Jollof Rice

Somebody had unlocked the door at the street level, two doorknobs and a deadbolt. We walked the stairs, another unlocked door with double locks waited. I knocked, a voice from behind the door welcomed us in.

She was on the couch, next to the door, dressed in a coat, wearing gloves. It was freezing in her apartment, which held the couch she lay upon, two chairs that didn’t match but were in good shape, an old color television, funny how big they look now that flat screens have invaded everybody’s homes, a newer DVD player sat on top of that, and a modest dining room set.

Nothing hung from the walls, no pictures of family, favorite prints or anything. The place was immaculate. A fine lace tablecloth covered the dining room table, and a matching one sat atop a little table in front of the couch she occupied.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You see the table?” she asked, pointing toward the dining room. I noticed it leaned to one side.

“Last nigh I fell on dat table and it pushed to da side, my back is hurting something terrible”

Her voice had a lyrical quality to it, beautifully spoken, almost like a song. I didn’t tell her that, I did once a long time ago and the Nigerian people I told  thought I was making fun of them.

We helped her to the truck and started toward the hospital. I asked her the usual questions, one answer stuck out, she had an allergy to  chlorine.

“Chlorine?” I asked, having never heard of that allergy before.

“It’s for the Malaria,” she explained.

“Did you ever have Malaria?” I asked. I never knew anybody who did.

“I did and it’s awful.”

She came from Gabon, Africa. It’s a small country, beautiful, she told me, nestled between Congo and Cameroon, on the South Atlantic coast.

“It’s much warmer there.”

Before long we were at the hospital, but not before she insisted to make us some Jollof Rice someday, to thank us.