(This is a personal transcript. I take responsibility for all typos. The symbol “[–]” simply indicates African names and references unfamiliar to me.)

So I would like to start by telling you about one of my greatest friends, [–]. [–] lived on my street and looked after me like a big brother. If I liked a boy, I would ask [–]’s opinion. [–] died in the notorious [–] plane crash in Nigeria in December of 2005, almost exactly 7 years ago. [–] was a person I could argue with, laugh with and truly talk to. He was also the first person to call me a feminist. I was about 14, we were in his house, arguing, both of us bristling with half-bit knowledge from books that we had read. I don’t remember what this particular argument was about, but I remember that as I argued and argued, [–] looked at me…