Nacatamal

It had been more than 20 years since he’d seen her. 

Fernando didn’t really blame her, at least not as an adult. It was tough when he was younger. Not many children would understand the realities of how a civil war could separate a family. Even fewer children would accept the fact that their mother would send them away for their own safety. He adapted as best he could, which was not well. For the longest time, he pretended to be Cuban. Not that he was ashamed, it was just easier to pretend as opposed to hearing strangers fumble the pronunciation of Nicaragua. He had struggled through college, but had graduated — the first in his family to do so. He had just become naturalized, not that he ever claimed to know much about Nicaragüense history, Fernando considered himself an American — whatever that meant nowadays. Growing up in Florida, there were not many nicoya’s, but more than most places. Most came to the U.S the same time he did and the same reason; Nicaragua was brutal back in the 80’s.

Circumstances were different in Nicaragua. Not so different that there were not protests that erupted every now and again; it was still safe enough to travel. Fernando knew all the answers to the questions his younger self asked. Not that his aunt and mother were very communicative, but he pieced together the situation himself. His aunt had moved to Florida years before the war got worse, his mother fearing the worst sent Fernando over the border to claim asylum when he was barely old enough to speak (not that she knew how difficult and expensive a process that would be). His mother stayed because her parents were too old and only she could take care of them. His father was a civilian who was killed in a skirmish with the Contras. These were all familiar notes that played in the background of his life. A song that he, despite his resentment, would come to understand. These were facts he grew up with, but facts don’t replace the warmth of a mother’s embrace. As much as he knew he could not blame his mother for his own decisions, he was only human, it still was hard not to lay responsibility at the generation that came before. So he decided he would see his mother for the first time since he left the country. 

She lived where she worked. An alleyway known as the Callejon in Managua, the capital city. Fernando had never been to Nicaragua before, so it had been quite a chore to find it. The moment he touched down the humidity rushed at him as if he walked into an oven. He was instantly sweating. It was just as humid as Ft. Lauderdale was, probably even more. He didn’t bring much with him, he didn’t have to, he wasn’t going to stay long. When they made the plan to meet a few months back she had told him not to stand out too much — it was still smart to be careful, so he was wearing sandals, jeans and a striped t-shirt. 

Taxi’s were abundant outside the airport. It didn’t take long to hail one, but it was clear to everyone Fernando spoke to that while he looked the part, he was no local. While he was grateful that his aunt forced him to learn Spanish, it was apparent that he was few steps behind Nicaragüense Spanish whenever he opened his mouth. Luckily, a kind, if not loud, taxi driver knew exactly where the Callejon was. Fernando was pretty sure he was overcharged. The Dollar went so much farther in Nicaragua, so he didn’t mind. He stepped out of the taxi and walked into the Callejon. It was easy to be overwhelmed. An ‘alleyway’ as his mother described it, was nowhere near an apt description of the Callejon. 

If Fernando had not grown up in Central American communities, he knew he would have been immediately overwhelmed. The cacophony of sounds and assault of smells rushed at him like a wave overtaking the shore as soon as he stepped into the Callejon. It was less alleyway and more boulevard with how long the road was. The street, like most of Managua, was cobblestoned. People were lined up on both sides of the road with stalls that stretched for a few blocks. There were other alleyways that branched off the main path where people set up more stalls. It felt like a busy bazaar than it did a flea market. As he walked down, looking for the food section of the market, he did his best to take in what he was seeing. After all, this was the land of his birth. Vendors all clamoring for his attention the moment he entered their sphere of influence. Canasteras walking up and down calling out whatever good they were selling, carrying on their heads. Children trying to sell trinkets for what amounted to nickels for Fernando. 

He smelled it before he saw it. A pleasing sense of competition began in his nose and seemed to settle in his head. First, was the pork. The pork in the first stall was being simmered with achiote, vinegar and a mix of spices. Tantalizing though it was, he moved on. Fernando saw people gathered around a different stall, seated at plastic tables. The plate stacked high with yuca, ensalada and carne asada. Smaller stalls offering bajada and queso frito for less than a dollar. His stomach began to rumble as if in protest to the fact Fernando kept walking. These dishes were all familiar to him, he ate these with his cousins throughout his childhood. His mother told him to come hungry, she was making food just for his arrival. He saw another stall offering quesillo: a hand-made tortilla, with cuajada, cream and onion. Customers left that stall with the tortilla wrapped in a small plastic bag so liquid wouldn’t spill. He couldn’t resist the temptation, he hadn’t eaten since he left Florida. He asked the vendor manning the stall how much they were in Spanish.

“100 pesos jovén”, the man said in a jovial tone. That was a little less that three dollars.

