I Met A FIERCE Igbo Lady!

I was at Giant the other day, standing in line to pay for my one loaf of African bread – the crown top one. Igwe loves it, so I buy it on Tuesdays because that’s the day they deliver it there, but this time it was a Wednesday because I forgot to go there on Tuesday.

I noticed the lady in front of me. She looked to be about 40, was about a size 6 or 8, and was dark in complexion. She had on an afro wig, a fitting red dress, a black and red motor jacket, and a lovely pair of red sandals with gold heels that looked like a piece of art work. The heels of her sandals reminded me on my mommy’s old shoes in Nigeria, and while I stood there behind her, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

She was buying about six little bags of black eyed peas and a bunch of plantains. The plantains were 5 for $2, and the cashier was asking her how many plantains she had. She had about 25 of them. She had shiny blue polish on her finger nails, and her toes were a faded shade of pink. On her eye lids, she had a thin blue line of eye shadow that looked like it was partially faded, the way makeup looks after being worn for hours. Perhaps, she was coming from work [it was about 4:40 PM]. Although I could not place her country, I was pretty sure she was African.

I unconsciously yawned loudly as I waited for the cashier to ring her up. She asked me with broad smile on her face, “Tired?” And I smiled back and said, “Yes. Long day.” And for me, it had indeed been a long day. I was just coming from a meeting and itching to go home, but I did not want to get home and be questioned about bread, so there I was at Giant.

I asked her, “What are you cooking?” She went on to explain to me that where she’s from, they cut and fry the plantains, and that was what she intended to do. To which I replied, “Where are you from?” She said Nigeria. That surprised me. I said, “Me too.” She too was clearly surprised by my nationality. She asked, “From which side?” And I said, “Anambra.” She screamed, threw her hands up in the air, and gave me a hug before I had a choice in the matter. She started speaking Igbo to me. She, too, was from Anambra. Her sister was married to someone from my town. She was shopping for food because she wanted to cook a lot of food – specifically beans and plantain, egusi soup, and okra soup – and put it in the fridge, so her kids don’t bother her every day for food. She hated cooking every day, she told me.

The cashier looked impatient. The entire time we were chatting, Igbo Lady had not paid her yet, and the cashier was left standing there and hoping we’d remember. I would have been impatient, too, if I were her. But you know Americans, they’d rather stand there politely than – God forbid – be rude. It’s the same way people are slow to aggressively blow their horns when people don’t look before crossing. If we were in a Nigerian market, the seller would have said, “Madam, pay me my money nah!”

Outside of Giant, we ran into two Kenyan men. She introduced herself to them and told them about an initiative she’s planning for Africans. “We, Africans should all come together,” she told them convincingly. They all exchanged numbers. I stood on the side listening to their conversation and laughing inside. One of the Kenyan guys asked her, “What about the girl you’re with?” He was referring to me. She said [in a protective voice], “She’s my sister, but that’s not what we’re talking about.” He got the message and returned his focus to the African initiative. He waved at me warmly as he drove off.

The Igbo lady and I finally exchanged names. All this time, we had not even said our names. Her name starts with a K, so for the purpose of this post, we’ll call her Kenechukwu. She told me that she teaches an Igbo class to young children, and it’s free of charge. She does it because she does not want Igbo to disappear, and many of our children do not speak Igbo. I concurred, as I thought about my cousin, Toby. He’s 13 and doesn’t speak a lick of Igbo. He doesn’t even know or think he’s Nigerian. I made a mental note to tell my aunt about the class; maybe she’ll take Toby.

Kenechukwu proceeded to open the trunk of her car and show me some things. She had so many horsetails. I was floored! I asked her if they were for sale, as I wanted one immediately. She said they weren’t, that her husband had brought them from Nigeria, and that she only bought them for the children to dance with. I picked one up and smelled it. Yup, it was definitely real horsetail – or whatever animal tail – because it smelled like shit! And I wanted to take that piece of shit home with me.

The horsetail looked like this one in the picture. I found this one on an Etsy shop where it’s priced for $625. Haaa! The owner of this etsy shop is making me funny. $625 for horsetail? Why don’t I just buy the horse myself and prepare the tail, too? Abi did Jesus use this horsetail?

Kenechukwu went on to tell me about how she does not like the hostility and unhealthy competition between women. She said that when a woman sees a fellow woman doing good or looking good, instead of complimenting her, she focuses on how to beat her/be better than her. I agreed with Kenechukwu. By the end of the conversation, I just liked her. She called me later that evening and we talked some more. The lady in the red shoes seems to be really cool. I’m not here to tell you that I now have a new BFF; I’m just saying that I met a fierce Igbo lady named Kenechukwu, and I quite like her. For now.