Stranger in the City
(Abijan, Ivory Coast, 1998)
I was unable not to take a second look when I saw them walk through the hotel lobby to the elevators. She was young and tall, quite beautiful with braided hair that almost reached her waist. Her smile revealed white teeth which shone against her dark skin. He was pale-skinned and short, middle age had brought with it a receding hairline and sagging middle. As I turned to watch them, I saw his hand move to her behind and rest there, grabbing obscenely. He smiled and talked as they walked, she was silent. I was transfixed as, oblivious to my stares, they boarded the elevator. As the doors sealed them from my leering, I understood.
I had been sitting in a comfortable chair, my body weary, but my mind racing with confidence and hope from my first encounters during my first day in Africa. It began with the flirtatious customs officer who held my hand as she demanded her bribe. I escaped for only $1, leaving her miffed but smiling. I then shed my would-be-guides at the airport but got taken for a triple fare by the taxi driver. I knew better now and would get the correct price for my return. In town, the guard with the machine gun was friendly. The weapon seemed no more than an umbrella in her hands as she gave me a quick local geography lesson. Her directions led me to the market where I met Soro. He owned a craft shop with his brother. After five hours, games of mancala, and lunch together, we were friends. I have a friend in Abijan. We exchanged addresses and he left me at the hotel.
Though gone, the mismatched couple held my thoughts until I noticed I was no longer alone. Two women occupied the couch opposite my chair. They were both young and well-dressed but the similarity ended there. One shared features with the elevator woman and many of the women I’d passed in the market: dark skin, tall, thin lips, and long braided hair. The other had a lighter complexion, straight hair, and fuller lips. I wondered if she might be a stranger to this place like me. She started the conversation and soon names and small talk were exchanged. A question arose: “Are you married?”
“Yes,” I said. “Would you like to see pictures?”
They were astounded that my wife was Black and wondered if the term was really African American. They thought the kids were cute and were amused by the few shots of snow.
They shared perspectives on their work. It was not as people thought; they simply provided companionship. They regretted my imminent departure and said they would have liked to show me the city at night.
I had resolved to buy them a drink at the bar when the hotel security guard who had been eying us for a while decided it was time to chase them out. I suppose he felt that he was protecting me from harassment since I had made no move toward the elevator. They swore at him but excused themselves and left.
Protecting me? They were 19 and 21. Who needed protection? What did I understand?
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