Part Two: Entrepreneurship

Salif Tankoano

Salif and his mother at his graduation from Lehman College.

When Salif started writing memoir essays, he had to strain a bit to write with clarity about his roller-coaster of a life. He started out middle-class in Burkina Faso, then moved Brussels, Paris and NYC. It was in NYC, when he was 18, that his family’s circumstances plummeted. That first year was challenging but Salif was determined to hit his stride.

A Bigger Stride

One day when I was seven, and still living in Burkina Faso, I saw a plane flying overhead – a gigantic flying fish in the air off to someplace I didn't know. It was rare for a plane to fly over our sub-Saharan country, even though we lived close to the capital city, Ouagadougou. I watched it until it disappeared from my sight. Standing under the grueling West African heat, I felt deeply connected with the plane.

That same year my dad was hired to work overseas in Belgium due to his exceptional abilities as a driver. He had caught the attention of the newly appointed Belgian ambassador while he was a driver for Burkina Faso's presidential escort.

My dad flew to Brussels first and we joined him six months later.

When I was growing up in Ougadougou, schoolteachers were allowed to whoop students. If you had a test and received an eight out of ten, you knew you would get hit twice with a long, thin branch from a tree outside our classroom. Each point missed was equal to a substantial hit on the ass or your back. So, my classmates and I always had the same goal: escape getting hit. Some even resorted to cheating, but they couldn't escape our teacher’s keen eye. You’d hear students outside the building crying when grades were given, but their pleas to be spared were always ignored. Deep down, I knew our teacher loved hitting children. Her face said it all. So whenever it was my turn, I stood there quietly without asking her forgiveness. But some little devils from other classes would come and watch this humiliating scene from the windows or the front door. We called the teacher "Madame Rouge à Lèvres" because she always wore red lipstick. The red on her lips represented anger to us students. She rode a black motorcycle to school. Normally, a female teacher riding a motorcycle to school would be cool, but in the case of Madame Rouge à Levres, it only added to her aura of a supervillain. I would've believed it if someone had told me she was a vampire. Seeing this woman felt like having a tarantula crawling on my back. She had light brown hair extensions that hid her natural hair. To this day, women with hair extensions are a complete turn-off to me. You could not imagine how happy I was when my father announced that we would be moving to Belgium.

My mother, my older brother Aimé, and my two-month-old baby brother Ismael arrived at "La Gare du Midi," in the winter of 2007, and my dad picked us up with a van from the embassy. I stayed glued to the window, intrigued by the clean sidewalks, the white kids and their parents walking, the tall buildings, a train, and even the different kinds of trees.

We arrived at our new apartment and it was lovely, with elegant white walls and a light fixture in the ceiling where you couldn't even see the entire light bulb. In the living room I looked outside the enormous windows and saw that it had started snowing -- my first time seeing snow and it was beautiful. But trying to play with snow the next day was a different ball game. I was not too fond of it as my hands got cold in seconds. I had never touched anything this cold besides ice cubes. (We didn’t know yet how to dress for cold weather.) Winter is the only season I hate with a passion. Everything around Brussels looked dead or tired.

We stayed five years in Brussels, during which I barely saw my dad. His work schedule was relentless. He often left home around four in the morning and would not return until eleven at night or even midnight on a good day. Sundays were usually his only day off. On the rare occasions I got to see him, I would watch him devour a plate of riz sauce arachide, a peanut-based sauce with vegetables that is a staple in Burkina Faso, and sometimes we would watch wrestling together on television.

I learned tremendously during that time when my parents were incredibly busy. My mom was studying for her nursing degree at the prestigious Nursing School of Saint Elizabeth of Nazareth. So, I could always go out and do whatever I wanted. I just had to follow one rule: get back to the apartment before sunset. My mom's parenting philosophy was "Freedom" and "Experience.” She never said no to me trying anything because I never asked for anything unreasonable. She just needed an excellent school report card, and the rest didn't matter much to her. I always did my homework right after school and asked her questions if I needed to. While she was cooking in the kitchen, I would take her computer to look up things I needed help understanding. During those five years in Belgium, I attended a private school called Institut Montjoie. The school provided an excellent education and exposed me to students from many different backgrounds. Looking back, it was one of the greatest gifts for my personal development.

