My Friend.
Sometimes we don’t get to say goodbye. Sunday night September 15th My Friend slipped into darkness around the corner for the last time. He was not coming back, bouncing around that corner anymore. I had seen him just that afternoon outside and I told him that we had adopted two new kittens and he said, "Okay I will get some food for them.” He loved feeding people, and cats too apparently. He told me that he hadn’t seen me for a long time and that I had had a good vacation. He told me that I worked really hard and I deserved to rest too and that it was good. It was a day just like any other day. Later Duane went out to go dancing at Nowadays to see Theo Parrish, and he saw him again without knowing it was the last time. They shared a laugh and then goodbye and then Duane got in a cab and left. Monday morning I was walking to work to cook for my doula clients when my neighbor Cas called out to me, gave me a big bear hug and told me that Our Friend Ali had died.
Ali cooked. He cooked at Cas West Indian and American Restaurant (they were recently in the New York Times list for best oxtails go check them out). He had his own cooking and catering business. He cooked with Rohan at events like the West Indian Day Parade and Atlantic Antic. He cooked everywhere all of the time. And Ali also cooked with me. If you ordered from Soup Doula last year or if you went to the Planetarium, then his hand touched you too. He helped me make all of the soup. Our Friend was strong. He helped me carry fifty pound bags of onions and carrots and forty pound boxes of chicken. I have a history of herniated back discs and I have to be careful. He helped me to lessen my load. At the commissary kitchen where we cooked, he would cook everyone family meal- every time we worked there. People are usually generous at the commissary kitchen giving each other treats and things, but Ali took it to the next level of care. He would make enough food for everybody who was in the building that day. He was from Niger, but he made a damn good taco. English was his seventh language after French, Hausa, and four other local languages. I like the way that he talked. He regularly and often referred to you as “My Friend”. As in,"My friend, what are we cooking today?" And he used to make up words and phrases and I think that when you speak seven plus languages you always do that. He used to say, “My Friend- do we have any taco bread?” I thought it was funny, but also, he was right. A tortilla is objectively taco bread.
One day on the way home from work in the cab he told me that when you feed people all of your blessings will come back to you many times over. That is what he did. He fed people. He was always cooking for everybody, feeding people every day, all of the time. There were a hundred people on the sidewalk during the fifth Knicks game and he was cooking. Sometimes when I would walk home from a long day at work, tired, hot, cold, as I would pass by he would hand me something that he was cooking or eating. A corn, a soup, a taco, something from the grill.
Thursday I remembered that in my freezer, I had the last of the carrots and the squash that Ali cut with the knife that my neighbor Micheal made for me from an old table saw blade. I thought, "I should use those vegetables that he cut to make a West African Peanut Soup for the party for the celebration of his life." Our friend and I had talked about making this soup together sometime but soup season had ended and we were waiting for the fall. We had plans to make more soup.
I wasn’t the only neighbor who had something Ali had prepared in the freezer. My Real Neighbor Shawn presented some of Ali’s suya. The spicy, salty, suya seasoning was comforting and familiar and sad because I knew that he was gone and we have been changed. The loss of a cook cuts deep into the hearts of the community. Ali fed us at his own celebration of life after his death. Literally death didn’t stop him from caring for his people. Our Friend you are free and we will miss you dearly.
Saturday I was in the kitchen at Cas West Indian and American Food restaurant, cooking the peanut butter soup with goat, and it was taking a very long time to braise down. Many people coming in and out of the kitchen. Rohan was doing most of the work prepping the feast, Cas himself, My Sister in Love Deah Love, myself and neighbors and friends were coming in to talk, help out with doing some dishes and comfort each other through tears and grief.
Rohan said “it’s Brooklyn United!” Through the kitchen, the dining room of the restaurant and out through the front door I could hear the drum of the marching band and the chant “Ali, Ali, Ali”, as Brooklyn United marched down Kingston avenue. In my own tunnel vision grief I had forgotten that Ali had also worked at Brooklyn United. Brooklyn United is a “youth development program committed to empowering and educating students ages 5-18 through Brooklyn... transforming their lives through the arts, using marching band, music and dance as a magnate.” You might remember them from their performance when they opened the 2021 met gala. The sun was setting, the traffic was stopped, the kids were drumming and dancing and chanting and when it was all over we all took a moment of silence for Our Friend. Then, just like Ali would have wanted, the kids in the band ate, and then everybody else until all the food was gone.
Back in the kitchen, the peanut butter goat soup was still cooking. It was the last thing to go out. Lots of people were in and out of the kitchen telling stories and sharing memories. Breaking down crying. Deah was asking everyone what their favorite thing that Ali used to make was, and nobody could really answer because it wasn't about what he made - don’t get me wrong he was a great cook and it was delicious but it was about the way he shared it all with everybody all the time. He fed the whole community. He fed everybody. As the days go by I keep recognizing another layer upon layer of people that he touched with his work and his cooking and his generosity and kindness.
It was hard for everyone in the kitchen to say what their favorite Ali dish was. Was it the suya? Or the corn? Everyone agreed that the spicy pepper onion sauce was the best. It was then that George said, “Well I can't tell you what the best thing he made was - but I can tell you the one thing that he made that I always refused to eat. THE PEANUT BUTTER SOUP!!!!!” We all burst into laughter because George didn’t know that was the soup that was bubbling away in the pot! Our Friend was in the kitchen with us in spirit and he had jokes.
Our friend you are free and we will miss you dearly. Rest in Peace Ali.