“[ ] used to eat from my plate, and I his. He was truly with us. He knew our secrets. He knew our lives. He knew everything about us,” [ ] said.
-Washington Post, February 27, 2021, one Arab describing his fictive kinship with another
There was little talking when we all crouched round the aseeda bowl. The unsaid trick was to pick the side of the circle with the most sauce. Millet paste is dry and to go down needs to be lubricated by Milaah, made from onion and dried vegetable powder fried in peanut oil. You ate with two fingers, maybe three, depending if Adam Hamid that day cooked it thick or thin. When I saw him years later, KhairAllah laughed most when imitating how I ate. He pantomimed me at the bowl, slowly sticking out one finger from his closed fist, then another, then a third, counting Wahid, Itnayn, Thalata in the voice of an imbecile, then putting all three fingers into his mouth and making a disgusted face.