I vividly remember the day I went to the splendid beach of Ostend. The previous day on TV the weatherman warned to expect a grueling temperature 35 degrees Celsius, which is equivalent to 95° Fahrenheit. For a 12-year-old like myself from Sub-Saharan Africa, this was a chill and fantastic day compared to the dry and harsh heat I was accustomed to. My best friend Sebastian and his family, originally from Spain, invited me to tag along. Seated in a beautiful restaurant, his dad, an older man with gray hair and an unfriendly face, ran out of tissues to stop the deluge of sweat. We had already ordered mussels and fries and were waiting for our food. I could not help but feel grateful to be seated with them and to see the beach for the first time in my life. (Burkina Faso is a land-locked country.) How could they even be okay inviting some kid to a destination like this and pay out of their pocket for me to experience the bicycle rides, tasty food, and chase the birds on the sidewalks with Sebastian?

His parents often argued during our one-day trip, but the memories from that day stayed with me for years. I liked his mom because she always smiled and welcomed me when I came to see Sebastian. Her cooking skills were terrific, too, but she That a headache to her husband. I saw her try to shove a handful of fries in her husband's mouth at the table. He got pissed, of course, but she was laughing her ass off.

In retrospect, I think watching her influenced the kind of girls I was into later on, but not in a positive way. I enjoyed playful banter and a good sense of humor, but I often felt that the way she constantly teased her husband crossed the line into being disrespectful. As I got older, I realized I was more drawn to women who could be fun and playful while still showing mutual respect in their relationships.

Despite the distracting disputes between Sebastian's parents, we enjoyed ourselves. That dinner and the overall trip significantly enhanced my ability to stay present and enjoy moments in my life. At that age, I spent a lot of time with my head in the clouds, imagining future possibilities and hypothetical situations. That day at Ostend forced me to slow down and enjoy what was directly in front of me. The beach, the food, the bicycle rides, and the company were enough. Looking back, it was one of the first times I truly understood the value of being present.

~

That same year my father's contract with the embassy ended. He didn't want to continue anyway, because of the demanding work schedule of 60-70 hours a week. My parents decided to return to Burkina Faso and send me to Paris to live with my mother’s aunt, Natacha, and study for my first year of middle school. So, I took a high-speed train from Brussels to Paris. During my ride, I sat next to an older man, holding a newspaper. I couldn't understand a word and asked, "Sir, what are you reading?"

"The New York Times. It's an American newspaper."

I was very impressed. How did he even get one of these?

"Could you let me read it, please?"

He nodded, smiling, and handed the newspaper to me. I spent a few minutes trying to make sense of the gibberish in front of my eyes and we talked a bit about where I was going and where he was from. When we arrived in Paris, he told me, "Keep the newspaper as a gift.” Little did I know that I would find myself living in New York shortly after I turned eighteen. Looking back, the newspaper encounter felt special, a sign of my future adventure.

I lived in Paris for a year and disliked it because I wasn't with my family. I barely knew my aunt so I felt like I was living in a stranger's house. My life in Paris was simple. I went to school, came home, completed my homework, and repeated the routine the next day. I rarely explored the city and spent most of my time indoors. To be honest, I was bored out of my mind. My aunt was very strict about schedules, especially bedtime, which was completely non-negotiable. With my mother, I could sometimes negotiate for a little extra time before bed, but not in Paris. The experience taught me discipline and independence, but more than anything, it made me appreciate being close to my immediate family. During the summer of 2013, I left for Burkina Faso.

It felt like doing the right thing, but no one else in my family saw it that way. My parents strongly encouraged me to remain in Paris because they thought living in Europe would afford me more opportunities than living in Burkina Faso. They were right about that, but returning home helped me ground myself more and understand the critical differences between the Western world and West Africa. It helped me mature and become capable of understanding nuances in cultures.

