For a while now I have been
going through a phase: eating outdoors or straight to the pointly not cooking. As
such I have been eating in restaurants, all kinds of restaurants, from the
upscale restaurant where your presence is acknowledged upon entry to the
ones where your order is drawn from you by a multitasking woman. So unable to
muster the courage or find the desire to cook, I have found myself exploring
the Buea culinary world, both its front and underground.
On August 24th 2013, I
once again found myself at one of the second-tier restaurants where an old
dirty white blind is all that stands between you and the rest of the
world; no privacy. But that was the only place my mood dictated. So you must be
asking: what great lesson did I learn at the restaurant? Quite a few if you must know.
One - Being a good Muslim in a
non-Muslim community must be really hard. As I sat hungrily waiting to be
acknowledged by the C.E.0/cook/waitress, a “hungree” like me walked in, did I forget
to mention he was a Muslim, yeah he was Muslim. I don’t why but my mind
immediately went into forecast and procrastination mode: what was he going to
order? Will he order something that contains beef? If yes, is he sure it is
halal (that is meat from an animal slaughtered according to Muslim Law)? If in
doubt, was he going to inquire about the beef’s “halility”? Finally the guy
asked for good old rice and stew……and…. Meat, no question asked or inquiry made
about the beef’s compliance with Muslim precepts? So in retrospect I imagine it
must be hard to be a Muslim, a practising one in a non-Muslim country. If I as
a non-Muslim could mentally strain myself so much just trying to ascertain the
next move of a Muslim trying to satisfy a need as primal as feeding, imagine
the severity of the mental exertions Muslims in non-Muslim communities
experience on a daily basis. Notwithstanding idiosyncratic interpretations from
Islamists, Islam seems to demand quite a lot from its faithfuls when it is
looked at through the prism of contemporary society framed around Judeo-Christian
values. Good Muslims must give to the poor, during economic crisis that becomes
an exploit. Good Muslims must pray at least five times daily, well when you
must work from 8 a.m. to at least 3:30 p.m. then that’s extra weight on any working
shoulders. The list can be longer but it is evident being a practising Muslim seems
to be a hard.
Two - Irrespective of your
passion and intellectual mettle, writing in a language with no established
written code is a tall other. When I decided to start blogging, I contemplated various
ways of making my blog stand out and be outstanding in the evergrowing blogosphere.
One way that immediately came to mine was blogging in pidgin; a West African creole
with roots in English. The idea was especially appealing and early feedback was
encouraging but four months after I penned my first post and 2 pidgin posts
later, I must admit writing in pidgin is no seamless task. It is not
impossible. It is just hard. It takes passion, patience, time and protracted
debates with oneself to write in pidgin. I actually thought of writing this post
in pidgin but I didn’t have the passion, patience, time and mood for it. So I
reluctantly wrote it in the Queen’s language.
Three – Most importantly I learnt
that you better cook your own meals if you don’t want to be the victim of
mistaken identity in a restaurant. This is impression I had after the C.E.0/cook/waitress
finally took my order. This is a transcript of our exchange,
C.E.0/cook/waitress: A gee you
whetee? - English translation: What will
you have?
Me: Gee me
garri and eru - English Translation: I’ll
have garri and eru?
C.E.0/cook/waitress: Garri and
eru na 450. - English translation: A
plate costs 450 CFAF.
Me: Gee me.
- English translation: No
problem.
I went to this restaurant not
because I was in dire financial straits but because it was convenient. The classy
restaurant was a taxi ride away but I didn’t feel like going for a ride when a
restaurant was just a walk away. As such, I was irked by the C.E.0/cook/waitress’
suggestion that only the rich eat garri and eru. Was it her default response to
anybody who ordered that meal or was it a pre-emptive reminder to forestall
broke folk who loved eating expensive food? If yes, did I ooze poverty and
hardship so strongly? If yes, then humanity is condemned if good food has become
a privilege only the rich can afford. All this aside, this incident thought me
one great lesson: I better find the desire to start cooking my own food lest I
be mistaken for a broke folk. You’re immune from restaurant misconceptions and
bias when you cook your own food.
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