A Night Off Campus

A Night Off Campus 6.046 (Design and Analysis of Algorithms) and I have an interesting relationship this semester, one thats partly tortured, and partly beautifully soul-consuming. Still, on October 10 at 6pm, I can feel my brain starting to unspool from the rest of my body. I need a break, and luckily, I can get one. I put on a light jacket, text a friend who wants to meet at the midpoint between Random Hall and the Student Center, and then I head to the gas station to grab a few drinks. Fifteen seconds outside, and Im already aware of my miscalculation. I need at least three similar jackets atop the one Im wearing to feel any warmth. It doesnt matter; I wont be outside very long. Done with the gas station, I head toward my intended midpoint, and see my friend Kamoya approaching me, in a significantly more reasonable-looking jacket. We take refuge from the wind in a nearby bakery, Flour, while we talk about our pset-heavy weeks and order an UberPool. Kamoya is Nigerian like me. He lived in Lagos for several years before moving to the United States. As such, we find ourselves inserting bits of Nigerian jargon into our speech, much like we do in our texts. See wahala, and chai and sef. Hes a course 6 junior, and I start to wax philosophical about feeling like a senior, old and almost out of the Institute, tucked tightly into an unlit cannon about to launch me into the oft-called real world. Except its less weird when I express this fear to him. He always assures me Ill be fine. The UberPool arrives, and a dollar and fifty cents worth of travel later (that ends up being seven minutes, quite surprisingly), we are in a different part of Cambridge, quieter and more suburban, dominated less by restaurants and bars and small-business stores, and more by nice, similar-looking apartments. We knock on what we think is the door; a woman surfaces and tells us we have the wrong place. We try a different route, and I get my phone out to call Philip when Kamoya locates a promising side-door and directs us there. Its dark and a little cold, although a little is gradually making way for a lot, but when we knock on the door, and it opens, the light that spills outward invites warmth with it. Kamoya and I head in, closing the door behind us. ** Philips place is amazing, even without the dominating context of my tiny dorm room to provide mental contrast. An expansive living room blends into a kitchen, and a flight of stairs winds up to the left. I hug Philip. Its been forever. Like Kamoya and I, hes Nigerian. Course 6. He graduated a few months ago and now works at Akamai, a nearby tech company owned by an MIT Professor. We catch up in straight-up pidgin English, as I take in the apartment. I wish him a happy birthday, because its his birthday. Were introduced to housemates, to other fellow MIT students who arrived before us. Some of them I already know; some of them I have no more than the distant familiarity of hey, I saw you at the Infinite Corridor like five times this semester. Over the next several minutes, more guests filter in. But the main cavalry hasnt arrived yet. Well know when they do. Already, Im aware of how ensconced  in my bubble Ive been this semester. Lots of new faces. I talk to many of them, though invariably end up finding Kamoya and catching up in greater detail. Then the main cavalry arrives. Hassan Kane and Kayode Ezike and a dozen other members of the African Students Association. They come bearing delights, rice and plantain and chicken and several variations of stew, soda and juice and Malta (I squeal in delight at this, I havent  had Malta in forever). In a matter of seconds, the atmosphere transforms from lively but subdued to absolutely electric. Someone puts on some African music, and it fills the room, boosted by powerful speakers. Over the sounds of P-Square and D-Banj, everyone talks. I talk to even more new people, which never fails to feel at least slightly terrifying for reasons Im still trying to decipher, but I notice Im more comfortable than I usually would be. Themes emerge; many of us came from far away to be here; many of us are buried in problem sets and research work and job-hunting prospects (its only been a few weeks since career fair ended). Many of us cant wait to dig in on the food. Hassan momentarily stills the friendly chaos so that we can all wish Philip a happy birthday. We make Philip give a speech, because of course we will. He tells us that were welcome to his place anytime, and hes happy to host more ASA events there. And then its time to eat. We help ourselves to the dizzying array of food (nearly all prepared by ASA volunteers, fellow MIT students), and Im reminded of home, in home-sickness pangs. Its a strange feeling to have, after months ofnot distance. A kind of aloofness maybe. But its a welcome feeling, this nostalgic undercurrent. Rachel Adenekan walks in a short while later. Shes one of the earliest friends I made, back when I was a pre-frosh. Gosh, those memories. Who are you? she asks playfully. I have no idea who you are. Its been a while. I end up playing along. Im Vincent; its nice to meet you. Nice to meet you, Im Rachel. A while later, Kamoya and I start talking about Nigerian culture when the music intensifies, and the dance party starts. The moves on display are cross-cultural, a tangle of African pop and African-American hip-hop. Lots of dabbing. And azonto. And waist-whining moves I can never do justice with words. Countries are representedGhana and Nigeria and South Africa and Rwanda and Jamaica. I dont represent Nigeria, because my bunny dance is far too removed from the dexterity on display here today, but I cheer and scream hard when Kamoya and Kayode represent us. Its such an intensely familiar world, even in its novelty (these are after all new faces in a place I was setting foot into for the first time). But the songs evoke a time before America, powerfully enough to thrust me back in full grasp of those memories. And the dance, the playful banter, the loose jargon, makes me feel like Ive teleported, left MIT and America for a bit, election animosity, problem sets, crazy weather and all, yet theres still some grounding in the current time and place. We are after all MIT students and I spend some time talking with Isaac about his interests in machine learning and the gaming industry. The dancing continues for a bit. Kayode takes lots of pictures. Soon, the event starts winding down and people start leaving (hint: most of the food has been vanquished). I give Philip one last hug before heading out. He looks incredibly happy, content, and that single expression becomes one of my ultimate goals for post-graduation. Whatever unpredictable circumstances abound, I want to use words like ensconced next to words like content. Not to say that Im not content now, because I very much am. After a fairly rough last semester, this semesters looking up, very challenging without being constantly draining. Im achieving something of a balance, and Im learning that part of it comes from integrationintegrating my current culture with my African heritage, and more generally, integrating all parts of myselfthe writer, the computer scientist, the African, the little kid, the growing 20-year-old adult. Its much easier to say, and much harder to live. ** Kamoya and I and two others walk home, of which there are clearly multiple kinds. Im mostly quiet, while they talkargue passionately in factabout South African music. Then the topic switches to Nigerian writers. Then were back in MIT. I bid Kamoya and co farewell, and head into my dorm, where an unfinished 6.046 pset waits for me. Naturally, I check Facebook instead, where a group chat with members of the ASA is underway; were discussing which country won tonights danceoff. I rewatch one of the videos I recorded, the one below. Im always glad for moments like this.