~

The year 2016 was pivotal in my life; I call it my Golden year. I was 16 years old, living in Burkina Faso, and had just obtained my middle school diploma to be admitted to high school. I was on top of the world, and my parents bought me a motorcycle as a gift – a Yamaha model Force X, a black motorcycle with a few touches of blue on the left and right sides. The exhaust sound was cool enough to make me forget any bad grades I got in class; i was my baby. I made oil changes on time, and I washed every tricky corner to excess.

High schools in Burkina Faso’s educational system offered the possibility to specialize in a specific field immediately. You could study carpentry, electronics, computers, and many other fields. And if you needed to figure out what you wanted to do, you could go for a general high school. Computer science caught my attention the most because I was always curious about how the internet even existed. How can I create an app, and why did people even make them in the first place? My mind was filled with tons of questions and curiosity. So, I told my parents I wanted to go for it, and the response was not what I expected. "You should go for general,” my mom said. “You could become a great doctor.” She was a nurse, and the fact that her father died from tuberculosis when she was young explained why she went for that. I found doctors interesting because of their extensive knowledge of the human body. I always thought of them as mechanics for humans. My dad's answer angled in a different direction. "I can train you to become one of the best drivers in this country,” he said, “and help you get recruited to drive for the presidency." His proposition seemed very cool; I liked his job because it was mysterious and required tremendous skills. I could be the James Bond of drivers and have my dad mentor. But computers appealed to me. They were even more mysterious than my dad in my eyes. And everyone wanted or needed a computer.

My parents are hard-headed individuals like me, so they continued to preach their respective choices until we approached the beginning of the school year. I looked for a computer science school and gave them a brochure with the tuition rates. Finally, they capitulated. "We won't be on the job with you, so I guess you can do what you want." On the drive to the Institut Colbert, they were still talking, trying to convince me not to do it. "Driving presidents and VIPs is fun, and you meet a lot of powerful people, you know…”

"I know, but focus on the road, dad."

"Don't worry about that! I'm a professional; I've been doing this for over 20 years."

My mom sat in the front passenger seat, giving me the silent treatment. I knew what she was doing, so I just stayed quiet until we reached the school. We walked in, and my dad pulled a stack of bills from his pocket and handed me the money, one hundred and twenty-five thousand CFA, equivalent to about $250 USD. “Now give it to the lady and take my receipt. He thanked the lady at the counter, and we walked out. The ride home was quiet.

That night, I stayed up until midnight staring at the ceiling. I told myself to regain my spirits, "I know what the heck I'm doing." After all, my dad couldn't even read except when he tediously attempted to interpret his horse racing magazines. And my mom didn’t know anything about computers, so she thought going into medicine was a safer bet. I'm their first child, and I know they have a lot of hopes. That's real pressure, and I perform better when there is pressure in my life. If nothing is on the line, there is nothing to fight for. For some twisted reason, I liked that they thought they knew what was best for my future better than me. My ego was invested at that point.

I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about everything I would need to do to perform to the best of ability during the school year. No TV, no wasted time talking to the other teenagers in my neighborhood in front of their houses. That year was made of absolute work and extreme focus. I refused to go to most school festivities and just focused on learning. When I got home from school, I closed the door to my room and reviewed everything I had learned that day and prepared for the next. Sometimes my mom would open my door. "I haven’t seen you much lately. I just wanted to make sure you were good." After a while my dad started checking in on me too. At some point around the second month, they understood the message. And even my little brother would just come and sit in my room to watch me code and ask questions. Today he has the same interest and wants to study computer science once he graduates high school. I love it because it will give us another thing to compete and work together on.

Many of my classmates thought I was boring because I didn't do anything outside school. Honestly, I could care less about what they thought. My soul was at peace and guided by only one desire: becoming excellent. Life for me became very simple that year. Even the money my parents gave me served that purpose first, and then whatever was left could be used to buy snacks. It worked well for me, and I was top of my class that year. I proved to myself that I could do anything I wanted. I just needed to sacrifice and stay dedicated. Anytime I struggled after that at any endeavor, I just had to think back to the Golden year.

