Orumé

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ORUMÉ'S STORIES: LIVING WITH A DIFFERENT RELIGION GOOD FOOD ON HISTORY'S TRAIL

Living with a Different Religion		by Orumé Hays
Lagos, the economic and financial capital of Nigeria, is a mixture of both Christians and Muslims. However, the majority of Lagosians are Christians, and in my family, we were raised as devout Catholics. As teenagers, my younger sister, Lillian and I stayed in the home of a Muslim friend of our father's for short periods of time, on our way to and from boarding school in the northern part of Nigeria. Everyone got along just fine. Recently, my older sister, Ruth, tells me she’s tired. She’s tired of all the fighting and killing going on in the capital city of Jos in Plateau State, which is in the middle belt of the Nigeria, one of Africa’s most populous countries. Apart from the numerous indigenous traditional religions, the country is almost evenly split between Christians and Muslims. Christians dominate the South, while Muslims dominate the northern territories. The middle belt of the country has always been mixed, and for a long time, Nigerian migrants from different religious groups learned to live together. Hausas, Igbos, Yorubas and even Europeans, who love the cooler temperatures in the region, have made Jos one of the most cosmopolitan cities in Nigeria. Plateau State is known in Nigeria as the "Home of Peace and Tourism". Somewhere along the way, things changed. It began in 2000, when a governor from one of the northern states, Zamfara, started to enforce the application of Islamic Sharia law, part of the legal system which has always existed in Muslim states. Zamfara state began to enforce Sharia law on non-Muslims living in the state, as well as Muslims. Then Governor Ahmed Yerima stated that his goal was to make Nigeria a Sharia country. The fact that half the citizens of the country were Christians did not seem to be of importance to him. Today, 12 out of the 36 states in the country have instituted Sharia law. Christians living in these regions obviously do not agree with the encroachment on their religion, and riots and protests soon escalated. Sectarian fighting increased. Muslims would attack Christians and burn down churches; Christians would retaliate and burn down the mosques. Thousands of people been killed all in the name of God, or Allah. Although most of the fighting is being attributed to religious reasons, some of the sectarian fighting is actually a struggle for political power. Many of the southern migrants, both Christians as well as some Muslims, feel isolated because the Northerners have dominated political power in the middle belt. Multiple generations of settlers in the region feel they should have a prominent voice in the affairs of their communities. Like me, Ruth was raised a Catholic. Later in life, she became a born again Protestant Christian. She is a lawyer who works for one of the Nigerian government agencies. She has worked in many different regions in the country and when she got posted to Jos, she did not resist the potential danger in traveling to a state close to the northern regions. She relocated with her two children, Peace and Ugo. In 2004, my sister started what would become a five year job posting to the city of Jos. She loved the beauty of the state, its cool environment, clean streets and working infrastructures. It was during this period that she also switched her faith and became a Muslim. She said she loved the fact they prayed five times a day, and she did not like the fact that many Muslims were being unjustly persecuted. In 2009, the government reassigned her to a post in the eastern region of the country. She moved with her youngest child, Peace, but she left something precious behind in Jos. Ugo was in boarding school and Ruth did not wish to pull him out of school. She arranged for him to stay with one of the officers in the barracks whenever he is out of school. When sectarian fighting resumed in 2010, she began to worry. Stories of men slaughtering babies, children, women, and men, unnerved and stressed her greatly. Although Ugo is safe whenever he is on the base, his safety when he is off the premises, in school or attending to other daily activities, cannot be guaranteed. Besides, her commandants could no longer justify providing her with accommodation in two different regions. She waited anxiously for Ugo to leave Jos but after he completed his final exams, he did not wish to leave immediately because Jos is the capital city for musicians, and he is an aspiring musician. Ruth prays about his safety everyday. I remember the first time I traveled to Jos. I was in form four at Marywood Grammar School, Ebute Mette Lagos, when my parents discovered my then “boyfriend” in my bedroom. Mother was extremely shocked and disappointed in me. This was the only time I remember my dad giving me a whopping with his belt. Mom assured me that there was more punishment to come. She complained that Lillian and I had life too easy. We were abusing the privileges we had been given she said. She decided life was going to get tough for us; no more entitlements, no more cook, no more drivers, no more private tutors, and most importantly, no more boyfriends. Later mom and dad announced their decision to us. Lillian and I were to be shipped off to a boarding school. As it was towards the end of the school year, they decided to enroll us at a new school for the next year. Mom and dad had a couple of months to get us into the new school. Dad called on some of his friends in high places and within no