Kong, kong, kong! Kong kong kong!
The loud knocks rattling her door alarm Tia Mamie as they are persistent, sound desperate, and seem to be as unrelenting as the stubborn hailstones of rain on a corrugated roof. An early bird, who rises at five every morning to prepare her pancakes, beans, cassava, fried fish, and assorted vegetables, the early interruption to her daily routine trails a bad scent. It smells fishy like the rotten type of fish that destroys the spirit, unlike the type she prepares like fresh bacalhau, carapau, robalo, or cavala. The unwanted yet familiar feeling of unease reminds her of that early morning when her brother, Oldman, descended on her like the angel of death, to deliver the dreaded news.
‘Tia Mamie! Tia Mamie! Are you up yet?’ A voice adds to the drumming rat-a-tat. Tia Mamie gets up from her bed with fright and suspicion as previous early morning disruptions return to haunt her. As she slips out of her nightgown and puts on a loose tie and dye dress, she tries to put a face to the faintly familiar voice in the tired, jaded manner that just-awakened brains tend to work.
It’s only Maria. Not Oldman, Tia Mamie tells herself. Even though Tia Mamie senses worry in the tone, she realizes that she has become as calm and alert as a leopard before an attack on unsuspecting prey. This revelation relaxes Tia Mamie. Whatever worry Maria has, that would make her bang at the door at half past four in the morning when the cocks have barely started crowing, is something Tia Mamie can handle.
‘This girl!’ She thinks. ‘Can’t she leave whatever is bothering her to sunrise?’ As Tia Mamie makes her way towards the door, she wonders if this is another ploy to get out of the day’s work; excuses from work Maria cooks up in hints, hours before the full-blown request is made, as they pound the beans, boil the cassava, or cook the sauces. Maria always works hard on the days before she brings up an excuse, dropping hints here and there, but she is getting more cunning and desperate, like using customers in her plans. Tia Mamie remembers when a schoolgirl bought fried fish, and as Maria jumped to serve her, the girl asked Maria,
‘Are you the one chosen to lead the procession at the flag-raising ceremony of the CPDS? I saw you at the political rally.’
‘Yes. It’s me. How did you recognise me?’
‘I saw the poster at the school library.’ The schoolgirl had responded so loudly as if she was speaking to Tia Mamie.
‘Flags of the CPDS? A Political rally?’ Tia Mamie had stopped everything she was doing to eyeball Maria’s demeanour for any signs of a plot.
‘Yes. And we have to start early six in the morning on the dot. I—’
‘Why do I have to hear that you will not be coming to work from one of my clients? Since when did my valuable customers become your mouthpiece? I swear that you’ll work on whatever day of that event and I’ll only give you my blessings to join the CPDS ceremony after we close.’ Tia Mamie had extinguished the plot right there as Maria served the schoolgirl.
All of these thoughts race through Tia Mamie’s mind as she rushes to unlatch her door. Her motherly instinct refuses to let her believe Maria is there with the beginnings of another excuse to get the day off. Her motherly instincts, and the paranoia of the times, combine to relay to her that Maria carries an unwanted message that will no doubt turn her day into an unpleasant experience she may never forget. She fumbles and searches and searches then fumbles for her keys, as if she both wants to open and not open the door.
‘What is it, Maria?’
‘It is Obama!’
The girl’s shivers combine excitement and horror that Tia Mamie immediately associates with the news she carries. The brief dash of disgust crossing Maria’s face seems to struggle with some other emotion. This is also not lost to an experienced geriatric like Tia Mamie.
‘Obama?’
‘Yes, President Obama.’
‘Obama? What, where? What in the Lord’s name has happened Maria?’ Tia Mamie cries out. Before you can say Barrack Hussein Obama, all the members of the Dos Santos family, awakened by every word exchanged, vacillate towards Tia Mamie like a confused swarm of bees. Patrice, Catarina, and Salgueira are the first to reach her. Her two daughters, Ana and Eva, follow closely.
‘You have to see it for yourself. Please turn on the TV and tune in to CNN. You have to see it for yourself,’ Maria repeats. The other emotion barely apparent on her face a minute ago confirms its appearance as despondency.
Tia Mamie hardly feels her heavy weight as she pushes past her family in the corridor, past the hanging pictures of Barack that commemorate every year of his first presidential campaign, past the artistic impression of legendary African leaders famous for their freedom fighting and man-of-the-people persona. The way the family makes its way to the sitting room, the way she jostles to get to the TV first, and the way the family shows their concern for Obama, all seem to say that Barack Hussein too was a Dos Santos and not an Obama. Tia Mamie cannot help talking during the brief sprint it takes them to reach the television set.
