As the Spring season was getting fully underway, I could see all the signs from my small backyard garden that the year is most likely going to be one of bountiful harvest. The strawberries were at their peak and the Russian Kales and Dandelions were ready for the first picking. The neighbors' trees had been hanging over the back part of the small garden and thereby making it difficult to grow anything in the back part. I had spent the weekend cutting down the branches obstructing the sun but I was forced to take a break on the third Saturday for a good cause. Anne Hrrison had invited me to participate at the ribbon cutting ceremony to officially open Simple Gifts Community Garden at its new location. I had been a member of that garden going back to 2008. In fact, some of the strawberries and mint I was growing in my backyard came from the first site of the garden off of Highway 55. I did not have to think twice before accepting Ann’s request. It was not the first event I had done at the garden and I always appreciate any opportunity to share with my community. But when I checked my calendar I realized that I had another event to attend later that afternoon. Since our community garden is about 20 minutes away from Cary Theater where the afternoon program was being held, I figured I would be able to make it to both events.
I therefore showed up at the community garden with everything ready to make sure that I will be there for the shortest time possible without compromising the quality of my message and flavors. The plan was to give a brief talk as I shared a recipe from my cuisine.
While the community garden had moved a few minutes further than the previous location, it had moved from one main entrance to our neighborhood to the other main entrance on Tingen Street. I arrived at the community garden just as the official program was getting underway. The garden was right off the street and it was almost a replica of the first garden. The same old fence had been erected and the beautiful tiny shed with a steep roof and colorful decorations on the side was the sole building on the slightly inclined piece of land at the very end of Tingen Road. The cars had been parked on both sides down the winding road like a jigsaw puzzle and were getting longer as more and more people showed up. My station was set up to the right of the entrance, right next to the power station where I could get power without the need of an extension cord. Two assistants helped to set up the station quickly in order that we could be all set before the program started. I headed to the main entrance of the community garden where the guest of honor was scheduled to cut the ribbon. There were about 50 to 60 people present and I quickly noticed that there were only two people of African descent. The community garden has always been largely caucasian but it has always attracted a few more people of color than were present. As I waited for the program to start, I had a few minutes to catch up with members of the garden I had not seen in a while. The garden had been inactive for a few years following the sale of the land where it was first established. The ribbon cutting program was simple and straightforward and did not take much time. It was during the ribbon cutting that I noticed that the other person of color in the crowd was actually the town’s mayor. I had never met him before. He was casually dressed, with a pair of jeans and a colorful shirt that was untucked. But it was his shoes that really caught my attention. He had some golden boots that were glittering in the Spring morning sun from afar.
The brief remarks were made by Anne, and his assistant before the ribbon was cut and the program brought to an end with a prayer from the pastor of the local church where most of the members of the garden worship. As I walked back to my station which was about 20 meters from the entrance, I ran into the pastor whom I had heard Ann Harrison talk about many times. I introduced myself and remarked that it was a pleasure to see a pastor at a garden because the Christianity doctrine is based on the error of wrong eating. I continued to offer the same challenge I offer to most preachers concerning the idea of having a resident chef who deals with food literacy for the congregation. It is the only way to avoid the repeat of a serious religious problem which has caused much pain to people all over the world, regardless of their religious affiliation. Though I did not have enough time to elaborate, I was thinking about the amount of trauma that indigenous people have had to suffer as a result of the simple idea of an original sin. As I walked away, I could hear the pastor saying that she had never heard anyone put the matters in that way before. I stood by the station as I announced that I would be starting my program in about five minutes.