My Pandemic Tale

I arrived in New York City when I was 18, on August 31^st, 2018, with my mother, my younger brother Ismael, and my Uncle Boukare. (My older brother Aimé has remained in Belgium since we left in 2012. He later got married there and started a family of his own.) From 2018 to 2020, I lived some of the most difficult years of my entire life! As newcomers, we had no friends, a language barrier to overcome daily, and we even had to acquire a place to live. The apartment we shared was a big step back compared to my lifestyle in Burkina Faso, a "poor country." Back home, I lived in a lovely house with a mango tree in the middle that I had planted myself when I was younger. We even had a maid who cleaned, washed, folded my clothes, and cooked delicious meals. I didn't have to worry about anything; all I had to do was to go to school and get the best grades, which I did. But I knew that being in the U.S. could lead me to a higher level if I worked diligently. So, I took all of this in stride. The first year, I went to school from seven a.m. to four p.m. and worked full-time as a dishwasher in Manhattan, from five p.m. to one in the morning. I would get home by two a.m., with body aches every day, and repeat.

March of 2020 was an extraordinary time in my life. I was in my senior year at the High School of World Cultures in the Bronx. My mornings started at 8 a.m. with AP Human Geography and would end late around midnight, after an 8-hour shift in an industrial baking complex. Exhaustion became a companion I knew too well. Every morning, the familiar body aches greeted me before anyone else did. Jumping in the shower reminded me that I was still alive and that the show must go on. What show? Well, the rat race.

Going to school allowed me to keep my morale high. As soon as I entered the building, I was greeted like a rock star; everyone knew me, teachers, staff, and students. My first steps inside were always followed by "What's up, big man?" from the security guards after I went through the metal detector. A couple more students would come up and shake my hand. And I always shook their hands back with the biggest smile.

Some students and I developed ritual handshakes; I could not remember them all simply because there were too many. But each handshake was always a mood checkup with each of them. I would notice through the contact of our hands whether it was energetic, lifeless, cold, or hot. The simple sound our hands made when they collided was uplifting my spirits and theirs in some mystical fashion. A handshake means a lot, and I always paid attention to how I delivered them — adjusting the strength and speed for each person, taking the time to stop for a moment to convey respect and care. In retrospect, I always gave handshakes to the guys followed with a "What's up, bro?" and sometimes hugs. Girls hugged me or simply waved with a smile when they saw me. The building was a parade of smiles, hugs, and "Yo bros" all day long.

But my favorite person to greet was Sharon, a 5'2” Asian girl who always had a brutally honest sense of humor; she also gave the best hugs. As soon as I saw her walking in the hallway, she would run towards me, screaming "Salif!” as if I had been lost for a year in a jungle, and she was the first to see me after all this time. Most hugs I gave or received lasted two to three seconds. But hers, at least nine seconds. Nothing she did was ever half-hearted. Being significantly taller than she was (I was 6'1”), I would find her head resting in the middle of my stomach and her short arms firmly squeezing me like a lemon.

High school was this joyous bubble where I was not preoccupied with work or any future plans. Instead, it was just about being in the moment, learning new things, and creating relationships.

Being such a reluctant news watcher or reader at that time, I didn't have a grasp of the COVID situation in China. But one day, after my usual round of hugs and handshakes, I sat in my AP Human Geography class, and one of my favorite teachers, Miss Lopez, said, "There is a virus that's spreading rapidly and we recently had our first cases in the U.S. So we'll have to potentially have classes online to prevent the spread."

She paused briefly to see how we were processing the info. The entire class was silent as a cemetery at midnight. A student in the back broke the silence in the room by saying, "Miss, so we are going to be on video calls or something?"

"Yes, exactly." The rest of the class, me included, didn't give any reaction, primarily because we were shocked. Everyone was also trying to envision what that would even look like.

The next day I received a call from the school telling me not to come in and that further instructions would be given. It felt strange to stay home that day, but my younger brother was thrilled by the news. I could not comprehend why he was happy about it until he said, "Look now, the only thing you have to do is go to work. And your classes are not difficult for you, so we can play 2K (a video game) together, eat and watch TV." I understood where he was coming from but I was still perplexed. "And you'll have more time to sleep," he added. The thought of having more time to sleep was indeed quite enticing.

