I
love literature for its many narrative devices and the satisfaction
and instruction these afford. I read and reread metaphysical poetry,
not so much for its recondite imagery — appealing as that is —
but for its conceits, its extended metaphors. I especially like
contrast for its capacity to vivify narratives with opposing,
sometimes shocking elements.
This
is why I love America too — because it contrasts so sharply
with Africa. I am not thinking of its fabled wealth. I am not even
thinking of the beauty of its democracy and institutions and how they
inimitably contrast with the heinously ugly and failed systems in my
continent. No, I’m rather thinking of how America wastes food!.
Many
Africans look at Americans and shrug at the obesity they see
everywhere in babies as well as in the aged. Similarly, “skinny”
is one adjective Americans favor in qualifying Africans. On arriving
here, the immigration officer who checked my papers must have thought
I was hard of hearing because I was so absorbed by his massive
stature that I could barely get myself together to answer his
questions.
I
had read and heard about Goliath from childhood, but never had one
stood before my very eyes! The fellow not only had the towering
majesty of a moving oak tree, but also to my mind, rocked and swayed
like an ocean liner in a storm, so I stared and drooled. I guess
with my skin stretched taut on my bones, I must have, in turn,
impressed him as some mummified mosquito. That’s possibly why
he took time interviewing me.
I
love America. It matters nothing that she sorely grieves me when I
see the sheer volume of food she dumps daily. For those who do not
have my kind of background and the impact fights over food had on me
as a child, it is difficult to remotely understand why throwing away
leftovers is so irksome to me.
My
shock at the quantity of food Americans throw away came quite early
when I arrived here. Every time I saw food being dumped, I thought of
what people back home, so miserable they scavenged from landfills and
dive into refuse heaps to salvage whatever they could find to help
their rumbling stomachs, could do with such waste. I also recall a
story Father was so fond of telling.
His
elder brother, Uncle Thompson, upon landing a teaching job in a city,
invited our grandfather over. As his visitor watched, he dressed a
piece of fish, taking care to remove the head and fins before using
it to cook soup for him. The old man was so unimpressed at his son’s
extravagance that instead of a blessing he left with anger and a
warning that if the son continued with such wastefulness, he would
never proper!
On
arriving here, a friend whose family has done more to help me get
along in life than all the people I have known before now invited me
home. Though he and his family try to live humbly so they could
consecrate and help the underprivileged, merely looking at the
sumptuous table spread before me, I caught a vision of what the
Psalmist meant when he praised his creator for preparing a bounteous
table before him!
There
was no anointing my head with oil that day, in the literal sense of
the word to be sure, but there was plenty of running over! My eyes
nearly popped from their sockets while my mouth watered over like
Pavlov’s dog at the sound of a bell summoning it to its
experimental meal. Called to say the prayers, I did so hurriedly.
Since
it was a buffet, I served myself a bit too generously. I was glad my
wife was not there to shoot me some poisonous looks as she often does
when I betray what she calls my “lack of class.” (Her
growing up circumstance was somewhat not as slender as mine, so I
don’t hold it against her when she feels like bragging about
class.)
Sitting
down, I fell on the food with gusto. No sooner had I scooped the food
into my mouth than I realized it tasted so different. The food
despite its sweet aroma was shockingly bland!
It
was something I could not readily understand. My mind went back to my
high school days. I had learned in history class that the White man
dared the battering seas and blasting winds to scour our coasts for
spices before he discovered that my people had something more
rewarding to offer him — trade in human beings.
I
tried to mask my disappointment and pushed the food down my throat
much as I could. But my host would not buy my pretense. A seasoned
critic and reader of human conduct, he must have noticed how I rolled
the food over in my mouth and tried to force it down.
He
apologized for the blandness of the food and suggested that I didn’t
have to finish off what was on my plate if I didn’t like it. I
nodded and tried to assure him that everything was okay, mindful that
in my childhood the one thing my parents could not stand was to waste
food. I guess the Jamaican proverb “Instead of food to waste
let belly burst” took its provenance from Africa.
But
my host was right. In my culture our food is usually so peppered that
it could blow the roof off any mouth not used to our ways. Pepper is
just one of the hot spices we are exposed to quite early in life.
One
of the hottest goes by the praise name, “The lovely one with a
deadly temper.” This particular pepper has a silky, rosy and
glossy appearance but once ingested, it stings like an irate
scorpion. Another characteristic that belies its murderous power is
its fragrance. It never fails to appeal even from a distance wherever
it is ground to flavor foods.
I
get the impression that in addition to its culinary value, this
pepper also served a much more economic purpose. I suspect our mother
favored this particular pepper in order to teach us early to
discipline our rather voracious appetites — especially given
the fact that food was not always that easy to come by. If she made
eating such a struggle, she could dissuade us from gorging ourselves
at the expense of our not-so-fast-eating siblings.
Our
parents had eight kids, and when scores of extended family hangers-on
were added to that, the result was constant fights over food and bad
memories.
I
remember growing up with the impression that adults never felt the
pangs of hunger. That was because at food time, our parents often
stood by making sure we did not pluck out each other’s eyes as
we struggled to outdo the other in speed and quantity of food we
gulped down. When we were done, they would put the plates to their
tongues and lick them dry. So overly peppering the food served to
slow us down though we soon mastered that and learned to stay on top
of it!
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.