‘Is he dead? Is Obama dead? Somebody tell me what is going on!? Madre Mia! What is it, Maria?’
‘Tia Mamie, take hold of yourself!’ Salgueira tries to bring some control, as expected of him.
‘Just turn on the wretched TV.’ Maria is adamant they will not hear it from her. Patrice reaches the TV first, and in his excitement, forgets to turn on the cable receiver as he wonders why everything is fuzzy.
‘The dish. The dish. Turn on the dish!’ All the others cry in unison.
‘Where is the remote control?’
When they get to CNN, it is like the image is frozen for the whole family to see. Barack Obama, the president of that beacon of democracy, with Michelle. Beside them, overdressed first ladies with their all-smiling head-of-state husbands even more overdressed than their better halves in shiny suits or African traditional dresses, grinning with forced delight for the historic photo of their lives in the photogenic White House.
The Dos Santos household stares at the screen in mute silence as if their voices have deserted them. No one speaks as they look and look at the man they are as interested in as Barack Hussein Obama. As the camera roves and moves, their eyes widen and narrow until they all become sure that what Maria has seen is what they too are seeing. That it is indeed he, His Excellency with President Barack Obama standing together like this is the start of a beautiful relationship.
Tia Mamie sits down with a pronounced thump as if an arrow pierces through her heart. Something is wrong. Something must be terribly wrong, for she cannot make sense of what she sees. It cannot be. This is not happening. The image from the TV becomes blurred as her eyes fill up. Waves of saltwater gush out of her eyes as if eager to blur her vision and save her from drowning in the unpleasant view.
Everyone talks at the same time but Tia Mamie is dead silent.
‘Look at him. Always in the thick of things.’
‘But why? Why is Obama shaking hands with him? Of all the presidents there, why him?’
‘Keep quiet. He is shaking hands with all of them. Look closely, don’t you see every leader wants a personal picture with him?’
Salgueira is the first to leave the room.
‘I can’t believe this. Tia Mamie, your Obama? Dining with dictators.’
Stunned, the rest of the family stays rooted with eyes glued to the screen. It is as if each is willing the other to say or do something first. They have been in these types of situations before, both worse and less serious than this one, yet the images painted by the TV appear to be one of a kind. Every single member of the family is concerned about the reaction of Tia Mamie, and how her taste buds shall respond to this bitter offering. They want to follow Salgueira out of the room, yet stay frozen, as if any movement they make will actually hurt Tia Mamie.
As CNN moves to the next story, Ana picks up the remote control and searches through the channels to see if she can catch the story again as breaking-news victims do everywhere. She fidgets with the remote control in her hands as if to keep herself busy, as if to buy herself some time to process the new state her family finds themselves thrown into. There is nothing. Soft whispers escape Tia Mamie as if her lips are too heavy and her tongue too limp. She tut-tuts a few words.
‘Tune in to the local TV station.’
Catarina replies that it is not six in the morning yet, so only the national anthem will be playing at this hour. She tries to lighten the mood by reminding the family of how they used to joke that the national anthem is played in the early morning to remind the citizens of their patriotism, and to attempt to sway any dissenter that has woken up early to protest or engage in an action against the state.
‘Do it,’ Tia Mamie insists.
To their surprise and dismay, Tia Mamie is right, the channel is open. In distinct Spanish and Portuguese, the news report on the historic dinner President Barack Obama hosted for African leaders at the White House, is broadcasted as perpetual breaking news. It replays over and over, with images of His Excellency’s golden handshake with Obama intercut into the report every few seconds. From Spanish to Portuguese, from Portuguese to the local languages, and through even the rarest local tongues, via French, then back to Spanish as the cycle repeats itself. The Dos Santos Family take in the sounds and images until they get bored of the repetition. No one says a thing, everyone watches the box on its stand. Tia Mamie seems present, yet absent at the same time.
