Enuma Okoro’s fantasy dinner: the queen of Egypt, Harriet Tubman, Oprah and Madam CJ Walker

It’s 5pm and there’s a warm breeze drifting in from the Indian Ocean. We’ve rented a bungalow just south of Mombasa, right on the lip of the sea. The sound of waves dips through holes in the whitewashed breeze blocks. The women will be here soon.

My partner and I are standing at the small kitchen island, where I’m garnishing a large bowl of green salad with pomegranate seeds and mango slices. He has skewered and seasoned the jumbo shrimp with smoked paprika and made the garlic, oil and chilli marinade with salt and a dash of baking soda. I turn my nose up at the soda, but he swears it will give the shrimp a nice crunch. He’s been pleading for me to let him stay. But I’ve insisted this one is women only. Besides, he planned the last fantasy dinner and put Hemingway and Faulkner next to each other.

I’m cooking the appetisers myself, grilled brochette des crevettes with a side of alloco: fried plantains diced into little cubes that stick together in the pan in soft sweet clumps. It’s been a favourite way to cook plantains since my childhood in Abidjan. I’ve got some palm wine in the fridge to start us off, but I’ve let our guest chef pair her courses herself. She’ll be here any minute. And my partner’s still here. “I shouldn’t have to miss a dinner party with Cleopatra, Madam CJ Walker, Harriet Tubman, Maya Angelou and Josephine Baker!” he pleads.

“Good memory,” I say. “But you forgot Oprah. And um, our chef for the night, Mashama Bailey.” 

“Wait, I’m missing her cooking too?” His eyes widen in disbelief. “And I thought you said only five guests.”

“Yeah, but c’mon. It’s Oprah. How could she not be at this table? Besides, maybe after a few glasses of palm wine I can talk her into hosting one with me. I’ll get you on the guest list for that one.” 

I should stop teasing and fix the table seating. I want to place Angelou and Tubman beside each other. I wonder if Tubman or Walker will have any cooking secrets to share with Bailey, who cares so much about the narratives and the passageways braided into food. Though goodness I’ve got a list of questions a mile long for those two myself.

What feeds the kind of courage and strength that let Tubman risk her life repeatedly?

What feeds the kind of courage and strength that let Tubman risk her life repeatedly to help so many enslaved people get to freedom? All while dealing with a bounty on her head for having escaped. And Walker, the black businesswoman and philanthropist, who in the late 19th century built up a hair care business to become the first self-made female millionaire in America. She and Oprah need to write a book together. And I have questions for the others too!

“Aarrgh,” I say out loud in response to my own thoughts.

“OK, I’m leaving. Relax,” my partner laughs, backing out of the room, hands up in surrender.

“No, babe. I was just thinking. I need to remember this is supposed to be a time for total rest and just pleasure. You know all these women could use that. I can’t pepper them with 1,000 questions. I want them to feel . . . I don’t know, like this is a sanctuary space for a few hours, to say whatever they want and just be together. Sometimes, we don’t even know how much we need that kind of space till someone invites us into it. No one asking anything of you, not to prove yourself or defend yourself or justify yourself. Just space to eat and drink and talk and laugh and cry if needed. Space to be, where you feel safe in ways you can’t necessarily articulate.”

I pick up the vase of fresh yellow roses, link my arm through his and walk us out to the round dining table where the name cards are scattered, waiting to be arranged. “And quite selfishly, I just want to listen to them talk to each other. Can you imagine Josephine and Cleopatra comparing notes about their experiences?” I give him a quick kiss, and push him towards the front door.

When I’m alone in the house, I turn on Cesária Évora and raise the volume. The haunting song “Sodade” fills the room till Évora’s voice is sailing over the sound of the sea. The chorus pleads out repeatedly, “Quem mostrava esse caminho longe . . . ? Sodade dessa minha terra . . . ” “Who showed you the distant way . . . ? Longing for this land of mine . . . ”

I’m humming and swaying around the table, with candlesticks in my hand. I expect the night to be long. The doorbell rings. And I smile, almost gliding to open the door and to shut the rest of the world out.

Enuma Okoro is a writer, speaker and columnist for FT Life & Arts

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