True to my word, the people assembled in front of the station and attentively listened to my words with anticipation. I had enough stuff on the table to raise the curiosity of most people. But as I started my speaking, I thought about how odd it was that an African chef was speaking in front of an almost exclusively caucasian group of gardeners. It could be that the two men of African descent were probably more known both locally and internationally than the average person in attendance. It was equally interesting, considering the history of Apex town that mayor Jacques was in a position of political authority while I was in a position of authority in food literacy. As I looked at the crowd brimming with the bright sun of Spring, my mind quickly scanned the treacherous history that Africans have endured in the South over the centuries. It was a major cause of the trauma I was about to speak about. But that history too was replete with success stories of heroic triumph, especially in matters of justice. Fewer stories could easily capture that complex history than a street that was on the exact opposite of the street we were on. The Simple Garden Community Garden was on the left side of the end of Tingen Road, a street that starts from Salem street about two to three miles away. At the intersection of Salem and Tingen is a street that captures this complexity. That street is currently named Justice Heights and it has had that name for less than five years. That street leads to what was the African American part of town and it is the neighborhood where Mayor Jacques grew up. The street’s former name was Lynch Street. Who in their right mind would think that it was a great idea to name a street lynch?
It wasn’t hard for me to make a case for the need of an overhaul of our approach to food. I could feel the weight under my shoulders as I knew that the topic I was discussing was one that required more time than I could afford for what was a fairly small program. So I started out by lying that I would only speak for about five minutes, knowing very well that it was practically impossible to even scratch the surface about such a complex problem and one without set procedures for analysis. Every statement I made seemed like a vocabulary. If the pastor herself had never heard that the consumption of bad food was at the center of her faith, I had my work cut out for me. I still took a stab at reaching as many people as I could by stretching the five minutes to the limit without causing another sin. I have to admit, that while it was an easy case to make, it was still a difficult and emotional task. I then bribed the attendees with a sumptuous meal that symbolized what just food could look like. I could see the spirits in the crowd lift up as they tasted Black Eyed Peas dish served with an eclectic salad made with tropical fruits of mangoes, combined with apples, pears, beets and watermelon radish. It was a wide spectrum flavor and a great way to conclude my presentation. I also served a tea made of holy basil, hibiscus flowers, fresh lemon and ginger. Everything was well choreographed to align with the message. I continued to emphasize my message as I prepared the food and also as I served.
One of the ways in which I established how well the message sunk was by how many people come back for seconds. Though I had more than enough for the number of people present, we ran out of food as well as the tea. I felt a sense of relief looking at the empty pots and the smiling faces of those hanging around the station. One of those people was Mayor Jacques. He introduced himself and gave me positive feedback about what he had tasted. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet up and discuss ways in which we could improve the level of food literacy and justice in the community. It was time for me to head out and I requested my assistants to help me load my tools of trade. I was off to the next appointment. But the idea of trauma could not be left behind. I drove past all the cars tightly packed on each side of Tingen Street.
I headed straight to the Home Is Distant Shore Film Festival in Cary, the next town over. I have been attending the festival now for a while and even participated on the panel last year. This year was the best of all the ones I have attended. Interestingly, the last and most impactful of the features was a documentary about Chef Adegnimika Carrena from Benin. The amazing documentary was followed by a panel of local African and African American women that was moderated by an equally powerful fashionista Ciata Kromah from Liberia. It was as if it was a dream. I sat through the whole documentary wondering if I was dreaming. The main feature in the documentary was about the life of chef Adegnimika from her first ten years in her life in Benin to the being adopted soon after her father passed and the trauma of living away from home. That topic of trauma is what I have been writing and speaking about as the main topic for this year and next year. As the panel started, I looked at the three four ladies seated on stage with the banner in as the backdrop with the title of “Borders of Belonging: Stories of Immigration and Identity. Four countries of regions were represented: Ghana, Benin, Liberia and the American South. I looked at Ciata Kromah and chef Adegnimika and they were both dressed in fabulous outfits with orange or bright yellow that reminded me of the sun. I too had a bright orange shirt. All this reminded me of the golden shoes that mayor Jacques was wearing that morning. It occurred to me that the two colors dominated the men in the morning and the women in the afternoon.
My friend Aby Rao put on one of the best selection of short films since I have been attending this Festival. Aby and I share an interest in community activism and once tried to have a food show at the same theater where the message I would be sharing on stage was equally reflected in the flavors that the guests would be tasting. It was a brilliant idea but the logistics of the food preparation made it difficult to execute.