time, his friend and colleague, Alhaji Shekarau Umar, found a school for us in the northern part of Nigeria. I was grief-stricken; I would have to leave my nice Catholic school as well as my friends. But that was just the beginning. I would have to adapt to living in the North, a place where they predominantly spoke two different languages, Hausa and Fulani, where the cuisine was different from what we ate in the South, and where they predominately practiced a different religion, Islam. What a horrible punishment I had brought on myself and my Lillian, who was in essence being punished for my sins. Mom tried to put a bright spin on things; the experience would be good for us she said. We would learn about a new place and a new tribe. We would also make new friends. "What have I done to deserve such a huge punishment," I lamented to myself. It wasn’t as if I had sex with the boy in my room, I complained. I felt worse after I found out I would have to repeat form four. Although I had been promoted to form five in my old school, my new school, Government Girls Secondary School, Bauchi would only accept me into form four as my grades were borderline passing grades. Mother traveled with us on our first trip out. Our suitcases were filled with food provisions like baked beans, sardines, and garri, a local grain product. The driver took us to the Lagos airport and we flew into Jos as Bauchi did not have a local airport. Alhahi Umar’s driver met us at the airport and drove us on the two hour road drive to Bauchi. The journey felt more like four hours. But the landscape was beautiful. This was my first time in that part of the country and I had no idea we had mountains in Nigeria, as the South is a flat region. We were also unprepared for the cooler temperature. The Alhaji house was huge, set behind a big gate. As a Muslim, he is allowed to have four wives; however at that time, he had two wives and many children. One of his daughters, Fatima, was my age and she was in my school. We would later become good friends. We spent the night in one of the many guest rooms in the house and mother took us to school the next morning. One of the teachers gave us a tour of the school grounds and we ended up at our dormitory. Lillian and I were in separate dorms. I begged mom not to leave me behind but she hugged me and said I would be fine. “Send a message if you need anything, ” she said. And then she was gone. I resented my new school; many of the pupils were Northerners although we did have a few Southerners. The uniform was a sky blue knee-length dress worn over trousers. We also had to tie our heads with scarves made out of the same fabric. However, we were not required to cover our faces. Many of the Hausa girls spoke good English in class and to us. However, if they were speaking among themselves, they would speak Hausa. Sometimes, Fatima translated what the girls were saying to me. It took a couple of months for me to adapt to my new school. I made a few friends and settled in as best as I could. I remember the days before and after each school term; these were the times we stayed at the Umar house. I looked forward to those visits, since they made us comfortable in their home. I remember being present once during the Muslim Ramadan holiday. Members of the family would wake up early and eat a big breakfast before dawn. Then they fasted while trying to be sin-free and good people all day. In the evening, they'd break their fast with a huge elaborate feast after sunset. This was also a time for the family to bond. even though the men ate separately from women. The women ate with the children in another room. Lillian and I ate with the women and children and it did not seem to bother anyone that we did not share their religion. We never really discussed religion, but no one tried to convert the other to their own religion. We saw the family going about their prayers and we did not intrude on them. While at the Umar residence, I do not recall ever going to church, but we sometimes did go to church from school. There seemed to have been many churches and other Christians in the community. I never witnessed any major conflicts between the various religious groups. My sister and I recall that one of our girlfriends in school who did get beat-up. Her father was a Muslim but she was a practicing Christian, which was the faith of her mother. During a minor school conflict, the students stuck by friends of their own religion. So Tayo got beat-up because she kept talking to us, non-Muslims. I moved to another boarding school in the North, Government Girls Secondary School, Azare, because I wanted to be in an Arts school in form five, and the government had instituted a new educational program for schools to concentrate on Arts or Science. Azare was also the inevitable choice as that was the town where Alhahi Umar, also called "Baba" was from. Since his daughter Fatima was going to be transferred there, it was an easy choice for me to go to Azare as well. Lillian remained in Bauchi as she was a science pupil. She once told me of two incidents when there were actually religious riots in my old school. This resulted in the school being shut down and everyone being sent home. But then, unlike today, nobody was killed, even though it was dangerous then, too. That is what led my sister, Ruth to leave the Muslim faith to which she had recently converted. She says there are many things that she likes and admires about Islam, but she does not like the fanaticism. While she admires some aspects of the religion, she is back to practicing Christianity. the end

