I almost took a full L today, guys, but then a miracle happened. Let me start from the beginning. I have been going to the archive Monday through Friday for the past two weeks, and it is mentally and physically exhausting. I felt good though, walking to the archive today. I felt refreshed from my restful and fun weekend and was focused and ready to acquire some precious documents to start the week off on a high note. I wasn’t even bothered by the fact that I showed up to the archive 45 minutes later than I normally do (I normally arrive around 9:00 a.m. since that is the start time advertised on the archive website…but I think it just opens whenever people want to start working). I told myself I would sit down and get right to work and would make up for the delayed start. I get to the archive and I’m told they aren’t ready yet – still sweeping…so I wait. If I don’t find any useful documents in the archive at least it has taught me how to be patient (or at least less impatient than I previously was).
Once I finally get to go into the reading room of the archive, I see that no employees that bring documents have arrived yet. I waited for over an hour for someone to show up so that I could ask for 5 documents (the official document requisition daily quota. Yes, I’m serious. But that needs to be the subject of its own blog post). I kept myself busy sketching designs for dresses that I want one of my friends in Enugu to sew for me. Since Fashion Nova, 1015 Store, and Charlotte Russe can’t deliver to me in Nigeria, I’ve resorted to designing my own collection.
My dude, Emeka (this is a pseudonym. I’ve changed the names of characters to protect their privacy), shows up finally so I hand him my requisition form. He was only able to locate 4 of my 5 documents, but, despite what you’re thinking, that is actually a very good percentage. That is a number I can live with. I found some great stuff in those documents, too. I can’t disclose the details because guarding my intellectual property is my number 1 priority in 2018. But you can read about it when I publish my first book. Anyway, I was ready to request photocopies of those documents and I was also hoping to receive my previous two sets of photocopies that I requested last week Thursday and Friday. None of that happened. But I waited, because I’m trying out this patience thing. The Boss (pseudonym; he is not actually the boss, but probably the number two in the archive hierarchy) told me he would go pick up my copies and would be back in 10 minutes. This is something I need to explain as well: the archive does not have a scanner or photocopier in house nor do they let you take photos of your own or bring in any kind of portable scanner or even a laptop. No bic, either. “No Bic” is probably the golden rule of the archive. In the archive, there is no transgression quite as severe as using or even having Bic (a pen) on you while you are in the reading room. I’ve never seen an object snatched out of a person’s hand as quickly as a Bic in the archive. No bic. Just don’t do it.
Thanks for reading this far and enduring the multiple tangents. I promise there is a point to this story. Because there is no photocopier in the archive, the Boss has to take the archival documents – in their worn and flimsy folders – in his hands, walk down the street for a couple of blocks, drop them at the printing shop, and return to retrieve them the next day or the day after that. The “Tara getting copies of archival documents” process is quite involved and takes many days to complete. Sometimes I think that the only reason the Enugu archive was created was to build people’s patience and resolve. The Boss left around 2:00 p.m. (to be back in 10 minutes with my photocopies) and at that point I was so tired, hungry, dehydrated, and sore (I can only sit in one place with my neck craned for so long) that I only decided to stay at the archive because I had hope that the Boss would return with my documents. Fast forward: it’s 2:30 p.m. and no Boss. The two women working in the archive asked me in Igbo if I was finished. I said “Mba,” (no) and they frowned. Then they switched to English and told me I should be done now because they want to close up and go home. The archive is supposed to be open until 4:00 p.m. but that is more of a guideline than an actual rule. So I left at 2:30 p.m. – empty handed, dejected, famished, dehydrated, and a little annoyed. I realized just how cranky I was when I was walking back toward my hotel. I knew because after the 19th “Onye ocha!” (white person!) I had heard in 2 minutes I just put my hand up and said “NO,” as I walked past the guy who was trying to block my path so that he could talk to me. Normally I smile or greet people on the walk to and from the archive because I can usually handle about 75 “Onye Ocha!” greetings in any 10 minute time period. But today I could not.
I was headed for the Eagle restaurant. That is what I have named the wonderful hidden gem that is situated adjacent my hotel. I don’t know the actual name of the restaurant as most restaurants in Nigeria don’t have signs with names posted on the outside, but this place has a large bird cage that houses two albino eagles. Thus, Ulo Nri Ugo: Eagle Restaurant. By the time I reached the Eagle, I couldn’t even see straight, I was so hungry and dehydrated. I just wanted some egusi soup or peppa soup or rice and stew…really anything…except ogbono soup AKA draw soup AKA okra soup. I was not feeling draw soup at all. I never really loved draw soup – too messy and gooey and not my favorite taste. I slumped down into the chair at my favorite table and prayed for peppa soup.
The waitress walked up and asked what I wanted to eat. I asked what they had today and she said, “draw soup.” “Ewoo,” (Igbo expression of dismay) I thought to myself. “Do you have any other soups or stew?” I asked. No, they only had draw soup. “Then why,” I thought, “did you ask what I wanted if there was only one option?” My patience was running very thin and I was too hungry to care what I ate at that point so I ordered the Soupe du Jour. Within a couple of minutes, the waitress brought out a bowl of ofe ogbono (draw/okra soup) with a mound of semo, which is like fufu or garri. As I dug my hand into the steaming hot semo, I felt like Ron Burgundy when he was told to eat the plate of cat poop: I think I whispered out loud, “I don’t even care, I’ll eat it.” My hand was burning from the steaming hot semo and my already sweaty face began to sweat even more. I still didn’t care. I was prepared to ignore the taste and texture of the soup and just try not to die from starvation.
So here I was, at about 2:50 p.m. in 102 degree weather – exhausted, famished, dehydrated, sore, dust-covered, peeved, sassy, and sweaty, on the brink of physical and mental destruction – and then I tasted the ogbono soup. And I was saved. Jesus took the wheel. Carrie Underwood’s words rang truer today than they ever have before. That bowl of soup was the best bowl of draw soup I have ever tasted (and probably will ever taste). It was SO good! Now remember, I generally don’t like draw soup. I like most Igbo and Nigerian dishes but draw soup never really appealed to me – until today. That soup was so good and I was so happy. I ate so fast, I didn’t even care that I probably lost some nerve endings in the fingertips of my right hand from the steaming hot semo. I didn’t even care that I was probably covering my face with orange oil stains. When I finished, I called for the woman who owns the Eagle and who is also the main cook. I told her how good her soup was and how happy it made me. I told her that she is the only person I will ever trust to make me draw soup now. She was so excited and thankful. I was like, no, thank YOU. That soup changed my whole day. I’m not even mad about my failure at the archive. I was ready to put an L on the board for today, but that ogbono soup gave me the W.
Please excuse the lack of photo. I was too hungry and weak to lift up my phone to snap a picture of the dish before gorging.
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