there every once in a while with my laptop to get some electricity. I sit on the floor in my jeans- stiff with salt from walks along the beach, and make life plans on the computer.

What sort of a shape should my professional life take, What the fuck is my precise plan with this gap year, What’s going to happen with college etc.

I don’t know if it’s allowed. But the door usually isn’t locked so I’m not like, breaking in or anything.

Making plans gives me a calming sense of reassurance during these thoroughly uncertain times. I’ve spent all of the money I came into this country with. My parents and I have been in intense arguments since the beginning of the year, and so I don’t ask them for money.

I don’t think it makes sense to exchange in series upon series of heated messages with your parents, engage in boiling, livid arguments on the phone-

I don’t think it makes sense to do all of that, and then at the end be like Err, so I know we’re all like boiling with rage and stuff, but do you guys mind sending me some money so I don’t like, die in this country

Yeah, I need you to send me money so I can keep doing what I want and we can keep having more arguments- How’s that

I want to do what I want with my life, but I want to do it on your own dime

Not like there’s that much money to send in the first place.

Parents are like, What????

What are you doing in that country? Who sent you there? Aren’t you supposed to be with your classmates in Argentina? Your classmates in that ridiculous unrealistic school that we don’t really understand?

Aren’t you supposed to be studying to get your university degree?

So you can get a good job in the US after graduation and begin to earn in Dollars?

What are you doing in Cape Verde?

Who sent you there?

Wait, where is Cape Verde again?

Ah! You must be experiencing a spiritual attack. The envious enemies from our village have seen your future glory and have employed metaphysical projectiles to derail you from your destiny.

Demons were launched from our hometown to turn your brain upside down. That is why you think it makes sense to jettison a marvelous college programme- To abandon an opportunity to be employed in Heaven- Heaven being another name for the USA-

That is why you think it makes sense to abandon all of that and begin to roam the wilderness.

Doing what??

What are you doing??

You need deliverance.

Ah, our enemies have won!

Ah, our enemies are rejoicing over us in their witchcraft covens!

Ah! Our lives are finished! Our son is lost! Lost to the evil demonic powers of the world!

Ah! O ma se o! What a pity!

---

A lot of the time, I have absolutely no idea where my next meal will come from.

My Senegalese neighbours have been immensely helpful. I am extremely lucky to have them. Most afternoons, they make a huge bowl of delicious food. Usually they invite me over. Most of the time I’m in my apartment, pretending I don’t need their food. Pretending I’ve got things all figured out. Stomaching my discomfort.

And then the aroma of their Senegalese dishes- with names that sound like Chebujeri and Maave, begin to waft in, torturing me all the more.

And then eventually there’s the invite.

“Mayowa!! Come! Come eat! Come!”

“Mange!”

“Comida!”

Those guys are mind-blowing cooks. Like, I don’t understand. I have absolutely no idea.

It’s always like magic. I have absolutely no idea how they do it.

Their food is so good. Like, so good.

I had no idea some people boiled carrots. In rice. Amongst a lot of other things, they put the carrots in seasoned rice to boil. I was very surprised to see that.

---

But every once in a while things are horrible. Business doesn’t go so well for them, and they make barely any money from the stream of tourists on which Sal island thrives.

On such days, everyone is hungry. You can feel the hunger in the air.

There was this day:

I was seated somewhere on the expanse of small black stones that I think used to be a lawn.

I saw Izmir Bamba walk by.

Izmir Bamba is one of my Senegalese neighbours.

I saw him walk by, but he wasn’t really walking, no. Not really.

He was swaying. From side to side. Like a speedometer.

He probably hadn’t eaten anything that day.

He was swaying from side to side because he could barely stand straight.

If I myself was feeling more energetic, I would’ve burst out laughing.

Not out of derision. No. It was just funny. I’m sure even he would’ve understood.

---

---

There’s a small opening in the wooden frame of the roof.

The roof of the empty corner office on the second floor.

The one I sneak into, to charge my computer.

It’s like a sunroof. Skylight.

It’s a skylight.

The woodwork on the roof is interesting.

One of my college professors in the previous semester, had a similar skylight in his office.

I could see it in the background of his video stream during our remote classes in Berlin.

He was in Budapest.

I thought it was cool.

---

There’s tailor who has a stall on the other side of the building. Right across the square space between the office rows from which you can peer downstairs at the Farmer’s Market.

It usually feels good looking down and seeing all of those nice colourful inviting fruits. Very picturesque.