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GOOD FOOD by Orumé Hays

Chopping carrots, slicing peppers, dicing onions- I find these kitchen chores mundane and boring; the mere thought of performing them sickens my stomach. Life however is impossible without such everyday domestic tasks and somehow we have to adjust ourselves to these necessities. Nonetheless, whenever such a task is imposed on me, it can be an overwhelming burden; and that was how I felt when my mother introduced me to the world of cooking. Her desire to have well-groomed daughters who could cook forced me to learn how to make what she considered to be “good food”.

Mom, my sisters, and I had just returned from a summer vacation in London where we stayed with an auntie. Auntie, whom we call Mommy Porter, welcomed us into her home with an assortment of delicious, spicy Nigerian food, including Jollof rice, goat meat stew and fried plantains. As we devored our meal and complimented her on it, she commented that she had to prepare all the dishes by herself, as her daughters were of little help in the kitchen. At that moment, Mom made a vow that the same thing would not happen to her daughters. She informed us the house-help would no longer cook our meals, and we would be required to learn how to cook.

True to her word, once we got back home to Lagos, she called us into a meeting saying the time had come for us to get behind the stove. We would have to do it all she said: go to the market to buy the ingredients, prep and cook full meals, and then lastly -dish it out to the family at meal times. We would alternate every couple of days so each person would take turns to be in charge. I had hoped that she would have forgotten her new agenda by the time we returned home, so I was extremely disappointed to see that it had developed into a big agenda for her.

My younger sister, Lillian and I had tried to weasel out of this chore by running to Dad and complaining that we were too young at fifteen and thirteen to be doing any cooking. Dad said mom was in charge and refused to get involved. Mom insisted she would not be one of those mothers whom daughters blamed for not being taught how to cook. Due to our laments, she made one small concession; we would not be required to take public transportation to the market; rather, she would allow her driver to take us to the market and bring us back home.

At the beginning, the maid went with us to the market so she could show us the ropes. We usually went to Gbaja market as it was closer to the house. It was a full service market but once in a while we went to either of the bigger markets on the mainland - Tejuosho or Yaba market. At home, Mom supervised and told us what to do in the kitchen. After a few months, we learned how to make some basic food items, which included frying ripe plantains, boiling white rice, and pounding ground flour (eba). Ultimately, we graduated into making the staple Nigerian dish of spicy red stew.

A couple of months later, I had just arrived from school and was about to crawl to my favorite place in the bedroom, underneath the bunk bed I shared with Lillian, to read my new Nancy Drew novel. I heard my half-sister, Roli, who was visiting us call out, “Orumé, Orumé.” I knew the call was probably for me to go do some task as she couldn't be calling me to come out and play. I thought, maybe if I kept quiet she would not know I was back from school; however, I knew Lillian was in the backyard yapping off her mouth as usual, and as we often returned home together from school, Roli probably knew that I was in the house.

“Orumé, Mommy wants you,” Roli called out again. I looked at my Nancy Drew novel and glanced at the door to my room waiting for her to appear. I flung my novel onto the bottom half of the bunk bed; I sat on my bed and I waited. “It’s your turn to cook today,” Roli yelled out as she came into the room. I said nothing, got up, and took the long way around the house before going to meet Mommy in the front sitting room.

Mommy wanted to know what took me so long to answer her call as she handed me some Nigerian Naira. I stood and stared at the money in my hand until she said, “Hurry up and go to the market before Baba Beji gets home.” My parents inherited the nicknames of Baba Beji (daddy), and Mama Beji (mommy) which are customary names given to parents of twins.

“Mommy, can Mr. Ajayi (daddy’s’ driver) take me to the market?” That was part of our bonus incentive when she decided that we would be cooking; and it really made the chore more tolerable.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve given you enough money for transportation.” She explained that she was going out and she needed the driver. She then added that I should be careful and not lose the money. The other kids started to laugh when they saw me beckon to Roli to follow me into the bedroom.

