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A party in Uganda on Jesus’ birthday

On Christmas night, my husband woke up from his Hennessy stupor and the football games on TV and took me to our friend David’s house for Christmas. I had a very nice time there because I sat next to David’s father at the table and had a full view of the kitchen and living room which were inhabited by many of his relatives.

I have learned since I got married that skin color in and of itself is not a culture. As an American, I’ve had a pretty skewed and limited view of race. Meeting so many Africans from different nations has exposed me to a deeper way of seeing people. I can no longer say “black people…” in general because I have experienced so many different cultures and individuals from all over Africa. Color is such a small part since everyone has color.

David and his father have made their wealth in California by taking full advantage of the real estate market. Instead, David’s father told me that there are no mortgages in Uganda. He told me that with $20,000 I or anyone could go to Uganda, build a house in the countryside and live off the land. This immediately created the germ of a fantasy in my mind.

This image of abundance was fueled by the easy grace this family had for each other and the guests they welcomed into their home for Christmas. David’s sister welcomed the new children born this year who were experiencing their first Christmas. We applauded them and gave them special attention to make it memorable. A beautiful woman was asked to pray and she led us all in a powerful prayer that she dedicated the occasion to Jesus Christ because it is her birthday and asked for her blessing on the food.

The food was not an ostentatious affair, as I would have imagined a typical wealthy American family would present. Instead, it was a lavish party of simplicity. Each person had as much as they wanted. There was so much food that not even the sixty people who attended could finish it. There was kale, yellow squash, chicken stew, yucca (which I tried for the first time), lentils, beans, peas, plain yogurt, plantains, biscuits, pork, Brussels sprouts, long grain rice with vegetables, and a ice cream fruits

My husband, watching the football game, growled at me to bring him a plate. But since he was sitting next to David’s father and enjoying the conversations of the people who loved both this man and his patriarch, he didn’t want to give up my seat.

I eat certain things with my hands, like chicken on the bone and hamburgers. I admit that when I’m alone I eat any kind of food with my hands. In college, while working as a dancer named Sheba, I met the youngest resident of the University Medical Center, a tall and talented Ethiopian named Ted. He cooked for me and took me out to Zemam’s in Tucson, Arizona, on Broadway. Ethiopian food has a special flatbread with which other foods are collected. So I’m used to the idea of ​​eating with your hands. Nigerian meals often include a mushy, uncooked “bread” that is eaten by hand. But before last night I had never seen another woman eat all of her food with her hands. He was very liberating. For a moment I realized how many complexes I have about the simple human experience of eating. He brought handfuls of food to his mouth with grace and joy. He took bits of food from his father’s plate. When other plates were being cleared, he would return them to the table if they had a meal he liked. Although it was quite round.

I could have stayed up all night absorbing the faces of beautiful children alternately tugging at their mothers and then their fathers. I looked at the newborn baby, a boy just six days old with his first wavy, soft hair. The young women were so well dressed, enviably slim with flawless skin and impeccable braids and weaves. Some people looked like Ted Gedebou, tall, thin, with dark eyes and sharp profiles. Other people had flat Asian eyelids even though they were obviously African. Young people clustered around the beer cooler, and older singles had seemingly serious conversations at the bar as they drank their hard liquor.

Men and women with small children did not drink and left early. I was disappointed when my husband declared that it was time for us to leave as well. My husband and David walked out ahead of me trying to talk business without me. They were talking about us buying one of David’s houses. My husband was lying to David, acting like the deal was already underway. His eyes were blank and he was laughing, his hyena laughed. There was a group of men my age on the porch dressed in velvet jackets and designer shirts. They stole those few moments of my husband’s pretense at the business to beg me to stay, which made me blush. I stammered, “The car is parked on red,” and jogged away from his voices saying, “Let him go. Stay.”

My husband yelled at me on the way home when I asked about a possible home purchase. “Let me think, bitch. I will never make a decision that is bad for us.” He’s trying to assert his masculinity because he was intimidated by David, maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t care about him. I had seeds of abundance planted in my imagination. A million dreams of Africa, love and family filled my consciousness. I opened the window and saw the moon as the Cheshire cat smile and then I started laughing at my husband. I laughed loud and long in a forced laugh.

I feel deflated when I think of myself laughing at someone else like that. I’m not a hysterical hyena. I am a lioness Carrion hyenas. Lionesses reign in abundance and strength. I promised myself that I would never use that silly tactic to protect myself in the future. I will remain calm in the face of his rude swearing, his rude insults, his cruel put-downs because now he will make this short time with him more bearable and free me of any guilt when I leave him.

After all, I can control the words I say despite the adrenaline rush of fear when he curses me. He is really cursing his ex-wives, his ex-girlfriends who betrayed him and crushed his ego. He has nothing to do with me. But I can’t control the shudder that makes me jump six feet back every time he tries to touch me.

Current Reading: The Soul of a New Cuisine: A Discovery of the Foods and Flavors of Africa
by Marcus Samuelson

December 26, 2006 – Tuesday