Berlin

One of the girls – maybe two or even more – at the next table bleary-eyes me. And I stare blankly in their general direction before turning my gaze away to nothing in particular. With exception of the reception room of the Nigerian Embassy, I don’t suppose I have ever seen as many black people in one place anywhere else since my arrival less than two weeks ago in Berlin. Emmanuel Eni, the Berlin-based Nigerian artist who brought me here has disappeared with a young innocent-looking fella into one of the back rooms.

In between complaints and curses, the dreadlocks-sporting artist deftly wove his way in his Mercedes 180 all the way from my Alexanderplatz-based hotel to this neighbourhood. A stop-over at Nigeria Haus helped us to the quick decision. Nothing was happening there. On a large flat screen “The Simpsons” are showing to a disinterested audience while some Nigerian-flavoured hip-hop track assails our ear drums from the background. Nothing really to be worried about if the decibel count in this room could be measured on the Richter scale.

This is Fifty-Fifty, a Nigerian-owned restaurant, which also offers disco, bar and soul food. It is in one of those cobblestone streets in the Neukölln area. There is certainly no doubt about the Nigerianess of the place. This starts from the bar and progresses past the juke boxes up a level into the wider restaurant.

Surprise: the girls at the next table are furiously digging into their mounds of pounded yam with their bare fingers. Not really a ladylike thing to do back home in Nigeria, if you know what I mean. Fastidiousness goes with high-breeding. A brief digression here: years back, before the economic crunch left Nigerians wondering what hit them, ladies prided themselves with picking disinterestedly at their food. They must on no account display how eager they were to eat in public. But not these days…

The background music changes without any warning. The rhythm goes two steps faster and an Indian-looking girl moving her body as though in a trance hops into the open space between the tables. Her performance seems to go unnoticed. Very Nigerian…

Our orders arrive. Emmanuel has already returned to his seat to welcome his steaming large mound of pounded yam. I can’t help exclaiming at the size. Is he really going to finish it? The pretty-looking waitress smiles as though she knows something I don’t.

“You watch me,” Emmanuel tells me.

That’s exactly what I should have been doing. Now he has transferred about a fifth of the content of his bowl to mine. Now, this is an epicurean experiment that will confound Nigerians back home. Pounded yam with “Nkwobi”! The latter is supposed to be a savoury meat dish. But mine here has a copious quantity of shredded dry stockfish in it. This is not exactly home cooking, but it comes close.

We skip ordering for a second bottle of water. Emmanuel thinks five euros is too much for .75 litre-bottle. We’ll drink elsewhere, he says as we make our way out. Drinking elsewhere? Forget it. That’s history now.

Emmanuel has other more pressing issues on his mind. Exhilarating is not the word for his countless manoeuvres through the streets of Berlin. Angst-ridden, I’d rather say. He’s not a bad driver, really. He’s just energetic behind the wheels. Just as you’d expect him to be when he is neck-deep in his artistic creations.

“What’s the owner of the restaurant called?” I want to know. He tells me. Tony and something unprintable.

“No kidding?” -“That’s really what they call him.” - “But his real names?” Something else gets his attention and my question remains unanswered.