As dawn breaks over the horizon and the sound of the birds twittering gets louder, the family members slip away to prepare for a new day. Only, it is not any new day. It cannot now be like any other day. Nothing is the same. Everything has changed. The emotions that hover over the family of Alberto Dos Santos, bond the members like the strong chains of a slave ship. Salgueira cares less for politics as he espouses the view ‘damn these politicians, they are all the same but despite this, he feels unease in his stomach where no hangover lies. He shares the pain with his aunty, the grief for his cousin Nelson Dos Santos that remains as fresh as the Atlantic breeze blowing over the city. Ana is already an angry young woman, angry about the entrenched injustices, angry about being a helpless woman in Africa. Sensitive enough to recognize her mother’s devotion to Barack Obama as a mere coping mechanism, she fumes even more at the unexpected turn of events. They should have prepared for it. The family’s history with politicians should have foreshadowed this possibility. Ana too should have been prepared for it. What had happened to Nelson had only heightened her anger, amplifying her pessimistic outlook. Patrice is more concerned with how this news – this news that has not fazed him at all – will affect his dear mother-in-law. It is only his wife Eva that appears to remain calm. After all, the family always tells her she is her father’s daughter, in all his dignity, in the making.
***
Alberto Dos Santos confirmed that he came from a pure stock of freedom fighters on both sides of his lineage, through his consistent actions throughout his eventful life. Where he outstripped his forefathers in their common goal of liberating their people from all oppressive servitude, was in the non-violent approach and ‘honesty at all cost’ mantra he devoted his life to, in order to guarantee the rights and freedom of his people. Alberto insisted, throughout his life, that the resources that nature had deposited on their shores, would not be a curse like elsewhere republic. He was not prepared to make sharing this wealth the ultimate pursuit of their revolution. Rather, he fought for a just and decent life for all in his motherland. Starting as a one-man army he plunged his attention into the labour unions to inform citizens of their rights, instill in them a strong sense of justice, and uphold values on what to live for and what to die for. His charming oratory style eventually won over scores of dissidents to side with him. Tia Mamie was always by her husband’s side, listening in awe, debating with him, and expressing her own opinion on issues, before surrendering to the power of the love they shared. That Alberto Dos Santos would die poor and upright was always in the cards. That he would end up a satisfied martyr who continues to flame the Dos Santos legacy was a sign that his eventful life certified at its end.
When the investigation of his fatal “accident” came to naught, Tia Mamie withheld herself, having used the law to the fullest stretch. That was what Alberto Dos Santos would have demanded of her. And that was what the whole Dos Santos family, especially Nelson Dos Santos, demanded of her: Use the law and nothing but the law, then leave it at that. When what happened to Nelson and other promising youths happened, she used the full length of the law’s arm to pursue justice. Justice never came by, and she and the rest of the family withheld. After all, that was what her husband Alberto swore by, what her son Nelson lived for, and what Barack would have wanted.
And now this. And today this. It is the dawn of a new day.
***
The family sneaks away from the glaring TV one by one, leaving Tia Mamie rooted to the spot where she stands. Her strength and will to move, seem to have deserted her. She had prayed to avoid a day like this when dreams shatter like glass, and hope evaporates like some long, lost memory. How will she manage her chores today? She wonders. The ground beneath her which was so dependable seems to suddenly become shaky like it was threatening to swallow and digest her towards a final resting place.
Patrice lays an arm around Tia Mamie as he leaves, to negotiate her out of her stillness that appears to him like a sanctuary she was in. He pleads with her to go back to her bed.
‘Lie down for a while.’ Patrice says to her. ‘Come with me and go lie down for some time.’
‘No!’ Comes the rapid response. ‘I must get to the kitchen. I’m already late.’ Her voice feels far, her eyes distant.
‘You do not have to do any heavy work today. Leave it to the girls.’
‘Why? Is something wrong with me today? What has changed Patrice? Tell me what has changed. Yes, you can’t say anything because nothing has changed. So leave me to my work. I have hungry customers to satisfy. Neither the fish nor the beans will prepare or pound themselves. I have pancakes to fry, cassava to fry, sweet potatoes to boil, tea and coffee to brew.’
