Eating African

I wrote something once in a story called, “American Food,” about a U.S. diplomat and his eating habits while traveling in the West African bush with an African biologist.

The pair were guests of a village chief who fed them goat meat and rice. “The chief’s wife served the food hot, spread out on a large metal plate. She soaked the rice in a dark tomato sauce with bits of meat.” What my American character didn’t realize and was not prepared for was that village meals are taken by hand, literally. There is a specific rhythm to the eating: The washing of the hands and manipulating the food, rolling the rice and meat in the fingers, tamping it with the thumb to form a fine ball before popping it neatly in the mouth without spilling a single precious grain. My story goes on. “They sat on mats arranged around the plate…The American dug in with all ten fingers, spilling rice and meat in the dirt as he ate, while Keita (the biologist) and the chief ate cleanly with the right hand, neatly sucking the balls of food off their fingertips and into their mouths. The chief smiled at the American and in his own language called for his wife to bring a spoon. When she came, the American politely waved it away. ‘No, no,’ he said in English. ‘I’ll eat like everyone else.’

Keita laughed as the American continued spilling his food. ‘That’s not like everyone else,’ he said. ‘Take the spoon.’”

* * *

I am the American in the scene. Or, at least, I am present in his eating habits. I love African food and the spicy, salty and visceral taste the tongue does not easily forget. I love the way meals are prepared over an open fire, brought straight from the earth and from the herd. Nothing is taken for granted. In the village there are no refrigerated piles of shrink-wrapped meat on little Styrofoam trays, labeled by type of animal or animal part: chicken breasts, lamb chops, or farm-grown Atlantic salmon. You take one and the next day there is always lots more, right there where you found it before.

But food does not present itself that way in Africa, with that kind of uniform consistence. Sometimes despite the Africans’ best efforts, the seeds fail with disease or drought and the food is gone. So people watch over food from the seed. They watch it grow, nurture it, protect it, and gather it by hand. They prepare the food and watch it cook. People live and work with food at all different stages until it is eaten.

And oh the salty taste—I love it. In the heat of Africa, where one never stops sweating, salt is necessary and tastes fine and tart, like life. Still, I after years on the continent never got completely used to eating with my hands. Now, I don’t bother trying. I ask for a spoon first. I cannot afford to lose a morsel and I don’t want people to see me dropping food as if I don’t care.