Standing in a half-empty hall in Brooklyn, half-hearing the music swelling around me, distracted by the people struggling to assemble the chairs and tables for a party scheduled to have begun hours ago – with my camera in my hand, a question nags on the inside of me -what I am doing here?
Standing in an over-crowded hall in Brooklyn, looking at tables spilling over with food, my camera lens blocked by the towering head ties of the women surrounding me, my feet trampled upon by the spiky heels clattering across the floors, jostled about by the celebrant’s friends, in their bid to catch a glimpse of her, I vaguely recollect Aba teasing me about how un-yoruba like I am.
I eat the food, I watch the movies, I speak the language, yet I do not appreciate nor practice tardiness, popularly known and accepted as african time, I do not believe in the need for ostentatiousness, trademarked by the wears and the spraying of hard earned money as a display of one’s wealth. In celebration of how un-yoruba like I am, I set out to eat sushi, below is a picture of some of the rolls I had on my day out.
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