Tia Mamie enters her kitchen to find the girls at work, with Maria at the fish station and Isabel soaking the peeled cassava. She throws instructions across the kitchen like it is just another day of work. She directs their actions and picks up the mortar and pestle to begin her pounding. She moves to the massive container of pancake dough and sprinkles icing sugar on the soft dry mixture before she grabs two handfuls of it and rolls it out like a blanket to begin the kneading. She reaches out for another portion of the dough that appears to come to life and peer at her like puzzled kittens disturbed from daytime sleep. She starts to work on the dough. The images from the dawn sweep over her as Nelson enters her thoughts. She works on the dough. Obama enters her thoughts. She works on the dough. The event works on her. The tragedy of time grasps her. Tia Mamie stops. She starts again and works on the dough. She feels tired as if the dough is working on her. Tia Mamie stops again. Her eyes travel across her kitchen shelves as she tries to make sense of her day. Maria starts to fry the pounded beans. Catarina simmers the onions and garlic paste. Tia Mamie looks around as if lost. She looks at the blazing fire, the heaps of peeled vegetables, the bottles of vinegar and sauces, and the tiny containers of spices. Basil, chives, cinnamon. Cinnamon. The sight of cinnamon takes Tia Mamie back to happier times that now seem as distant as her youth. As the whiff of these memories sets once more, a smile almost breaks from her face. Returning to the dough, Tia Mamie realises it is wetter than usual at the same time she feels that her face is wet with tears. The tears pour out with vigour as she bends over her dough, working it and willing the memories away with each knead.
The memory that the sight of cinnamon on the shelf triggers clings to her like food wrapping. That day. Nelson’s smile, the customers arguing, The TV out in front of the joint, Obama’s inauguration, the smiles, Michelle Obama, the girls labeling Michelle ‘lucky woman, full of fortune’. Nelson, her Nelson, having none of that, turning down the TV volume, lecturing to ‘not-again’ groans from customers who want to watch the action. Nelson persevering, outlining how every man’s success is on the back of a sacrificing woman, how Africans must stop attributing luck to a woman with a successful partner, and how Barack might have never been the Barack we are blessed with without the support and partnership of Michelle, nor the love and inspiration of his mother. How many sons have become a source of hope for their people as a result of their mothers, grandmothers, and women folks’ ultimate guidance and sacrifice? As he gave examples and illustrations to make his case, the clients began to nod in agreement and the girls thundered applause and cheers. Tia Mamie could not stop clapping her cinnamon-soaked hands over her pancake mix bowl in proud delight. The unexpected cinnamon taste delighted the customers when the fried pancakes made the rounds and they came to call Obama’s inauguration day ‘Cinnamon Day’ at the Nyerere Machel Africafé. At this popular food joint, where politics and delicacies are devoured in good sport, where opposing views are debated in a democratic spirit and woeful inadequacies of the nation discussed without fear, the legend of ‘Cinnamon Day’ became a tale that spread far and wide all over Malabo to add to the allure of Tia Mamie’s food.
Tia Mamie snaps out of her daydreams, but the tears refuse to cease. She sits by the fire and sets the first handful of soggy dough into the frying pan. With tears and grief, she dips helpings of the pancake dough into a fiery frying pan the size of a satellite dish. She tries to block the sickening memories brought on by the early morning events from her mind, but mysterious routes and unexpected tracks usher in the event in different forms and shades, in diverse tones and tastes, in varied scents and smells, to the point it appears to her that the nickname for shock was forged from culinary delights.
Tia Mamie fights on despite the gate-crash to her subconscious, and busies herself with the food preparations. Yet the early-morning moment fights back like a pest desperate to establish a new colony in her conscience. Her attempts to think past the CNN story prove futile. Whatever word comes to her mind, wherever her eyes look, she cannot escape it. The images from the TV find a way to claw back into her. Sugar and spice? Greet the sweet new day. A handful of nutmeg? Historic handshake. How in one handshake between Barack, my Barack! And H.E —he who must not be named in my household! How one handshake between hope and hate, between ideal and injustice, was a slap in her face. She felt like she had been punched in the gut, and it is destroying the glimmer of resilience she had banked on to help her finally rebuild her life piece by piece.
Tia Mamie has weathered many storms in different shades with her husband, her family, and her people. She lives for the emancipation of the rights of her people. Whenever her spirit had faltered before, Nelson would urge her not to waver. Nelson would tell her stories of his heroes of times past and epochs present, remind her of her heroes, male and female in Africa and beyond, in politics and the arts. Likewise when he too wavered, when the fight against tyranny became unbearable, she would console him and his colleagues, and encourage them to keep up the noble struggle of fighting despotic power with persistence, discipline, and a peaceful approach.
And today this.
Nothing has changed yet nothing will ever be the same again in her home. This act happening in a faraway land has landed a startling blow to her right within the interiors of her home. Yes, an image relayed from afar in a different continent has triggered a reckoning in her home at a moment when she thought she was winning the grieving game. It is a setback unforeseen that sets her back after all the effort to recover from the melancholy of the times. After all the care and will to rebuild, after all the gradual steps to move on, after, Nelson. It appears to her that everything has changed and everything shall stay the same to keep her imprisoned in the pain of her loss.
