It took me a week to work up the energy or guts to ask for help with understanding the system and buying as gas tube. It is hard for me to ask for something that requires people to fuss over me and this little mission required that my landlady followed me to the cornerstore and patiently translated the prices using a calculator app, asking what I wanted and preferred while the man in the shop switched between several caps to find a good one. Already on the second day from my arrival I had been borrowed a pot, a plate, a cup and cutlery by Blessed, my Nigerian room-neighbour, so I was good to go.

On my first Sunday Blessed brought me with her to church on my request where I let the songs, preachings and prayers seep into my silent body. Walking back I said that I’d never had jollof rice, a Nigerian speciality, but that I’d been curious about it ever since reading Adichies books. Blessed’s eyes widened and she offered to cook it for me. I laughed and upped the deal: I’d pay for the ingredients if she taught me how to cook it. My usual offer. And so we paid the market a visit on our way back and later I enjoyed the hot, gooey, mildly spicy rice in my room.

The first thing I cooked for myself on the gas tube was bayssara, the Moroccan lentil soup, just as I had been taught. My Moroccan neighbour Leyla peered over the pot and instructed me matter-of-factly that it was way too watery, but it was delicious anyway. Hot and rich.

From time to time Blessed would offer me some of her cooking. When hearing that I’d never tried a yam, she brought me a huge and heavy root to show me what one looked like, then brought me a small plate of the cooked yam and egg sauce. Another time it was a plate of rice and tomato sauce with fish. Even though she would use less spice than she normally would when treating me, my mouth would burn and my eyes would water from the chili. I’d need a lot of water, but it was still so delicious. I would joke to her:
“Your cooking makes me cry but I love it anyway. I cry and I eat.”

In the evenings I found a new passtime: I had long been looking for a cafe with wifi where I could write and study French, and I found such a place not far from my new home. The second night I spent there, although recovering, still my nose was running and I was sneezing violently. I was invited into a conversation between the man who worked there, Otman, and the only other guest, a Romanian tourist. Soon Otman made a run to his home and delivered for me three satchels of cold medicine that he instructed me to drink. The first one he mixed for me straight away. The very next day I found myself in a kitchen with the same Romanian tourist and his friend, with Otman teaching us all how to cook tajin.

Another day at the cafe Otman offered me to share a plate of traditional Friday couscous, cooked by a friendly lady next door.

The final thing I borrowed for my room was a small teapot. It was Otman who lent it for me. Often a night owl, I would tip-toe out from my room in my slippers while the house was dark and click alive the fire with my lighter. It would awaken with a little “woof”. I would place the pot on top of the ceramic “hat” and then sneak back into my room and wait until the pot would boil. Out of everything, hot tea is my biggest comfort.

Having warm and tasty food in my belly that I can cook myself is what makes even the most spartan room feel like home for me. I would eat sitting on my bed, often wearing all my layers as if I was still sleeping outside, happy with my spoon or bread cleaning the last straight from the pot.

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(This story told in pictures.)