Are You Hungry?

The energy in the small Accra suburb of Ghana is ecstatic, every door thrown open. Women sing and strain against their metal spatulas and giant boiling cauldrons like beautiful Poseidons churning a sea of palm nut oil, tomato, ginger, onion and sweat. Shirtless men use a six-foot pestle to beat cassava roots into a traditional doughy mixture called fufu. The rhythmic pounding provides a counter beat to the ubiquitous West African pop music crackling from ancient radio speakers. The aromas revive a dull roar in my stomach and the hunger pangs add more heat to the already 95-degree day. A toothless older woman beckons me towards a cauldron that spits oil and frying chicken. “Are you hungry?” she asks in Twi. I laugh at the question, I've been fasting for three days, diminutive compared to the traditional 40 days of fasting for Ramadan practiced in this Muslim village. “Yoo, paa!” (Yes, very much!) I respond, realizing I had been staring at her cauldron for a long time before she had beckoned me over. Around the back of the compound, four young girls hold a squawking chicken over a deep gutter. They ask me a string of questions before I ask them what they are doing. One of the girls, about 11, her hair plated in tight braids woven with turquoise ribbon, produces a long carving knife from the folds of her oversized skirt. They wait to see what how I will react and I give them a wave of encouragement. I’ve never seen a chicken killed. With a few swift slices along the neck, blood sprays all over the girl’s toes and drains into the gutter. Rashid calls my name and invites me into the cool concrete home, placing a plate filled with food on my lap. I return waves and smiles at the other people in the room and we excitedly stuff our faces. The spicy fish sauce sings at the back of my throat, but I don't stop. Rashid looks up at me, eyes bulging, mouth full of fried chicken and tomato sauce, “Eid Mubarack,” he says in relief. May you enjoy a blessed feast.