My brother's optimism influenced my thoughts on the situation. I took it as a blessing. The next few weeks were less tiresome, just like he anticipated. Most of my classes didn't even have a Zoom meeting, so all I had to do was complete assignments posted on Google Classroom, which were a piece of cake. I felt increasingly energetic as the days went on. My workplace remained open, but many employees who were much older than me felt it was risky to be at work because we stood so close together while baking. They stopped working and I had the opportunity to take on more shifts. I worked 60-70 hour weeks and loved to see the hefty amount I had in my bank account.

I spent my days watching personal finance videos. I loved watching those videos talking about money, creating a budget, learning about the stock market, and much more. I made investments that became profitable a couple of months later due to the hysteria in the markets at that time. I taught my mom about everything I was learning, and she also began investing in the stock market. The pandemic turned out to be a very beneficial time for my mental, physical and financial well-being. The social element I was missing from school was disappointing, but I got closer to my coworkers. And I spent more time with my brother and even helped him start a gaming channel.

Don't get it twisted. It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows because people were dying and the fear of being infected was always looming. Also, my workload increased significantly because we were understaffed. I barely watched the news and would only hear about essential topics through my coworkers. I could not stand the news because it was depressing to constantly hear about COVID spreading and people dying. The pandemic was scary for me because of the number of handshakes and hugs I was accustomed to. I feared being one of the first to catch it, but I never did. And my entire family also remained healthy. The dual experience of fear and catastrophe surrounding me paired with more time spent with my loved ones was very humbling and I grounded myself even more in prayers.

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*Salif spends most of his time building things, specifically businesses and software. One example is his app, Roogo Burkina, a real-estate and property rental platform in Burkina Faso. “If something I wrote resonated with you or you just want to talk, feel free to reach out at tanksalif@gmail.com or on LinkedIn. Always happy to connect.”

