It was 1982, and I was ten years old. My grandmother was about to die of cancer, and this became my mother’s excuse to take me to a small town far from home. My mother planned the trip to try to shield me from the pain of death. Even now, I still regret that trip.

That town where Mom took me is a cold place in the Colombian Andes. Its people are quiet and polite, but they have a reputation for being a little dodgy. Like Julian, my mother’s cousin. He had this sort of clichéd mustache, trying to look like Castro, and consistent with his appearance, he also was a leader of the Communist party. It made me feel a bit awkward, maybe because my grandfather always complained about the guerrilla guys committing crimes against the establishment. 

During the trip, Julian invited us to dinner, and I really don’t remember the dish he and his wife cooked, but after I ate everything on my plate, there it was—that huge, red, ripe, unpleasant slice of tomato. Vegetables are generally no fun, but the tomato, tasting sweet and sour, I hated, so I refused to eat it. I was raised by my beloved grandparents to make independent decisions, but this time, my refusal didn’t work. 

“You have to eat the tomato!” Julian yelled. His deep voice and bushy mustache scared me. 

My mama sheepishly said, “I can eat it for him.” 

“No!” he answered. “We don’t waste food here! We need to teach him that. Eat it!” 

He made me eat the damn tomato. It went down my esophagus with a thorny sourness. The bitter feeling of having been bullied by this distant cousin was made deeper by the fact that I knew he was a Communist, the party my grandfather always condemned. 

It was 1992; a Friday afternoon. I was crossing Alameda Square, trying to be on time for my urban design class, when I met my cousin, Mariela. I hadn’t seen her since the trip to that little town in the Andes ten years ago.

“Do you know who is in that bar?” she said happily, while pointing at the corner of the street. “My brother Julian, do you remember him?”

Every neuron in me recalled the bitter tomato; the uncomfortable experience was tattooed on my memory. My muscles inflated and my voice thickened as I busted through the bar’s doors. Here he was, my cousin, now looking so much older, so much smaller than me. I gave myself the pleasure of claiming loudly in his face, “Okay, Primo, make me eat the tomato now!”

Three gunshots rang out. I didn’t know where they came from. My eyes popped out of their sockets as I fell to the ground. It wasn’t the bitterness of the tomato, but the tang of the blood running down my throat I tasted as my life was snuffed out. 

The same newspaper that my grandfather used to read noted that my cousin’s personal bodyguard was the one who shot me. His justification? He saw his comrade threatened by a daring young man. Colombia is a dangerous country, what else can I say? I didn’t like tomatoes.