Roli lived with my daddy’s sister but she wanted to move in with us. My auntie, whom we called Mama Surulere, was a market business woman and was hardly at home, so Roli learnt how to be independent and take care of herself and our younger half-brother, Omagbemi, at an early age. She could go out alone, take the bus to faraway places, and most of all, she could cook an assortment of Nigerian dishes.

Roli really enjoyed cooking, not only because she was good at it, but also because she got to spend a small amount of the market money on her personal needs. No matter what she cooked, be it spicy chicken stew or fresh fish Banja soup, the aroma of her cooking filled the house leaving everyone salivating in anticipation of supper. After she was finished cooking, she covered the pot of soup with a tight lid and no one tampered with the pot. After tending to some unimportant personal business, she finally returned to the kitchen to dish out the meal; and one had better not be in her bad book, for then one got a really small plate of food.

“Roli, you wan go market for me,” I asked speaking in Pidgin English. She told me she had made other plans; otherwise, she would have gone. Next, I asked my cousin, Sunny, if he would accompany me. He also declined, offering instead to walk with me to the top of the street to get a taxi.
I detested the market. For me, a trip to the market was like going to a funeral parlor.   It seemed as if you could smell and hear the market miles away. The stench of rotten food flowed from the open garbage on the sidewalks. Juju, highlife and disco music commingled to make a different sound, and the drone of a thousand voices spoke in many tribal languages.

On that day, I stepped out of the taxi at Gbaja market and narrowly missed a puddle of black water. I maneuvered my way through the narrow entrance of the market which was lined with street hawkers on both sides. Displayed on round aluminum trays on the ground were all sorts of merchandise for sale: peanuts, oranges, plantains, skin bleaching cream, hand woven leather slippers and bags, carved sculptures and paintings from local artists. The vendors all called out, “sista, you wan buy sometin?”

Maneuvering my way through the congested market drained me by the time I got to the butcher. His table was filled with cuts of fresh cow and goat meat, all under a sea of flies. I poked my index finger at a good-sized chunk of sleepy burgundy red meat. “Oga, how much be this one?”

“Make you take am for one hundred and twenty Naira (N120),” he said.

I replied, “Haba Oga, you no see – na so so bone na full am, I beg make I give you seventy Naira .”

He glared at me and said something to his fellow butcher in a different dialect of Yoruba which I did not understand. They laughed, but I stood my ground and we went back and forth some more until we finally settled on one hundred Naira. (N100). I handed him his money after he had chopped up the meat into little bits and bagged it. I smiled, proud of my bargaining skills; but then, I noticed that he was also smiling. He had obviously sold his meat at a good profit.

At the fresh produce stall, I bought two handfuls of small round red peppers, a portion of red bell peppers, some ripe tomatoes, and onions. I gave my bag of goods to the “Omolata” (one who grinds pepper) in the next stall. My eyes stung from the fresh pepper that filled the air, so I took three steps back into the middle of the pathway and watched her grind my peppers. The young girl seemed immune to the onions she was cutting up, while I, even from afar, started to tear up. The produce were thrown together in one big leaky plastic bowl and washed scantily as if they were allergic to water. She tossed the chopped ingredients into her blue hollow grinding machine, added some water and with a long wooden spoon, she pounded at the peppers so as to aid in the grinding. Next, she collected the ground pepper from the bowl underneath the blender and dumped it back inside to give them a finer blend. I had forgotten to bring a storage bowl from home so she put the finished liquid pepper sauce in double cellophane bags, and I prayed it would not break and leak before I got home.

I bought some “Goody Goody sweet,” - a tootsie roll-like candy, tore open the red wrapper and stood leisurely licking it as the market continued to buzz around me. I knew I was forgetting something, but I could not double check as I had lost the shopping list mom gave me. Thankfully, I had not lost any money. I bought an assortment of meat, cooking oil, pepper, fresh vegetable leaves and a tuber of yam. Whatever I was missing, we would have to do without. I counted the money leftover and as usual, I did not have enough to take a taxi back home.

I had to ride a “danfo” bus back home. The minivan was crowded and it had no windows in the back row where I sat. We made it to the junction of my street and the scorching African sun made the walk home seem twice as long. At the house, Roli was hanging out in the living room when I walked in. I slouched over to her, dropped my bags on the floor and my body went down as well. “Roli, I beg you, you fit help me cook; bele dey pain me.”

She knew I did not have stomach pains, but this time she smiled at me and said, “Okay!”