© 2026 Salif Tankoano. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.

~~~

Abdu Bassett Audi

Abdu Bassett Audi

Abdu provides a comprehensive window into his world, by telling three charming stories. He recounts how, as a boy, he turned a new skill learned from other boys into a business venture; absorbed love for the Quran from his grandfather, and fell in love over a bowl of Nigerian jollof.

Audi’s Ride

“Assurez-vous que les roues sont bien serrèes!” (Make sure the wheels are tight), shouted the eldest of the four young boys from Sokodé (in Northern Togo) as they worked diligently in the sand and occasionally ran off to gather supplies. The mention of wheels caught my attention but I didn’t see any bikes or cars around, and these children were too young to be mechanics.

I walked towards them slowly and cautiously so as not to frighten them. The smallest one out of the group glanced up at me and said, “Come join us!”

It was the middle of July, and school was finished. My mom had announced to my three sisters and me that she was traveling to Sokodé to visit her mother. My sisters weren’t keen on going, but I begged my mom to accompany her. At ten years old, I hadn’t seen much of Togo, so I was eager to visit a new place and get away from my sisters, even if it was some little village. The bus trip from our home in Lomé (the capital city of Logo) to Sokodé in northern Logo was five hours and at my age it felt like a million light years. I kept sleeping and waking up, and we still weren’t there.

Finally, we got off the bus at the edge of the village and waited for a commercial bike to pick us up. We found a bike man, but my mom haggled with him; he thought we should be able to afford his overcharged price since we were from the city. She was finally able to bring the price down to something reasonable. We began the second part of the journey, and as the bike man weaved in and out of the various streets, I fell in love with bikes. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at my grandmother’s house.

After a few days of being in the village, I went exploring and became familiar with the neighborhood. That’s when I came across the group of boys huddled in a circle working on something. They had collected Peak Milk (evaporated milk), bottle caps and spare metal pieces from broken old bicycles. When the boy invited me over, I asked what they were doing. Someone shouted, “We’re making cars, dummy!”

I was eager to jump right in and learn everything I could so I could take it back to the city with me. They taught me how to make holes in bottle caps so that they could adequately be car “wheels.” Who would have known that there is an exact measurement in which they are small enough to fit a skinny wire but large enough to allow the bottlecap to rotate and move the car freely? The next day I learned how to attach the wheels to the body of the Peak Milk can. That was the most challenging day for me since it was the most critical part of the structure. On the third day, I learned how to collect and adequately determine which supplies would make me the best car. For example, Peak Milk cans are better than Carnation Milk cans because they are smaller and denser, so they take more wear and tear than a regular Carnation milk can. During my last days there, I perfected my skills. By the time I left, I was so good and fast that I was better than the person who taught me.

On the five-hour trip back home, I wasn't bored because I had taken some supplies with me, and I made a few more cars. By the time we reached our village I had ten cars! The following day I invited all my friends over, showing them my creations. Even though I tried to teach, it wasn't an easy concept to grasp, so instead, the kids in the neighborhood just paid me for my services. That summer I became the youngest businessman in my area, selling each car for 200 francs (45 cents). Every kid in the community was begging their parents for the money to buy this little makeshift toy made from recyclables. By the end of the summer, I could save enough money to buy myself a good amount of masa (rice cakes) every day for the rest of the year.

~

My grandfather was a person who could light up a room. He was my hero. He stood at a whopping 6 feet 4 inches tall, and you could see that he had been very fit in his youth. His hair, worn in an Afro, was magnificent; salt-and-pepper and his beard was woolly white, which gave the impression that he was older but not too old. Whenever he flashed a smile or laughed thunderously, it was as if time slowed down and he was the center of attention. I vividly remember him being one of the only elders in our community who still had all his teeth. He would roam the streets, hands crossed behind his back, head slightly turned downwards in a humble way, with his brown leather slippers, long faded green kaftan, dark green hat to match, a chewing stick in his chest pocket, with a long white tasbih (prayer beads) wrapped around his left hand and a leather pouch in his right hand.

I sat at my grandfather’s feet when he visited us, which was most nights. He would typically give advice, tell me stories of the past, and crack jokes. One of the jokes was, “Why did the photo go to jail? Because it was framed!” I used to be so happy when he came and so melancholy when we would say our goodbyes.

The last time I saw him was a cool night, and I remember that the moon was full and yellow. I sat in the sand at his feet while he reclined and narrated the story of Noah and the Ark. As he began to paint his wonderful images, I drew in the sand, with a stick, an outline of what I thought the ship would look like and drew tiny figures of all the animals I could think of. When it ended, he quizzed me on all the different parts of the narration. This was my favorite part of story time. If I got all the questions correct, he would give me my favorite snack; fried rice cakes called masa. I would save them in my pocket for later to make my sisters jealous when we wanted snacks late at night and my mom locked the kitchen.

I got all the questions right this time, but there was no masa in sight. I sat there in disappointment, too shy to ask my grandfather about masa. When I looked up at him sadly, he said, “I have a gift for you worth more than all of the masa in the world.”