Soon after our meeting with Cary Theater, Cary Park reached out to me with an interest in doing a food event at their wonderful location. It took quite a bit of going back and forth but we finally agreed on doing a presentation around food and pollination.
So when I showed up at Cary Theater from an earlier talk that morning, I had all sorts of ideas swirling in my head from my collaboration with Aby Rao to the complexities of living in exile as an African. But the predominant idea was the symbolism of the golden shoes that the mayor of my town, mayor Jacques Gilbert, had been wearing during the Simple Gifts Community Garden I had just left. Ann Harrison, the garden manager, had invited me to be part of the program. The mayor was the chief guest and therefore had the honor of cutting the ribbon. Mayor Jacques is an African American in a town that is 74% Caucasian and 9% African American. Only the mayor and I were of African descent. A lot of ideas were flowing in my head but that is a story for another day. Yet I could not miss the ironies of the opportunities and challenges that we face as a people in terms of the historical trauma we face as a people, and by extension as a country and globe.
Upon entering the theater, I noticed Ciata Kromah seated at the end of one row with bright African fabric with yellow as the dominant color. Later on I ran into chef Ade who also had similarly bright colors. Chef Ade and I knew each other but had never met before. We had much in common and shared a deep interest in African food and food justice. It was therefore a big surprise when I learned that a short documentary about her life was the main feature. In the documentary she too raised the same issue I had raised at the community garden.
Ciata Kromah moderated a panel of three African and African American chefs in the region. It was a truly emotional scene for me. There were three African countries of Benin, Ghana and Liberia in addition to the American South represented in the panel. Those places represent a significant sample of regions that were significantly affected by the history of enslavement. Ghana was once called the Gold Coast for its enormous amounts of gold that ultimately ended up in the West and opened the region to the trade of slavery.
Benin on the other hand was the site of great trauma as recorded in Zora Neal Hurston last book titled “Barracoon, the Story of the Last Black Cargo” that touches on the experience of one of the victims of the Amazon warriors. Stanley B. Alpern did an equally extensive study of the evolution and reign of Amazons from the mid1600s to the end of the Dahomey kingdom in 1894. His book, “Amazons of Black Sparta: The Women Warriors of Dahomey”, narrates the story of the king’s all female regiment that was critical in leading the raids and capture of neighboring Africans that would be traded as commodities. The name of the Amazons warriors was a curious one as it was first written in Greek Mythology. Homer first wrote about these women warriors but not in much detail. Homer mentioned that the Amazons warriors were defeated by the Athenians. The tale is considered to be a myth but was repeated every year during the annual public funeral done in memory for all the Athenians who had died in war. While Homer and Herodetous left accounts of the Greek Amazons, we know that those stories were myths. But the African Amazons were real. As I looked at chef Ade, I couldn’t help but remember the Greek story of queen Penthesilea who fought against Achilles in a fierce battle in bid to help Troy following the death of Hector, their most powerful warrior. It was as if the story first written by the Greeks was being played out in real life on African and American soil.
Ciata Kromah represented another country that suffered the most recently from the complexities of the long relationship between Africa and America. Liberia was formed as a country that would be a home for the former enslaved Africans. Some Christians and politicians alike had been instrumental in advocating for freed Africans to be repatriated back to Africa following their emancipation. Liberia was a replica of the U.S in its design. The country’s constitution was based on the U.S. constitution and there are two major reminders of that historical connection between the two countries. The flag of Liberia has one star just like the American flag which has more stars representing the 50 mainland states. There is also a town in Liberia named after the 15th U.S president, James Buchanan. But the plan of creating an African country based on American ideals mimicked some of the negative aspects of American history such as the division of the country along class lines. Those African Americans who returned to Africa dominated political power to the detriment of the local communities. The country slid into a brutal civil war which led to hundreds of thousands of deaths but also a traumatized generation of children who were used as soldiers. Trauma is our history.
