Growing Up Igbo
This past June marked the fifteenth year since we purchased our family home. That is fifteen revolutions around the sun, an undisputed fact that stupefies me as I contemplate its import. Significant memories have been created, good and bad, at different points during the years, and within the confines of our place. Mom and I are dutiful tenants of a house that doubles as a thread linking aspects of a thriving Igbo community. We take that responsibility seriously.
Many impactful recollections are outgrowths of the food prepared in the home, wrapping our hearts in warmth. Still a willing and exquisite cook, Mom is an expert confectioner of dishes that span the cultural spectrum. My favorite dish is fried plantains, or plãtanos if you are of the Hispanic persuasion. Ah, the aroma that wafts from them. It floats over to me, clinging to my nostrils and forcefully pulling me in the direction of plates situated on top of the oven. They are fresh out of the pot, cut into thick and shiny slices, and strategically stacked until they are about to tip over. As I inhale the aroma, I extend a hand to grab a slice, ogle it, and then drop it down my throat. Amused by her only son’s shenanigans, Mom simply shakes head her and smiles, as she does not seem to mind at all.
As I was pilfering plantains in November 2012, the phone rang, prompting an urgent response from my father. He ran to the phone…
