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"Kele wele. It's fried sweet plantain. It's cooked in ginger and pepper and spices that no one can replicate at home, and it's heaven on earth."
I grab his hand to make us walk faster. "You've got to try it. You haven't lived until you have."
"I’ll try to remember that when I get typhoid. On my deathbed, I can say “well, at least I lived long enough eat street food. It’s a shame no one warned me that it being described as my first taste of heaven wasn’t a figure of speech." He says and I can’t help but laugh.
“Don't be such a pair of balls, Harry."
"A pair of balls?"
"Yes, a pair of weak, sensitive, collapse under the slightest pressure, balls," I reiterate with a laugh.
"You know. That makes a lot of sense. Why have we endowed balls with strength and fortitude they don't have?"
"It's all the patriarchy's fault."
"Ah, yes. The blighted patriarchy."
"Everything's their fault. But while you're talking, we could be eating."
We catch the food sellers as they're pulling their final batches of food out of the oil they use to fry it. They wrap the hot, oily, delicacy in sheets of newspaper. When I reach into the pocket of my shorts to pull out my money, Harry stops me and hands the lady some cash. I thank the woman in Fante and Harry looks at me quizzically.
"This is my mother's village, I can't be rude."
"Your mother's village? You're Ghanaian?" He asks, sounding astounded.
"Uh, yes. Bambi did tell you that I was her cousin, remember?"
"I thought you meant the type of cousins that are really more like very good friends. I have cousins like that, too. I didn't realize you meant by blood,” he looks genuinely perplexed. I’m used to it. No
"My mother is from this town, but my father's Syrian." I wink at him, but don't say anymore, he already knows more about me than I wanted him to.
"Now, get ready to have your mind blown." I sing at him and wave the fragrant, steaming packet under his nose.
He laughs at me but takes a whiff, "I'm beginning to think you're prone to wild exaggerations. Mind blown? Over food?"
"Why? Has nothing you've ever eaten blown your mind?" I'm astounded.
"Food is fuel. Nothing more. I don't eat for pleasure. I eat to stay alive. Honestly, it's a waste of time, I think of everything else I could be doing when I'm sitting down to eat."
My strangled, startled laugh fills the air as I stare at in him in complete shock.
"What are you saying? First you don't like cheese and now you don't even like to eat?"
"I'm just saying, I feel like we make too much of food. It has a utilitarian purpose. That's all."
We walk past a set of rocks that create a haphazard but solid wall separating us from the rest of the beach. I drop my bag, pull out my towel and drop down on it. Harry looks down at me skeptically for a minute.
“What do you also not sit down on public beaches? You’re proving to be quiet the snob, Harry.” I pat the space on the towel next to me. “Come on, live a little.”
With a resigned sigh, he sits next to me, close enough that our shoulders are touching.
It’s nearly dark now, but the sun’s bright rays have become explosive oranges and reds.
I unwrap the hot plantain and extend my hand in offering "Well, how about you waste some time right now and try this."
He rolls his eyes and I pull my hand back, I narrow my eyes at him, "I don't know if I should share with you. Kele wele is too special and rare to give to someone who doesn't appreciate the greatness of food."
"Yes, you're definitely committed to hyperbole. Just give me one." He snatches a piece of the hot, spicy delicacy and pops it into his mouth and starts to chew, his expression knowing and sarcastic. And then suddenly his eyes widen and he stops chewing, but only for a flicker of a second.