She works, she cries and she cries as she works. The tears become a part of the preparations as if it was an ingredient to spice up the pancake mixture. Grief is a thing with diverse shades, she has long understood, but today she realises that when betrayal is combined with grief, the taste is not bitter like cola nuts, not sour like lime, and neither bittersweet like the soursop sorbet she prepares for special occasions. Grief tinged with a sense of betrayal is a pungent, scalding heat like the hottest chili. She blinks as she wipes her brow. She holds back the sounds as her insides weld up again, and memories of all she lost flood her once more. Her hands white with the flour mixture, catch the saltwater dripping from her eyes like pearls from a broken necklace. She dips the soggy dough mix into the frying pan once more.
Tia Mamie battles to get out of this state of mind and shakes her body and head like she wants to shake off the feeling. As if to confirm her resolve, she unties and reties her wraparound tight around her waist. She plunges her senses into the food before her and the work that has to be finished before the first customers start approaching the Nyerere Machel Africafé.
‘I can get through this. I’ve been through worse. I can get through this.’
She moves with nifty footwork around her spacious kitchen to finish the food preparations with her team of girls. Onions sweat, beans grounded in black pepper, garlic, and coriander fry in furious vegetable oil to transform into tanned crunchy balls. Dough slides from each handful set in the hot pan, and separates in the bubble of the hot oil, as each piece turns brown. Local tea leaves soak in bunches, salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley marinated in a creamy yellow and white mixture of something secret, and paint the air with a pungent scent, while fish is laid out in neat layers ready to meet new claimants. Chipped cassava in neat strips is arranged in serving baskets alongside plates of sweet potato salad and bowls of pepper sauce the size of small cups. She folds all the pictures and posters of Obama she has hanging around the interior of her home and piles them on top of the newspapers in the Café that they use to wrap the beans and fish with. Maria attempts to bring down the two biggest portraits of Barack hanging at the front of the café but Tia Mamie stops her in her tracks and tells her to leave them hanging.
In record time surprising to the girls, Tia Mamie carves out meals fit for kings as befits her high standards for her customary customers. The girls help her to set out the dishes and the hot food in a beautiful decoration. Tia Mamie marvels at the mysterious strength of the human spirit to come through in the face of unexpected adversity. She considers and muses on the various foodstuffs and the savoury and sweet ingredients that combine in contrasting tastes and colours, to produce a series of delicacies common to the many mouths of diverse hues, values, and beliefs. She wonders that just as different foodstuffs combine to make memorable dishes, just as never-before-tried mixtures are combined to produce new popular meals, that is how unique people with a range of political views and contrasting values, should be able to live together in vibrant, open societies. Perhaps this is the lesson she shall take with her from this experience.
When the first early customers arrive at the Nyerere Machel Africafé, Tia Mamie’s eyes appear dry and she forces herself to greet them with the usual pleasantries and a cheerful face. After all, a dependable businesswoman must not disappoint her clientele. The word disappoint lingers and unleashes the emotions recently trapped and controlled in a small, cold back room in her mind. ‘Disappoint’ triggers Tia Mamie to yet again reflect on the many forms of betrayal, especially where the dirt of politics meets the fleeting weightlessness of loyalty, especially where leadership and rule and rule and leadership are involved. She wonders how politicians and rulers are prone to disappoint their adoring masses from the times of the ancient world to the modern day. She remembers Julius Caesar of ancient Rome from some third-party narration she heard from either Nelson, her late husband, or some other acquaintance, and how Caesar was betrayed by Brutus.
As Tia Mamie serves her ever-growing mass of customers, she ponders on the nature of betrayal in the battle for glory and lust for leadership. How loyalty to long-held values can swiftly vanish or shapeshift into betrayal in the long, long road to fulfill political ambition. Like the tasty dishes she serves, the world we live in now is a hotchpotch of political ruthlessness, spiced with tyranny and the neglect of morals.