Earlier in the year, a kind fruit vendor gave me some bananas and I think some oranges for free after I tried buying with my last Euro and US dollar cents.

She had this understanding, sympathetic look on her face. Like aw, he’s trying to buy fruits with these useless coins, let me help him out.

The tailor.

The tailor has this apprentice. More often than not, he’s expressing some sort of disappointment at him.

The poor guy usually has his nose to the sewing machine- or tailor’s chalk- whatever instrument he happens to be using at the time.

And his tailor boss is usually like, yelling in frustration. In Creole.

It’s not always so clear what he’s saying, but from his flapping arms I can usually tell it’s something like:

“What sort of a human being are you?”

“Why can’t you learn? That was not what I said!!”

“Look at this! Look at this line you’ve just sewn. Was that what I said you should do??”

“Was that what I said you should do????”

---

---

I’m standing on the balcony of the first floor.

I’m thinking about a book I’ve been reading- “You Must Set Forth at Dawn” by Wole Soyinka. it’s an autobiography.

I think it’s an immensely inspiring book. I started reading it late last year in Berlin.

I find the author to be a remarkably intelligent and insightful individual. Wole Soyinka is extremely popular in Nigeria- particularly because he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature sometime in the nineteen-eighties. He’s the first and only person from Nigeria to be awarded a Nobel- and I think the first black African.

Before coming across the book, he was this name I had always heard in conversation, and was generally this Nigerian poster-child for people who use “big words”.

I began reading the book, and all of a sudden I was like Wow, this guy is actually a remarkably interesting guy Hm!

I’ve been thinking about a line from the book. I think from the Foreword or Dedication or something.

It went something like “I dedicate this book to my wife- my loving wife to whom my perpetual absence made me a husband only in name, and to my stoically resigned children…”

I’m particularly surprised by his “matter-of-factly” tone. He doesn’t sound regretful about being a perpetually absent husband or father. he doesn’t even sound sad. Just this flat “This was how it happened and that’s that”.

I think it’s very unusual, and I’m curious why he has that perspective of his marriage and his children.

I started the book late last year. I’m still reading it.

You know, as much as I can afford right now. In between figuring out how to get food and stay alive.

I’m standing on the balcony, ruminating on that sentence, and peering down at an interesting playground across the road.

---

I’m here today, because I’m waiting for someone.

Two people actually. I’m waiting for two people.

About a week ago I walked into this woman doing something in an interesting-looking office. Here. Here at the Mercado Municipal.

We began to talk.

It turned out she was a Director of this Biodiversity NGO in Cape Verde. She and the second Director were from Spain. Very curious, I asked questions about the NGO. As she answered my questions, she showed me around the office. There was this really interesting miniature model of a Turtle Nest facility they had somewhere on the island- It was just beautiful to look at.

At some point I chipped in that I was on a gap year from college in the US. I mentioned that I had some cool techy AI stuff I could do with their historical turtle nesting data that could help provide useful insights into their strategy and stuff.

She seemed interested. We talked some more and then scheduled a day for me to meet with both her and the second manager.

That day is today.

I’m very excited. We’re planning to do some AI stuff.

Some real stuff. In the real world. With a real organization. Not some inert college paper that’ll end up in just grades. I’ve been very uninspired by that recently.

---

---

There’s this guy.

In one of the offices on the first floor.

He’s an optician. I think.

Or an ophthalmologist. One of those eye people. He’s got all of the eye equipment in his office. Lenses and charts and stuff.

He’s from somewhere in Europe.

I walked into his office the other day. We got talking.

He has this interesting car collection on one of his desks.

He was telling me about his perspective on life and marriage and children.

There was an old picture of him standing with a woman- somewhere on the wall I think.

I asked if she was here on Sal.

He said no.

He said a man and a woman should only be together for a while, have kids, and once those kids are grown everyone goes their separate ways.

With regard to a long-term relationship with a woman, he said “I’m happy alone”.

And then he said: “Children are like birds. They fly!”, gesticulating with his fingers.

He said his children were doing well. Said one of them worked at Apple. And that their mother was somewhere, living her life.

I was standing there and listening to him. I thought his perspective was weird.

At some point he began to talk about girls.

He looked at me:

“Girls, When I need…” he said, looking around

“I catch!”, clasping his fingers together like the talons of a hawk.

I kept listening.

Hm.

Okay.

Mister “When I need I catch.”

After our conversation, I headed out of his office. I think at the time, I was trying to figure out how to withdraw the last few dollars on my Bank of America ATM card.

