**Maya, Dakar - Senegal, September 15, 2020**
At last, I was about to leave my native Senegal after twenty-five years of struggle, bound for the great France of Emmanuel. Farewell, Macky!
But first, I had to savor one last time my dear mother's Tchep, that fragrant rice dish whose secret blend—smoked fish straight from Lake Retba, perfectly green cabbage, and tender cassava—was hers alone.
Ma'a Ada, as we, her four children born of her womb, called her, was a wonderfully gentle woman, the third and, in my eyes, the most beautiful of my late father Daouda's five wives.
I found her in the kitchen, and thank God, she had finished preparing the meal. I loathed that task and detested even more waiting for my mother to complete her usual, lengthy culinary ritual.
Sometimes it took three, even four hours, because with her, everything was done with precision. She washed the rice, then washed it again and again until you could see your reflection in the water, the grains no longer releasing their milky starch.
And the smoked fish? She removed all the skin and bones, rinsed the pieces, lightly salted them, and boiled them.
The cabbage and cassava were no exception. She cleaned them separately with hot water before mixing them in the largest pot, cooking them for a long time because she loved the cassava soft, flavored with cabbage juice.
"My daughter, eat well before you leave for France tomorrow," Ma'a Ada said to me, "because over there, Tchep is rare, and if you find it, you'll have to pay a hefty price. And God knows you don't have much money."
"Thank you, Mama," I replied, taking the plate of Senegalese rice she made sure to pile high.
I left her and settled at the small table in the corner of our compound's courtyard. After just a few bites, my stomach was already full. Though I loved getting the biggest plate, I was far from a glutton.
Often, I couldn't finish my meal, which deeply upset my mother, who had a profound respect for food after the hardships she'd endured in her life.
Still, I always gave my leftovers to my little brother Baba when he was around. If he wasn't, I carefully saved them for him and handed them over when he returned home in the evening.
But this last time, with my head and heart already in Paris, I forgot to wrap the leftover Tchep in aluminum foil to keep it from spoiling.
Suddenly, I remembered I still had to pack my bags, and time was running out. Less than twenty of my final twenty-four hours remained on the land of my ancestors.
I leapt from my chair, leaving more than half of my Tchep to the flies and ants.
I found myself in my already chaotic room, needing to pack my newly bought belongings into my travel bags amidst the great mess I had created myself.