As much as “The Most Self-Hating Group of Black People on the Planet Earth” annoy me, I love them. It’s one of those “can’t live with them, can’t live without them” type deals. They’re my people, what can I say? My only goal in Madrid was to find my tribe, get some food and chill with them. I quickly got my wish. After the rain let up, I went out for another calling card. I wanted to say hi to the nice lady from the day before since she had saved my life, but her kiosk was closed so I went down to the next one. After buying the card I was so busy lamenting the price, 10€, that I didn’t notice that the man who sold me the ticket was black. Was he one of mine? I asked him if he was Dominican, and he said yes so I chilled with him and his friend who was there to keep him company. After being flummoxed when I tried to explain what it was that I was doing in Senegal and why I would ever go to Africa (remember the title of the blog), they were even more shocked that I hadn’t had platanos in four months. How had a survived? I had often wondered the same thing. The friend pitied me that he invited me to his house for a home-cooked Dominican meal. We took the bus to the bodega, and I felt like hugging the platanos, and yuccas and Goya cans and never letting go. He made platanos sancochados and huevos revueltos with way too much oil, the way Dominicans do it; I bought us two forties to wash the food down. We sat on his plastic covered couches, and I heard his sister-in-law curse at her children in Spanish. It felt like home. Then he got up to get some more oil, his platanos needed more grease he explained.
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