As I headed out, I saw him like flirting with a Cape Verdean girl walking by.

I focused my mind on my financial worries, trying not to imagine what happened whenever Cape Verdean girls came along for eye tests.

---

I’m still here, standing on the balcony.

The NGO guys are not yet here.

---

Image: Somewhere on Sal.

Cape Verde: A Story of a Transgender Prostitute [Part 1.5]

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

---

We’re walking down one of the cobblestone streets of Santa Maria.

He’s sashaying beside me, in his black lipstick and dark-auburn gown.

We’re definitely getting stares.

We come across Anso.

“Heeeyyyyy Ansoooo!!!!”

“Heyyyyyyy Mayowaaaaa!!! Begeeeee!!!”

We exchange pleasantries, amidst excited laughter.

Anso is one of my Senegalese neighbours.

He is also a member of the Baye Fall- an Islamic sect whose meetings I regularly frequent for the free food.

I usually understand nothing that is said at the meetings. Usually they’re just chanting strange things in Wolof.

But food.

Food.

That is a language we all have in common.

“Bege” is this word the Senegalese guys use when they’re greeting each other. It’s some sort of an expression of regard for the other person.

I don’t know if it’s a Senegalese thing, or a Baye Fall thing. I don’t know.

Anso has his dreadlocks wrapped up in a swollen rastacap which sports the usual Jamaica-colour stripes.

After Anso and I are done exchanging pleasantries, I continue heading down the street with the sashaying trans-woman beside me.

“Hm, you’re very popular.”

It’s the transgender guy.

Hm.

Well I certainly don’t see things that way. Although to be fair we have come across a good number of people with whom I’ve stopped to exchange excited greetings.

Hm.

I don’t know. I still don’t see myself as a popular person. I think today is just a good day.

---

We’re walking by a roadside grocery store. A Mini Mercado.

The Mini Mercado is owned by a Cape Verdean couple. It is situated on the ground floor of their 1-storey home.

The woman is usually seated at the counter- processing purchases with a smile, and counting money with a very remarkable air of satisfaction with life.

Her husband on the other hand, is an extremely annoying guy- I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit.

He’s this pesky stocky guy that walks about by piercing the air in front of him with his big round stomach. In actual fact there is nothing so annoying about his physical appearance- I’ve just grown very inclined to perceive it negatively because of the pointless hurt and frustration he has made me experience.

Every once in a while I’ll be somewhere in the store- maybe selecting eggs or picking onions. This guy- this despicable edifice of annoyance, just appears from nowhere and begins to accost me. He tries to budge me about with his stocky frame, with a bewilderingly unfounded frown on his face.

And he doesn’t speak English!

So I never understand what exactly his problem is. In spite of the fact that I can speak enough Cape Verdean Creole to get by, his mutterings usually don’t feel sensible enough to make any real meaning to me.

Like, what the fuck is this guy saying please

And then I myself get upset to the point that my limited Creole becomes inadequate as an avenue for verbal expression.

So I switch to English:

What the fuck is your problem, What exactly is the issue, Why in the name of God are you bothering my life, etc etc.

But of course he never understands anything I’m saying.

And so to him I’m just uttering this jumble of unintelligible sounds.

And worst of all, he mimics me.

He pouts his lips and sticks his tongue out in my face and goes “Tfe tfe tfe tfe tfe“, making fun of my English fricatives.

---

One day at dawn, I was walking by his house. To my pained dismay I looked up and saw him standing at his balcony, gripping the railings with his stocky arms and frowning down at me.

In my head I thought:

“Jesus Christ, this guy again.

The day has barely started for God’s sake.

I’m barely awake.

I’m still navigating the realm of inspiration that exists between sleeping and waking.

What is all of this nonsense?”

I saw Anso hanging out by the road with a number of his Senegalese friends.

I drew his attention to the glaring gargoyle on the balcony.

“Anso, what is this guy’s problem?! He’s always staring at me and trying to make my life miserable for no good reason. What the fuck is his problem?”

“Hahaha! You’re not the only one who experiences that! He does it to everyone! His wife never lets him have sex and so he’s always walking about in a horrible mood.”

Now I had absolutely no idea if what Anso said was true, but it made perfect sense. And it felt good. It was a very enjoyable explanation for the pesky guy’s inexplicable irritability. So I chose to believe it.

I raised my eyes up to the stocky frowning being on the balcony- seeing him then in a very different light. I pointed my finger at him and began to laugh out of spite.

Haha motherfucker.