In the kitchen after I had unpacked my market bags, she held back her laughter as she asked me for the rest of my shopping.  When I insisted that was all, she asked for the balance of the market money.   I responded that there was none and then she asked , “na who you wan cook dis food for?” implying that I did not have enough food ingredients for the whole house.

I was lucky on that day as my sister Roli did help me out with the cooking while I hung out in the kitchen and performed the small tasks like boiling water which she assigned to me. On other occasions, I did not fare as well. I had to go through the whole market and cooking process alone. Later I understood her comments about my shopping. The soup we cooked lasted for only one day, unlike those prepared by my other siblings in the house which usually lasted for two-three days. As I went through the arduous task of “feeding” the many people in my house, the process reinforced in me the fact that I had a large family. I also acknowledged the fact that Roli was better at cooking than I was; and thankfully, Mommy was not looking for me to be a chef.

As an adult woman, the last time I attempted to seriously cook a meal, I burnt a significant portion of the food. However, every now and again, whenever I venture into the kitchen, I am delightfully surprised when I produce a good meal. Miso soup is relatively simple and I have learned how to make it. It takes no time to cook, and I prepare it in a small pot, (unlike a huge pot of stew).

The demanding task of cooking causes me to ignore the excitement and creativity that goes into the art and process. Cooking gives me no pleasure. It makes me anti-social and I am glad to only indulge in this chore at my own will. Today, whenever a friend asks to visit and he or she wants me to cook some Nigerian food, my response is: “Why don’t I take you out to dinner instead. My treat.”

The End
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ON HISTORY'S TRAIL                                                               by Orumé Hays


I recently took time to attend the presidential inauguration ceremonies of Barack Obama as our 44th president. Although I had a commemorative ticket to the inauguration, due to the donations I had given to the Obama campaign, I did not have one of the 240,000 official tickets that had been issued for the festivities at the Capitol. Nonetheless, I was not about to let that stop me from attending the events, and I made plans to drive to Washington D.C. to witness history.

I was joined on the road trip by two of my girlfriends who flew in to NYC as tickets from their home cities – Liz from Miami and Charisse from Chicago - were rather expensive to fly directly to DC. We left early on Saturday morning and practically chased after the 2009 inaugural train to D.C. The President-elect boarded the train in Philadelphia, after which Barack & his wife picked up his Vice president-elect, Joe Biden, and his wife in Delaware. The third stop was in Baltimore's Penn Station and we drove there safely but like maniacs only to miss them by about 15 minutes. Boy was I ticked; I kicked myself for stopping at a travel plaza for lunch. Of course the train arrived at Washington DC before us; nonetheless, we drove by Union Station to see if we would still get a whiff of the President Elect. Then we drove to a local café for dinner.

Ben’s Chili Bowl had been visited by Barack Obama a few weeks earlier and business at the café has been booming ever since. The scene outside was amazing. There were street vendors all along the Café Street selling all kinds of Obama merchandise from framed pictures to hats. There was a long line of people waiting to get into the café; the line stretched around the corner to the next street. There was even a police car parked outside the restaurant and the theater next door was busy with an inauguration party. Unruffled, we joined the line and after about 30 minutes of standing in line outside in the cold, we made it inside only to see another line to place our orders. Nonetheless, the food was well worth the long lines. I had a chili dog, and my friends enjoyed their meals as well. Then we drove to my sister, Roli’s place in Maryland where we were camping for the duration of our stay. My sister had a good laugh at me because while I was on the road I kept calling her and my other sister, Lillian, to track Obama’s train whereabouts on CNN for me.

The next morning, Sunday, we woke up early at made it to the Lincoln Memorial mall for the free ,We Are One, concert - The Obama Inaugural Celebration. We arrived at about 10am and claimed our spot in front of one of the big jumbo TVs. The concert started at 2pm and by then the mall was parked. My sister, Roli, who had been complaining a little - that why did she come out in the cold only to watch the concert on a TV screen when she could have seen the same thing on TV at home - soon stopped complaining. The ambiance was awesome. The excitement of the crowd was intoxicating. Every one was smiling at each other and there was not a sad or upset face to be seen for miles. The ceremony started; the opening prayer was said; then they announced the presence of the VP & Pres Elects and the crowd went berserk. What a thrill as we were not expecting them to make an in person appearance. We thought Obama was going to speak to the crowd via satellite but there he stood, up on stage , in front of us. He spoke in his usual charismatic manner and we all settled down to watch the concert. The concert was a lot of fun. There were a number of actors and actresses that took us down memory lanes reciting famous quotes from past presidents. The performers all did a great job and soon I forgot all about the cold as I sang and danced along to Sheryl Crow singing One Love, American Pie by Garth Brooks and other songs by Bono, Bruce Springsteen and Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Jon Bon Jovi, will.i.am and Stevie Wonder amongst others.

