Alex worked from Monday to Friday as both a waiter and chef in a very large restaurant in town, owned by an Indian man called Hiffani. Alex’s shifts were from 7:30 am to 5:40 pm, with a twenty-minute lunch break. The restaurant was always busy and noisy with customers coming in and out, making it not easy to ignore.
The food we ate at home was nothing like the food from the restaurant. We usually ate light. Nsima with cabbage, boiled potatoes, cassava leaves for supper, maybe even some green beans. For me, this food was something special when it was the food that Alex brought. He was almost twice my age and had a full-time job while I was still in school. I was only about ten years old, old enough to understand what he did for a living, but too young to explain it. After Andrew, our first born Alex was a third father to me. My mother was rarely at home; she was at the market all day, and my older sister Kalanga was managing the household. Alex was always there.
He always came home late from work, but I waited for him on the veranda each and every evening. It didn’t matter to me if we didn’t exchange words or glances. I was always delighted to see him.
The gate would softly creak when it opened and Alex would come in. “Here,” he’d say. I’d hold the wrapped food, still glowing through the plastic bag, while Alex went inside to wash his hands.
I’d take out the container from the bag and place it on my lap. While I was always hungry, I never rushed eating. I took small bites, just to make the food last longer. My sister Nathalie would sometimes ask for something and I’d always break off a small piece for her.
Those meals felt like they were meant just for me.
Of course, my mother saw me eat the food from the restaurant. She’d smile and tell Alex he shouldn’t be spending money on “snacks.” She never told him to stop.
On rare occasions, my older brother would be home early, and see me eating on the steps. He never spoke much but he gave me a faint smile. I could tell he got it.
We didn’t really do feelings in our family. No one would sit you down and tell you they were proud or loved you. My family showed they cared by small things like that, like the food Alex would bring home.
Sometimes, I thought about how he managed to do that. How did he manage to constantly save up to give me those tiny bags filled with food? His income was quite low, and I knew he gave some of it to Mom. I asked him one day, why couldn’t he buy food for himself, instead giving it to me when he returned home?
“I taste that food daily every day at work,” he said. “You don’t.” His response stuck with me throughout the years.
Gradually, it became obvious to me how costly those bags must have been. Add to that the energy he spent carrying them all the way home after having been on his tired feet all day, serving customers all day long and I appreciated his gifts even more.
Some days, Alex didn’t bring anything home for me. There were times I couldn’t understand why. There was no food that day and I wasn’t always okay with it, but I never said anything.
No matter the reason, Alex always came to sit by me on the veranda to ask how my day had been, to joke with me how I had adjusted to the heat. He would just laugh and say, “You don’t even cry anymore.” I cherished the time we got to spend with one another.
He always told the best stories about the restaurant. One time, a woman spent about 10 minutes negotiating the price of some stewed beef on the menu. Another time, a kid kept trailing him with a bunch of questions. His stories helped me visualize what the world was like outside the walls of my home.
There was one Monday I’ll never forget. When I got back home the rain had thoroughly soaked me. To make things worse, I was really in bad temper since I had been shouted at by my class teacher for forgetting my textbook the Friday before. The silence in the house told me that the atmosphere was gloomy, and the darkening clouds promised no good.
Then the gate creaked and Alex stepped inside, also soaking wet. His shirt stuck to his back and mud dripped from his shoes. In his hands, he carried a little plastic bag.
“Caught in the rain,” he told me smilingly. “Got curry and samosas today. Spicy.”
He left me on the veranda while he went inside to freshen up. I opened the packet and had a taste. The food burnt my tongue but I didn’t mind. I ate the entire curry while my mouth burned and tears came down from my eyes.
Alex could have gone home without the food and gone straight to bed. But he thought of me, even when he was tired and soaked by rain.
I now know those evenings were about more than just food.
And I recall those evenings fondly. Alex no longer works at the restaurant, and life has changed since. However, there is a restaurant near to where I reside that sells Indian food. Every time I pass by, I recall those evenings.
Alex now has his own family and children. I visit him sometimes. He gives his children little treats: there are small bags of fried dough, doughnuts, and chips. He is giving his children what he used to give me.
I sometimes try to recreate those meals myself; I’ll buy samosas or order in curry from a restaurant. I’ve eaten samosas and curry since then, from fancier places, to see if it tastes the same. But it never does. The food is fine, good even, but it lacks that piece of Alex that came with every bag.
It wasn’t the food but the hand that brought it. The thought behind it. The way he never made it into a big thing, but just kept doing it. That’s what Alex loved.