Haha.

Your wife is completely satisfied by the fulfilment of managing a successful grocery store. The grocery store gives her all of the stimulation and excitement and catharsis she needs in life, and she has no need for sex.

You’re probably bound both by your marriage vows and by the possible societal disapproval of marital infidelity by a man your age, and so that leaves you stuck in a sexless marriage.

Plus, having sex elsewhere will cause problems with your primary source of income- which is the grocery store you both manage.

She probably just turned away your sexual advances. That’s why you’re out here fuming on the balcony at 6 o’ clock in the morning.

Hahaha motherfucker.

Hahaha.

---

We’re still walking down one of the cobblestone streets of Santa Maria- The trans-woman and I.

He’s still sashaying beside me, in his black lipstick and dark-auburn gown.

Something I think I’ll always find strange about seeing a biological man in a gown, are the narrow hips. The gown just goes straight down from the waist. Like it tapers from the shoulders down to the waist, and then poom– just sharply straight down from there. I actually think it’s a bit funny.

---

We’re still walking down one of the cobblestone streets of Santa Maria.

We’re still getting stares.

---

Image: Bunch of people gambling somewhere on the streets of Santa Maria.

White Rice, Olive Oil, and the “Of Course?!” Guy.

Some guy just joined me at the table. He is dark-skinned, dressed in conspicuous flowing white, and has a medium-sized beard.

He eats like one who is almost late for an appointment. He is not evidently in a hurry, no. Not really. But sitting across the table: hearing his perfunctory greeting, seeing his head bowed in total concentration on his food, watching his spoon grab mounds of rice in diligent cycles, and experiencing the incisive ferocity with which he munches, I can tell he has somewhere to be.

This is my first time ever seeing him. In the next few weeks I’ll learn he’s Senegalese. He’s a member of the Senegalese Islamic sect at whose meetings I’ll happily receive free rice and chicken during Ramadan. But that’s still to happen in a few months. I don’t know any of that now.

---

I take my time with my food, taking care not to let the Senegalese guy’s justification-bereft haste rub off on me.

I didn’t know people added olive oil to rice. Like, while eating. There’s a small bottle of olive oil right next to my food. I didn’t know sprinkling some of it on rice, was a thing.

In Nigeria I only ever saw olive oil being used by the super-abundance of superstitious churches in the place. It was usually employed as some sort of a supernatural weapon- To cast out demons and ward off evil spirits.

To the extent that your impression of reality and what is real and what is normal and what is natural; To the extent that all of that is dependent on the human beings around you and your immediate society, growing up in some parts of Nigeria teaches you that Olive oil is manufactured to cast out demons. That is why olive oil exists. And that olive oil advertisements proudly quote stats on demon fatalities, just like how disinfectants claim to kill 99% of germs, etc.

And so it definitely feels very absurd for me here, seeing almighty Olive Oil being used for something as mundane as seasoning rice.

---

The Senegalese guy is done eating.

Of course he’s done eating.

In a few weeks I’ll be at this restaurant with a new acquaintance from the Netherlands who studied Mechanical Engineering.

We’ll meet on the sunny beach at the southern end of the island. We’ll talk about Holland’s ingenuity with dams and dykes, and he’ll explain the physics of sailing. He’ll attempt to explain the physics of kitesurfing to me, but I’ll have too little experience with the sport to get what he’s saying.

I’ll tell him about some of my interests involving the representation of words and ideas in general, as co-ordinate points in multi-dimensional space. Initially he’ll be skeptical, but at some point he’ll come around and find it exciting. He’ll tell me about the Bauhaus- say I’ll be interested in the philosophy behind it. I’ll open up a mobile Safari tab to check out later.

We’ll talk about his work at KLM. About his bosses and how they receive very fleshy salaries, but aren’t doing all that much work. We’ll talk about his intention to move to a larger apartment- one that costs about two thousand euros a month. The salary is capable of handling it, he says.

I’ll introduce some girlfriend talk. I’ll be surprised to hear he has never had one. I’ll be going through some wrenching heartbreak at the time, but I’ll still suggest that he think about getting one. He’ll appear receptive to the idea.

He’ll tell me about his friends in Holland and their recent trip to Thailand. He’ll ignore phone calls from his mother, wanting to know how he is doing in Cape Verde. He should be old enough to handle himself, he says. I agree. At the time, I myself will be embroiled in some brain-scalding disagreements with my parents in Nigeria.

