Grilled Octopus (January 2014, Philly)
This was my first time in the U.S, so I told Uche that I would be in New York before heading out West to San Francisco. He asked me to cancel my initial plans, which revolved around New York tourism, so I could visit him in Philly. So, I jumped on a Boltbus and headed to Philly. For some inexplicable reason, I assumed that Philly would be a little hotter than New York was. I was sorely disappointed as I shivered in the cold at the drop-off point near 30th Street in Philly. Uche found me before I froze to death.
From the bus station, we went with Kayin to a barber shop to get his haircut, and then we found our way home. This was my first time in a “black barbershop”. This one seemed to confirm some of the stereotypes that have been seen on TV. There was the big barber shop owner who cut Kayin’s hair and wanted to talk about whatever his customer wanted to talk about. On hearing that I came from Nigeria, he started a diatribe about “how all Nigerians are millionaires”. Other barbers took care of the customers as well as those who didn’t come for any services other than to hang out and talk. Another set of customers was those who were not ready to get a haircut from anyone other than the shop owner. They were willing to wait their turn, no matter how long it took. When the haircut was done, we proceeded home.
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Uche ordered dinner, and it turned out to be an interesting-looking Philly delicacy – Grilled Octopus. The superstitious African in me came out as I gently prodded parts of the Octopus to check for vital signs. It all looked like the opening scene of a Netflix thriller in which a slain animal resurrected to inflict vengeance on the benefactors of its demise. To my greatest relief, the octopus stayed dead, grilled and tasty.
Sometime in the middle of the cold night, Uche grabbed his keys and said we should visit some landmarks. We drove near the house where the Declaration of Independence was signed. Uche started some sermons about the historic significance of that house and told me about how Thomas Jefferson and his “goon squad” started the country. Here was a Lagos/Ibadan boy listening to an Ijebu/American boy’s patriotic treatise about his adopted country. The warmth I felt did not come from the heavy layers of clothing that I wore.
It came from the feeling that friends are those with whom you can pause a conversation and resume where you left off after a decade.