“Gracias, dondé esta la tienda de Doña Diaz?” Fernando asked. They exchanged the money and the expressive older man pointed him the direction of his mother’s stall. He took a bite of the quesillo as he made his way toward his mother’s stall. Simple as it always sounded, he loved quesillo. The fresh cheese of the cuajada was unlike anything he had ever tasted, they just used mozzarella back home. His first bite into the signature street food produced a commercial worthy cheese pull. The cheese was so elastic it allowed the cooks who made it to braid it. He finished it before arriving. 

His mothers stall was a humble one. Scarcely decorated with a sign outside that read “Nacatamales de Doña Diaz”. Fernando was nervous, that was to be expected. He approached the stall and a young woman greeted him. 

“Perdon, pero estamos cerrados hoy.” The young woman apologized to him and pointed him to another stand that could help him.

“No, estoy buscado la Doña Diaz, soy su—” Before Fernando could finish explaining, 

“Esther! Deja que entre, ese es el chávalo que te dije iba a venir!” A voice called from deeper inside the home. Esther led him into the home while apologizing for not letting him in sooner. As soon as he walked in, he felt tense. During the whole flight into Managua, he wondered how this would go. There was so much build-up, so much emotional weight on this interaction, so much pressure to communicate exactly what he was feeling, Fernando was paralyzed in that moment. He never really knew his mother; even if he explained that away with reasoning how many kids actually new their parents anyway, it wasn’t enough to assuage his anxiety. What would she say? Would she embrace him? Hug him? Would he be okay with that? Would she apologize? Did she have to? As much as he prepped himself on the way here, none of it stopped it from swirling around his mind all at once like whirlwind of oppressive scenarios.

Esther left Fernando in a living room. There was a row of plants alongside one of the walls and an opening in the ceiling making the room cool. It was bright and lived in. There were no pictures on the walls. He had never asked if his mother had moved on after his father passed. Apparently, she lived on her own. He did not want to pity her, but he did feel a sadness at the lack of any personal connection in the home. Selfishly, he thought of why she hadn’t come for him after the country had calmed down and her parents passed. He wouldn’t have minded, he didn’t have many true friends in the U.S. Fernando had lived a turbulent life, filled with trouble and conflict. If he was honest, he knows he was lucky he had never been arrested. His aunt had even kicked him out a few times. These thoughts and more continued to stew in his mind as he felt more and more that he didn’t belong here. What was he doing? Why even bother her here? She was obviously okay without him. This wasn’t his homeland anymore.

“Mijo! Ven, siéntate por favor. Para que hablémos.” The voice called from the kitchen.

Fernando obeyed, despite his instinct telling him to leave without saying anything. A not-so-insignificant rebellion within him, but perhaps he recognized how much of his time he had already spent. Maybe he needed the answers to the questions he really wanted to ask his aunt, but was too embarrassed to ask. Whatever the reason he took those steps into the kitchen. He might as well see it through, as painful as it might be. He walked into the kitchen. Where his mother had obviously invested her money the most. The stove was worn, but impressive. 6 burners. The refrigerator was twice as big as most. The room itself was larger than the living room. Fernando sat at the table. There were two settings placed for the two of them. 

Fernando’s mother, was plating the nacatamales when he walked in. She was shortening with age, but Fernando saw himself reflected in her face the way one does with parents. She beamed a smile at him when she heard him walk in. Her face was wrinkled and her skin a caramel brown, just like him. Her curly hair wrapped in a bonnet to let her work.

“Ahi, siéntate mijo, hablamos después de comer. Se que tienes hambre.”

“Ok”

He sat. His mother placed a nacatamal in front of him. A tamale in Nicaragüense style, wrapped in banana leaf, steamed with meat, pepper and tomato. His mother made the masa by hand with corn. This was something that took at least four hours to do. She had poured love into the meal. He knew that what her stall sold, but the fact she took the day off in such a competitive workplace for him was a bit overwhelming. He would eat and leave. Change his flight so he could go back home the next day. There was nothing for him in Nicaragua. 

He took a spoon and gathered a bite. The moment it entered his mouth, a memory came back. The moment his mother said goodbye to him as a child. She had given him the same meal. She wept as she sent him away, he remembered her saying.

“Siempre te amo, mijo. Nunca te voy olvidar.”

It all came flowing out of him. Like a river. He had never wept so deeply. His mother stood and swept him into her arms. Spread like wings around Fernando, warm. Maybe, just maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe he could move on. Leave the past behind him and move forward. As he cried into his mom, he let it all go. All these complicated reasons for his bitterness wafted away with the smell of the food. He hated himself a little bit for how much lost control of his emotion. He sniffled, like a grade-schooler and looked up at his mom.

“Lo siento, mami.”

“Ay mijo, todo va estar bien. Has llegado a casa.”