---

In a few weeks we’ll be at this restaurant, and he’ll point out to me that you slant the beer glass while pouring the beer. So the foam accretes on top. Apparently that’s the cool-guy way of pouring beer. I’ll realize it also looks better.

In a few years I’ll message him on Facebook, but he will not respond with the enthusiasm I expect. There’ll be too little information to discern why. It’ll probably have to do with the possibility that he has forgotten most of what happened on that day.

That’s something I’ll become aware of in the next few years. That people generally forget pretty much all of these things, and so I shouldn’t immediately attempt to pick up a conversation we were having years ago, because they usually don’t remember ever having that conversation. Sometimes they don’t even remember having ever met me in their lives before.

---

And so in a few weeks I’ll be at this restaurant with a new acquaintance from the Netherlands, laughing and having conversation he’ll most likely completely forget before long.

I’m done with my food. I call over to the waiter-cum-manager of the place. I ask him a polar question about his opening times. He responds with a vigorous “Of Course?”, that is accented to sound like a question.

This is like the fifth time this guy is going to respond to my questions with “Of Course?”. Initially I thought he was somewhat offended by my question- that it meant I felt the need to ask for something that should simply have been assumed.

Now I’m beginning to perceive this behavior differently from when I initially met him: I don’t think he’s a native English speaker. He’s black, and generally feels like someone who originated from somewhere on the continent, but I don’t think he’s Cape Verdean. Probably from a non English-speaking African country.

I think his English lexicon is limited, and “Of Course” is one of the few expressions in his vocabulary. That’s probably why he says it so often.

I pay for my food and get up to leave. The “Of Course?” guy is heading out to serve some chicken. I let him know I enjoyed the meal, and that I’ll definitely be back sometime soon.

He appears to appreciate my compliment, and wishes me goodnight.

There’s a hearty “Of Course?!” somewhere in his response.

---

Image Credits: https://www.origanico.com/product-category/food/extra-virgin-olive-oil/

Circumventing a Gatekeeper/ All Hail Billy Boy.

You want Cafe?

I nod. Weakly. Very weakly.

He dips a container into the pot of Senegalese Cafe Touba brewing over the fire and fills my cup.

I begin to sip on the invigorating coffee. Swirling around me are guttural Senegalese greetings and the sounds of happy handshakes and excited salutes.

I am hungry.

I have had one piece of bread, but it only seems to have exacerbated the aggressiveness of my hunger. I stare longingly at the pile of loaves at the corner, being guarded by the Senegalese man who just refilled my cup.

He is very generous with the coffee. He is always asking me if I want some more.

Mon ami!! You want Cafe? Cafe? More Cafe?

He is not as generous with the bread. I can literally feel his face being drawn closer and closer to a complete frown whenever the supply of bread is diminished by a considerable amount.

Jesus Christ I am hungry.

A few feet to my left, some members of this Senegalese Islamic sect are dancing around in a circle, beating their drums and singing very loudly.

I felt frightened the first time I head them sing. Their voices were so loud. Screaming on top of their voices and wildly waving their long fat dreadlocks in the air. Shouting ardently into the night.

One of their members freshly arrives, and joins the meeting. He is talking with a lot of self-assurance, shaking hands and smiling and laughing.

In my understanding, genuine self-assurance and confidence comes a lot more naturally when your life is going well. This guy’s life is definitely going well. 

I am here with my head bowed, wincing under the crushing pain of the frustrations I am encountering in my training of some Artificial Intelligence models on Wildlife Conservation historical data to identify insights which could prove valuable to the managers of the Spanish Biodiversity NGO on the island.

For some reason they were persuaded to entrust me with their money and historical data on endangered sea turtles.

I am in trouble. I am in fucking trouble. I have collected money but the AI models are misbehaving. They are not working the way they should work.

Ah. I am in soup. I am finished. I am completely finished.

Mister Confident walks over to the gatekeeper of the coffee and bread.

A cup is filled with steaming Cafe Touba.

Mister self-assured reaches out his hand and grabs a hold of two pieces of bread from the pile.

YEHHHHH!!!!!!

THIS GUY TOOK TWO!!

TWO LOAVES!!!

JESUS CHRIST!!!!

JUST LIKE THAT!!!!

AHHHH!!!

I am screaming in my head.

WHATTT????!!!

I look at the gatekeeper’s face. He is smiling and exchanging words with Mister Confident.

My hunger begins to boil even more belligerently.

I need another loaf of bread.

Jesus Christ I need another loaf.

Mister Confident finishes exchanging greetings and goes to join the celebration.