Afterwards, my cousin Kingsley, his wife Kwavi, and their two young boys, who had driven in from Atlanta for the festivities, visited with my sister and me at her home.

On Monday, MLK day we took advantage of the President Elect’s call to duty for a National Volunteer day. We went to RFK Stadium where we volunteered putting care packages for our service troops. Our allotted time was 12pm and we found out afterwards that Michelle Obama had been there at 10am putting some packages together; can you imagine ... another missed opportunity of meeting the first family.

My friends and I had a great time helping in putting packages together. We filled each zip-lock bag with toothpaste, chewing gum, an energy drink, notepad and a phone card. We did this for about 2 hours. At one point in time, we found the governor of Maryland standing behind us in line and we took pictures with him. It’s on his website- here is the link.
http://tinyurl.com/yan3ca5

I also took a picture with another prominent politician - a fellow New Yorker and a former Commissioner of Housing Preservation and Development in New York City, who also happened to be Obama’s new designate Secretary of Housing and Urban Development - Shaun Donovan. Later, my friends and I each wrote a couple of thank you notes to the troops.

Outside the stadium, all along the path to the Metro were tons more vendors selling Obama souvenirs from Obama Hot Sauce to Obama calendars. We did our share of supporting the "Obama Economy".

Alas, Tuesday came, the day of great change in America. What a blessed day it was. In December I had entered my name as a volunteer for the inauguration committee; I did not get chosen then but I was selected as a stand by volunteer. On Monday, I received an email notifying me that I had been given a volunteer assignment by the inauguration committee. By the time I responded to the email, I got a call back that my spot had been reassigned.

I panicked. Did I reply too late, what could I do to get my assignment back? I was told to write a request email to the volunteer committee and I did so. Thankfully, later I got another email from my captain saying that I had been reassigned back to her team, and I would be working along the parade route. Alas my friends were a little upset we would not be together for the ceremony but I could not get them in and I did not wish to give up my volunteer spot for such a prestigious assignment.

We left my sister’s place at 4:30 am and by 5:30 am we were in the Metro, in downtown D.C. my friends headed towards the Washington Mall while I went to the parade site. I met my fellow volunteers and our team captain gave us our assignment. We had been assigned to seat VIPs in the bleachers close to where the president would be seating. In short, we should have a great view of the President and the parade. Unfortunately, they did not put up TV screens along the parade route so many people there did not get to watch the swearing in ceremony. However, there was an Obama souvenir store along the route and they had their TV on. Volunteers and parade watchers all poured into the store to watch the ceremony and the store attendants did not turn anyone away. In essence, they stopped selling while all eyes were glued to the TV screen. The store went wild when Obama walked out to the stage and again after he took the oath. People cheered and cried and I was so happy to be there.

It took a while for the parade to get going as two senators had collapsed during the luncheon activities. It was almost dusk by the time the president showed up but it was a beautiful and joyful sight to see him. I watched him and his wife as they took a walk along the parade route; it was truly thrilling.

After he left the parade route and before he came back to take his seat at the viewing booth, I left as I was extremely tired and cold from being outdoors all day. Although my girlfriends and I had taken evening gowns along for we intended to secure last minute invite to some inaugural ball, we were all tired and instead of getting all dressed up to make it to a party we called it a night and caught a little of the president and his wife dancing at some of the inauguration balls shown on TV.

On Wednesday, we stated our drive back to New York by 10am although we were tempted to go to the White House because we heard that the new president was having an open house for tourists to visit the white house. A couple days later my team captain emailed to say that while she did not get to meet the new president when she went to stand in line at the white house, she did get to meet the new First Lady.

It was all so surreal. The whole experience was a blast and I am happy to have created my own front row access to witness a part of history.

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