He then brought out from his leather pouch a green silk bag. Inside was a rectangular-shaped present wrapped in shiny paper. I thought to myself, “I hope it’s a bunch of chocolates.”

He handed me the gift and I unwrapped it. Inside was a black book. I flipped through the pages, but it was written in a language I didn’t understand at the time. I hoped and prayed there were some pictures to help me decipher what this book was all about.

“Abdu Bassett, this is a Quran, the most important book in our religion. All the stories I’ve been telling you and advice I have been giving you come from this book.”

“Really? This book is mine?”

“Yes, my son! I want you to have this book and take care of it. Keep it close to your heart. Whenever you are confused, upset or afraid, refer to this book. Love this book. Live by this book. Die by this book.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “If you can do me this one favor, I will be the happiest man on earth.”

“What is it, Grandpa?”

“Promise me that no matter what you do in this life, no matter who you become, you’ll memorize this book and keep it in your heart, and it will always guide you. I may not be here forever to advise you, but with this book, you’ll never lose your way.” I gripped the 600-page book tightly between fingers and held it close to my heart. I was overwhelmed with many thoughts, but the one that stuck out to me the most was, “How am I going to memorize 600 pages of a book in which I can’t even read the language?”

Later that night, I heard my grandfather talking to my father about enrolling me in Quran classes. I started Quran classes that same week. My grandfather got busy traveling to different countries because of business and trade and he stopped visiting as often as he used to. Unfortunately, he passed away that same year, and I never saw him again.

His death was very painful for me, given that we were so close, but that closeness motivated me to keep striving to memorize the entire Quran. This is a feat that most Muslims around the world embark on. Some people take a couple of years and others their entire lifetime to complete it. I am still on the journey, and I’m still using that same black leather Quran in the green silk pouch to fulfill my promise to him.

~

If you told me that I would propose to someone over a bowl of Nigerian Jollof rice, I’d laugh and call you crazy. Migrating to this country as a 20-year-old and delving right into higher education left no real opportunities to create genuine friendships. On a quest for greener pastures, I joined an investment group, and on the first Zoom meeting, I saw an adorable girl with the chubbiest cheeks and the brightest smile. She spoke so eloquently, but I wasn’t paying much attention to what she said because her voice was smooth, like freshly churned butter. A couple of weeks went by, and as my mentor, she called to see how I was doing and checked my investment history. We soon took a tangent, and we hit it off! I told her about my graduation and she immediately offered to help me take some photos. We continued to get closer, and eventually, the debate about which country makes the best jollof rice, Nigeria or Ghana, arose.

I grew up eating Ghanaian jollof, which is beautiful copper-colored, fluffy jasmine rice boiled with freshly roasted tomatoes and chicken stock, laced with aromatic spices to deliver a party in your mouth flavor. We decided to put our recipes to the test and set a date for our taste test competition. So, I set out to the nearest grocery store to defend my honor.

I raced down the aisles, grabbing shallots, scotch bonnet, chicken, cabbage, carrot, bell peppers, tomatoes, thyme, rosemary, bay leaf and beets for my salad. I secretly wanted to impress her. The day finally came, and I hopped in my car, put my jollof rice in the passenger seat, put the seat belt on the container for extra safety and sped down the Cross-Bronx Expressway to her house.

When I got there and she entered the car, a beautiful aroma entered with her. You could smell the culmination of various spices, known and unknown, permeating throughout the car. We drove to the nearest park to watch the sunset and settle this matter once and for all. She tasted my rice first; I could tell that she didn’t really like it, but instead of telling me the truth, she just smiled so wide, her chubby cheeks lifting so that they almost covered her eyes, and she said it tasted amazing. It was my turn to taste her rice, and when I opened the plastic container, I was greeted with a rich, deep red colored rice garnished with sauteed onions and fried plantains -- which was my favorite -- paired with fried meat tossed in a pepper sauce. I thought to myself, “How did she know that I loved eating plantain with my rice?” I took a deep breath, used my spoon like a shovel and took a big bite. It was as if the gates of heaven opened and shined a light through the sunroof of the car, and the angels were playing their trumpets. I could taste every spice, curry, thyme, bay leaf, rosemary, nutmeg, and other spices I couldn’t recognize. As expected with Nigerian Jollof, it was spicy enough to burn your tongue off but flavorful enough to keep you coming back for more. I doubled down and didn’t leave a single grain of rice in that bowl. As I looked up at her, she asked, “So, how was the rice?” I paused for a moment and got shy. As she waited impatiently for my critique and asked again for a response, I blurted out, “I know we’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks, but will you marry me?” To be sincere, she is one of the most caring and loving human beings ever.

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*Abdu Bassett Audi is a graduate of Lehman College with a Bachelor of Science in Health Services Administration. He is passionate about health, education, personal development, and community service. He enjoys using storytelling and writing to connect with diverse audiences and share meaningful perspectives. He is currently seeking opportunities to connect with experienced writers for guidance as he works on his first book, a collection of real-life stories.

© 2026 Abdu Bassett Audi. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.

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