As he walks away, I can feel my energy diminish. My propensity to act on the unbearable extent of my hunger is apparently, directly proportional to proximity with Mister Confident.

As he walks away, my welling assertiveness ebbs. Now I am left with no externally perceptible dissatisfaction. Just the gnashing agony of internal hunger.

AH!!! WHAT SORT OF ANGUISH IS THIS

The gatekeeper is frowning again. The loaves look so far away now. So distant. So out of reach. Oh my God.

I keep sipping on the coffee, inhaling the aroma as fully as I can, hoping that at least is doing something to assuage my tempestuous hunger.

I keep looking around glumly. The Senegalese chants sound like something from a dream. The smiles and Wolof chatter bouncing about in the air around me all feel like hallucinations.

The one real voice in my head right now, is that of impatient, menacing, inconsiderately vociferous hunger.

Ah. I am dead. I am dead. I am completely dead. I am finished.

In the midst of this delirious surreality, I hear a familiar voice.

Who is that?

I turn around.

Is that Billy Boy?

Is that Billy Boy?

Ah it is Billy Boy!

His gaze connects with mine. A smile spreads out on his face.

Jesus Christ I am so happy to see you Billy Boy. I am so happy to see you.

BILLY BOYYYY!!!!

Memories of our interactions come to the forefront of my mind and infuse me with a feeling of warmth very different from what the fire was providing.

Having coffee in the middle of the island at Espargos, with me marvelling and the astoundingly chasmic language barrier that existed between us.

Hanging out at “Chillout”- an interesting restaurant at Santa Maria- a multi-cultural hub at the southern end of the island.

We shake hands and hug and smile and laugh.

He walks over to the gatekeeper, smiling and laughing and exchanging greetings with him in Wolof.

I like this guy so much. He wears these very interesting trousers that involve a combination of Denim and brightly coloured traditional Senegalese attire. His neck is usually full of very heavy looking Senegalese bead necklaces. He walks with an extremely appealing bounce, stylishly favouring one leg as he cooly drifts through space. I like this guy so much.

A cup is filled with steaming Cafe Touba.

Billy Boy reaches out his hand and grabs a hold of two pieces of bread from the pile.

Wait.

Two.

Two pieces. Of bread.

Billy Boy. Is taking two.

The gatekeeper is immersed in exciting conversation with him.

The loaves feel within reach once again. The capable assertiveness is back to express the clamorous disgruntlement of my rumbling hunger.

Psychological electricity is flowing from Billy Boy right now. This guy’s magnetic field of relievingly reliable self-assuredness is inducing some serious electrical charge in me right now.

I order my right hand to move in the direction of the loaves.

It obeys.

Good. Very good. Very very good.

I can feel the loves in my hand. Jesus they feel so soft. And there is margarine, Jesus Christ. I can almost taste it already.

My hand grabs a hold of one.

Extends that hold to two.

Three? Three loaves Mayowa?

My hand is corresponding with my head.

Three? Three loaves?

Look at you. Look at your big head. Three loaves. Three loaves. In addition to the one you’ve already had.

At someone else’s expense.

You better get back to your apartment and continue grappling with your bellicose AI models. You better go figure out how to finish training your models so you can obtain the second instalment of your consultancy fee from the Spanish Biodiversity NGO, and then you can buy as many loaves as you want.

Okay. Okay. Two loaves it is. Two loaves it is.

The hand is back. Two loaves richer. Alright. This is good. This is very good.

I think the gatekeeper saw me from the corner of his eye. I think I see a slight frown. I think I see it. I’m not quite sure. He is still smiling excitedly with Billy Boy. I’m not sure. I am not really sure.

One loaf is in my mouth already.

Ah! Such relish, Jesus. Ah!

All hail Billy Boy.

All hail Billy Boy the dependable inducer of electrical charge.

All hail Billy Boy the undepletable watershed of self-assurance.

I keep munching voraciously.

All hail Billy Boy.

All hail Billy freaking Boy.

Ah! My body feels relieved of tenseness. The unnerving stress of hunger-induced focus loosens its grip on my consciousness.

Ah! My body feels so calm all of a sudden.

Now I am able to feel the cool breeze of the night.

Hm, I think there are stars in the sky.

Ah, this Senegalese coffee tastes so good.

Hm, now the smiles on the faces of the Senegalese guys at the meeting suddenly feels like a language that makes meaning to me. Now their smiles seem to make sense.

All hail Billy boy.

All hail Billy freaking Boy.

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.