Tia Mamie realises a solemnness in many of her customers that reminds her of the week after Nelson passed. The crowded lull and the high demand of hands for the morning dishes do not, for once, make her happy. They are here, she thinks, to see how I will react. They are here to see if I saw. They are here to get a story to tell and retell. A customer, brave and tactless, demands food, and thoughtlessly asks whether Tia Mamie has seen the news of their leader’s landmark coup at the Washington Summit for African Leaders. The customer who asks does not know that Tia Mamie has seen a lot if not all. He does not know that no matter how Tia Mamie wakes up, or whatever the bitterness, grief, or happiness in her household, Tia Mamie is always at her professional best to meet her customers in the world they share as a country, and to serve them. To serve, to serve, to serve as a totem she lives by just as she expects others who lay a claim to the crown to also live by it. But even more importantly, the customer does not know how prepared to bounce back Tia Mamie’s spirit is, whenever it is confronted with adversity. The surrounding customers hold their breath in anticipation of her response.
Tia Mamie’s only response is to walk across the small hall and yank the two large poster-sized calendars of the smiling number 44 decorating the walls above the chop tables. Tia Mamie says nothing as everyone watches. In three swift movements, she sends the posters of a smiling Barack to join the logs and cinder fueling the frying pans. She says nothing as the posters burn, as the pancakes are served, and as some customers react like delirious chameleons. Do they agree with Tia Mamie, or is their leader hard done by? Should the citizens mourn and not celebrate this historic moment of acceptance by a democratic giant, despite the violations of citizens’ rights in their Republic, and the silencing of promising voices like Nelson’s? A series of burps and slurps start-up as the customers return to their meals, but no other sound is heard as if an astonishing silence has seized the room.
More beans and cassava are ordered, more fish are eaten, and more pancakes are served, as Tia Mamie watches the last of the posters turn to ash. In the blackening eyes of Barack, she sees Nelson’s face. Her only son who so resembled Obama in features and philosophy. Since she barely understands English, Nelson was the one who used to explain Barack’s speeches to her during his first campaign. Nelson was adamant that Obama was different, and thus he filled in all the details to convince his mother and her many customers, who needed little convincing that change is always around the corner. Her Café became a site for “Baracknews”. She danced when he won the election. She gave out free meals during the inauguration. And when he visited Africa for the first time, she beamed with satisfaction and would have made the trip to the closest country he visited, if it was not for the tragedy of Nelson. She can still see his beautiful smile and gentle manners. There is not a day that goes by without a thought of Nelson invading her soul.
When Nelson was gunned down by men in uniform for protesting student rights, Obama became her son. She saw Nelson in him and visualized her son’s interrupted future in every step of Barack’s. Whilst some of her customers wondered at Barack’s refusal to visit undemocratic African countries during his tour of Africa, Tia Mamie nodded in agreement. This was what she would have expected of her son. As the pain of Nelson’s loss persisted, aggravated by the lack of progress in bringing the soldiers to justice, bigger atrocities erased the urgency of her grief.
At first, Tia Mamie thought Nelson loved Barack since everyone called him Obama due to the resemblance, and that just like many celebrity lookalikes grow to love their doppelgangers, so was the case with her son. Then she realized that Nelson, like her countrymen, saw hope in Barack’s struggles, and that they too could overcome mountains of resistance to finally triumph. And thus she grew to mimic their love and admiration of Barack. When her son was lost for good, she continued to nurse his memory through Barack. As long as Obama glowed, Nelson would shine.
And today, this. ‘Até tu, Obama?’
Today, every gesture of a customer, every action of the crowd in her food joint, stirs recurring emotions and memories running through her. Memories of happier days, of food, prepared and dished, of Nelson well dressed and happy, tear through her. Then the memories of the days of end, the end of days of first her husband, then her only son. The funerals, the rites, the rituals, the persistent void. They hit her and she relives without any relief, only grief in place of joy, despair in place of euphoria. She serves, she dishes, and she watches the warmth of her customers as they eat to their fill. Her silence echoes against her loud thoughts. She hears not the girls’ complaints of too many customers, she minds not the sombre mood in her food joint. Her response to all this is a remark she repeats to herself like a record on a loop, under her breath, heard by none bar herself.
‘Até tu, Obama?’
Today, Nelson and Obama have dealt a double blow to her psyche. She prefers disappointment over the betrayal. Linked though they are, each of them evokes different emotions. Her eternal heroes are the villains of this drama. The remark plays on within her. Shakespeare, she hardly knows, Caesar she faintly remembers, yet the words that recur in her mind’s voice become a lullaby:
‘Até tu, Obama?’
As the customers continue to pile into the Nyerere Machel Africafé to get their daily dose of Tia Mamie’s welcoming food, the hecklers hold back, her barrackers desist, while the critics sympathise with the tragedy.
And no one complains of the excess salt in the pancakes.
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