ᵗʰⁱˢ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ⁱˢ ᵈᵉᵈⁱᶜᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ Sinetimore

55|ℐᏉᎯℕ

FROM THE BUFFET breakfast in the bush, we set off for a brief visit to the local Maasai village with other guests from different hotels around the reserve.

At the village, we were welcomed by the chief and the villagers, all wrapped in brightly coloured handmade fabrics. We were treated to special singing, dancing and a showcase of traditional rituals, like making fire, and their traditional warrior-jumping competition. We also had a tour of their Inkajijik huts made from mud and cow dung. Before we left, Boma bought some colourful jewellery from the tourist market as gifts for her mother and Chinny.

We arrived from the village just in time for our special lunch reservation under the acacia tree and I had asked her once we got to the tents to meet me on the deck in an hour.

I walk onto the deck that cantilevers the river. Across the patio, there's an impressive buffet and tables covered with brightly coloured checkered red, blue, and yellow fabrics, resembling the clothing designs of the local Maasai people. 

Behind the buffet, a legion of smiling chefs stand on hand to assist any struggling guest in making a choice out of the array of fine dining.

I'm led by a waiter to our table. It rests overlooking the river, directly under the canopy of a tall acacia tree. After the waiter leaves, I glance briefly at my wrist watch.

She's running late. Should I have waited for her?

I excuse myself from the table to make a call. As I walk along the deck, I spot a crocodile poking its head out of the water, sizing me up with it's big yellow eyes. For a second, it flashes its teeth and I imagine it licking its lips at what a handsome meal I'd make. Slowly, it sinks its head back into the water and I laugh at my imagination. 

"Hey, Anisa. I'm on the deck for lunch and Boma isn't here yet. Can you check by her tent? Just to make sure she's okay."

"Uhmm, she's right behind you."

I turn around, still on the phone. My eyes travel from white sneakers to hair. "Wow!" I pull my fila from my head to my chest. Her hair is wrapped into twists that run around her forehead, the reddish tint glows against her blue iris. The hair runs over her right ear and into a low bun. Her dress falls off her shoulder at her collar bone, reaching down, just below her knees. The kente fabric consisting of many coloured stripes screams African Queen like no other.

"This is a joint effort," she says. "Mom chose the dress, Chinny chose the sneakers over video call and Anisa did the hair and makeup."

"Worth the wait," I say. "I can't stop looking at you."

She chuckles, blushing along. "You, Ivan Adekola Adebayo, are an elegant man. Is there ever a time when you're less stylish?"

I turn around so she can get a full view of my black agbada, especially tailored and embroidered with lion heads and elephant tusks to suit the Safari theme.

"I'm starving," she says as I lead her to our reserved seat.

"Did you know that in Nigeria, acacia trees grow in the north, and when cultivated, their sap is known as the Nigerian Gold?"

"Oh wow," she says. "I knew that. The sap is called Gum Arabic, also known as acacia senegalis and in West Africa, Nigeria leads exports and in the world we're third after Chad and Sudan." She explains.

"I didn't know that part. Everything I read was a rip off Google," I say and she bursts into hysterical laughter.

○○○○○

For our first course, we are served a salad. The waiter, Njongo, says it's called Kachumbari It comprises sautéed collard greens cut into thin slices along with onions and tomatoes, with a side condiment of roasted meat. 

While we eat probably the freshest food on the planet, a hippo pokes its big head out of the water, staring straight at Boma and flaring its hairy nostrils.

Boma laughs. "Should I be concerned?"

"Hippos are vegetarian so it's probably eyeing your salad."

She laughs wildly. "I can't blame it, this salad is amazing."

Around us, other guests are seated and dining. Many are white people who seem extremely pleased and happy.

"You know," Boma says. "Whenever the global spotlight is shone on Africa, it's mostly stories of hunger, poverty and people who never advanced above the stone age. But here, in this outstanding place with beautiful people, this is Africa. Rich, delightful, untainted, filled with insurmountable beauty both inside and outside,"

She pauses but I know she isn't done so I continue nodding.

"Seeing Africa for who she really is, not from the lens of corruption, shame, politics or human errors, but just allowing her true beauty speak for itself, makes me realise how much of a blessing it is to be African, to be spawn from the depths of greatness."

It seems over so I clap. "That sounds like something Maya Angelou would say."

"Main course?" Njongo rounds the table. We nod, smiling sunny smiles as he replaces the empty salad plates. With a large platter of many delicious looking dishes.

"The grilled meat," Njongo says. "Is the Chefs unique twist on the Kenyan dish Nyama Choma  which is grilled chevon or beef."

"What's the special twist?" I ask.

"You will have to eat first before you are told, it's tradition here."

"What's the sausage made of?" Boma asks.

"Oh!" Njongo exclaims smiling in his white coat. "Trust me my lady, Mutura is all you will ever want to eat. And here," he says, opening another dish that looks like pounded yam, but green with some white seeds in it. 

"Mukimo, oh la la." He kisses his fingers. We laugh at his dramatism.

"Finally," he says. "This might be something you are used to. Kuku Wa Kupaka. It's kenyan grilled chicken curry in coconut cream sauce."

"Wow!" I say.

"Mmm!" Boma says, laughing. "That sounds interesting."

"I'll be back shortly, enjoy." Njongo prostrates before walking away.

"Oh my wow, all this food is making me crazy," Boma laughs. "I don't even know where to start because I can't remember all the names."

"Let's start with the Mutura," I say, pointing at the black grainy sausage. "Then, we'll try the Kachumbari next. I'm a bit worried by this Mukimo." 

"Me too, looks like a soft green pounded yam."

Njongo returns with a bucket of iced champagne. "On the house," he says, pouring the champagne into each of our slender glasses. "Veuve Clicquot Demi Sec champagne. Lovely with aromas of peach blossom, caramel, baked pears, honeysuckle and grapefruit. The finish is light and fresh with a note of mousse." 

Before Njongo leaves, he winks at me because I especially selected this champagne.

"It tastes like the stars," I tell Boma.

She reaches over the table and we share our first real kiss on the trip.