As I headed home it occurred to me the possible symbolism of important events I had witnessed. The mayor's golden boots were an antidote to the “Achilles heel” in the struggle for power amongst Africans, especially men. The African and African American women chefs were symbolic of the modern day Amazon warriors. The story of these warriors was first by Homer about 1200 B.C.E. The Amazonwomen were greatly feared and were believed to have been the descendants of Aries, the god of war. That chef Ade was from Benin and the daughter of the country’s late commander, couldn’t have been a coincidence I could ignore.
To combine these modern women chef warriors and conscious political power of the likes of the mayor can be a game changer, especially if you add a Kenyan with the uncompromising spirit of the Mau Mau in that mix. I headed home a happy soul to have toiled yet again for a brighter day and eager to accordingly hasten that day of a universal Royal Jelly. It’s coming y’all. I could feel it. We had endured so much treachery and survived our betrayal and incompetence all within living memory. I remember the recording of an ethnographer who interviewed one of the last living Amazon warriors in Benin. While walking on the side of the road, the old hunched warrior heard a sound of what appeared to her as the sound of a rifle being cocked. She immediately went into warrior mode and rolled over into the nearby ditch. She cocked an imaginary rifle and made the war cry of the Amazon warriors. The war cry is now recorded and it went as follows:
The blood flows,
You are dead,
The blood flows,
We have won,
The blood flows, it flows, it flows,
The blood flows,
The enemy is no more.
The above war cry was a reminder of the dark days of injustice at our hands. Now that we understand that unjust food is our original and ultimate sin that leads us to death , we should all raise the battle cry for the war against the enemy of unjust food and the enemy will be no more. The demolition of the old order would open new possibilities for building a more just society and future. The army of African descendants could be instrumental in that process. I couldn’t resist thinking of the whole team in terms of construction of a new house. The most common piece of wood in the construction of modern houses is a 2 by 4 and that is the exact formula of the above team of 2 men, and 4 women. The two men represent African and African Americans while the modern Amazon women constituted 3 Africans and 1 African American.
Yet I remembered mayor Jacques golden shoes, then noticed my golden shirt that represented the energy of the sun that connects us to my Kenyan ancestors who fought for liberation. My region did not participate in the Transatlantic slavery web but we ultimately ended up being part of a colony and later a country whose coastal region was also notorious in capturing Africans for the slave market. That is the energy I felt I was adding to the space. It was a day full of intense emotions but nuanced with the bright light of small victories that are harbingers of what is possible.
As I left the Theater, I walked briefly at the Cary Pak where I will be presenting in a couple of weeks and reflected on my topic for that day and its connection to trauma. I saw bees all around the flowers in the park. It occurred to me that bees had solved the problem of trauma through food and did so a long time ago. The bees while making a honeycomb makes one of two compartments with odd shapes. While all the eggs in the honeycomb are all from the same queen. The oddly shaped comb gets a different diet of Royal Jelly. All the bees that collect that type of jelly know not to feed it to all the bees but only those inhabitants of the odd combs. That is how queens are made. America is a comb of worker bees, the majority eat a poor diet and the royal members of the country eat the equivalent of Royal Jelly. Afro Futuristic Conscious cuisine is the modern day Royal Jelly that brightens a dark past with sunny flavors for a people in exile in a country whose cuisine is itself exiled by food illiteracy. It was truly a day of Royal Jelly. I know that as I took the golden boots by the mayor and the bright colors that Africans had on represent a new dawn of possibilities. But first we have to change the type of “comb” we have in our head for it will determine what we seek and ultimately what we eat. The “comb”most of us are in is that of Death Worship or Trauma. We have to shift to having combs of Life Worship which rely on “Royal Jelly “. But we must first forgive the injustices of the colonizer and the enslaver but we can’t forget the foods and flavors that kept those injustices turning us into worker bees. We will never be kings and queens again as long as our appetites are shackled.