The first time I went to a restaurant in London, I sat down at the bar.
I had just returned from a trip to Ethiopia, where I’d been visiting family and friends.
I was in the midst of a five-day trip to the country, visiting friends and family in Ethiopia.
There was an African restaurant I’d recently visited, and my friends had invited me to try some of their Ethiopian dishes.
I ordered a plate of the usual fare, including Ethiopian sausage and pickled lamb.
The waiter told me the restaurant was named “Africa’s first African restaurant.”
I was stunned, but I didn’t question the chef.
The food was tasty and the service was friendly.
It was an Americanized version of an African experience, and the restaurant had the same American charm and American values.
But it was not my first African experience.
I’d eaten in America, in New York, in Chicago, in Dallas, in Philadelphia, and New Orleans, but none of those restaurants had been named Africa’s first.
It felt like a leap of faith to be asked to go to Africa.
I could have sworn I had heard this from my own friends and acquaintances.
As it turned out, the restaurant where I was seated had been owned by a family of Somali immigrants, who had taken over the restaurant from the late 1960s to the late 1980s.
The restaurant was called Tawa, and they were African Americans.
In the 1950s, when Somalia was a predominantly Christian country, African Americans made up almost half of its population.
The owners of Tawa were African immigrants from Somalia, who were immigrants to the United States.
The brothers Haji Mohammed and Haji Abdul Rahman were part of the Somali community, and Habeerullah Hassan, who was also an immigrant from Somalia in the late 1970s, helped run the restaurant.
The names Tawa and Hawa were chosen because the restaurant’s name means “house of peace.”
When I first visited, I had no idea about the name of the restaurant or that the brothers were Somali immigrants.
I thought it was an accident.
But that wasn’t the case.
As I drove around in search of a restaurant with a name that I’d never heard of, I couldn’t help but wonder about the significance of these two names.
When I went into the restaurant, I asked a waiter about the brothers.
He said they were Somali and that they had come to America to find a job.
The name “Africas first African-American restaurant” was on the menu, but the restaurant didn’t look like a restaurant.
It looked like a business that was owned by an African family.
The interior was decorated with pictures of Somali children in school uniforms, with the words “Somali Brothers” across the top of the building.
The dining room had an American-style counter and tables.
There were two separate, separate booths for the customers.
I sat at the counter, and a waiter came to take my order.
When he saw me, he said, “Ah, you are here because you are African.”
I wasn’t surprised.
When my mother visited the family home, she’d often been introduced to family members who were black, and she was fascinated by how different they looked.
The Somali brothers in my family were the first people I’d ever seen with American names.
I remember seeing my mother take me to the family restaurant.
She looked at me and said, in her Somali, “You look very American, but your father is white.”
She asked if I was Somali and I told her yes.
I asked why I was American, and her reply was, “I am an American.
My father is a white man.
He is my father.”
That made me think that she was right.
My mother didn’t understand why I’d come to the restaurant and ask for a meal.
It seemed odd that a white family would have a restaurant called “African-American.”
And why would a white American mother be asking about her children?
When I asked Haji Hassan, his father, why he owned the restaurant in the first place, he replied, “Afro-American is the way I have always lived.”
When my family came to the U.S., my mother told me, “The way my family lived was like my father lived.
I wanted to be like him.”
My parents didn’t think that I was African.
But they believed that my family had always lived the way my father had lived.
As a child, my family moved from place to place, from a town in Georgia to a town on the coast of California, and I never really knew what was going on there.
The first year I lived in New Orleans was very difficult.
I lived with my grandmother and aunt, who both came from Somalia.
I always wondered about my heritage.
When the family moved to New Orleans after my father died, I spent a lot of time on the streets.
My family moved in with my father,