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I wake up early at my friend Malick’s family compound. As consciousness slowly rises from my sleep-addled brain, I begin to feel the pressure on my bladder.
OK, that’s normal. The rumbling gas through my lower intestines. Normal, too. A good tightening of the stomach and the gas trumpets its exit.
Then there’s my right hand. Somewhere on the back of it…between my thumb and forefinger. It’s an itch. Eyes still closed, I reach my left hand up to scratch. I feel a small lump there and realize I also itch further up on my right arm on the inside. Another bump, then another.
My entire arm became one gigantic itch. I feel like tearing my skin off. Here’s a picture of the arm taken at another location. The mosquitoes never stop:
Later that night, my host Malick takes me and his friend to a disco. They bound up the stairs like this is a special treat. I buy a Coke for each. Before I can click bottles in a L’CHAIM, they’re on the dance floor. Disco bunnies.
“You like this music?” I ask Malick’s friend between songs.
“I love it,” he says. “It’s my favorite.”
I groan quietly.
I take a seat in the back of the bar and nurse my beer. A 40-something woman sits next to me.
“Hi,” she says, “what’s your name? Where you come from?”
“Mykel, New York,” I tell her.
“That’s nice,” she says, “you want to dance?”
“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t dance.”
She puts her hand on my thigh. “What do you like to do?” she asks.
Definitely not my type, and where would we go? It’s not like I’m staying at a hotel here.
I get up and walk out of the main room. I walk to the back, there’s a window there and I can look out over the vista. I can just stand and drink a beer, unmolest—
“Hi, what’s your name? Where you come from?” says a voice behind me. It’s a BEAUTIFUL girl, slim, early twenties, a face you would…er…stimulate yourself to on those lonely nights when it’s just you and the mosquitoes. She’s with her pimp.
“You like my cousin?” asks the pimp. “She can spend the night with you in your hotel room.”
“I don’t have a hotel room,” I tell him. “No, thank you.”
Behind the girl is the stairway to the street. More and more people are climbing those stairs into the club. No one is leaving.
“I’m sorry,” I say, actually sorry.
“She’ll give you a good price,” says the pimp. “I know you’d like to…”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Take a look at her,” says the pimp.
“NO!” I shout, pushing him aside and heading to another corner of the room.
I stand there, watching people dance, trying to hide.
“Hi,” comes a masculine voice behind me, “what’s your name? Where you come from?”
It’s a very Jamaican-looking guy. About six foot tall, dreadlocks tucked into a rasta hat, loose jeans, T-shirt: red, yellow, green.
“You like this music, the atmosphere?” he asks.
I shrug.
He reaches in his pocket. “I got something here that’ll make you like it more,” he says.
“No thanks,” I say.
“What you like?” he asks, “Weed? Coke? Uppers? Downers?”
“NO!” I shout. And walk to yet another corner, this one right near a speaker. The music’s so loud no one can talk to me, right?
They try. Some guy walks up to me and says something. By this time my mood is so foul I don’t care if he wants to give me cash. I just want to be left alone.
Without hearing a word, I just shout NO! and walk back to the tables and sit down. It’s about 12:30 in the morning. Malick appears next to me.
“Hey Mykel,” he says, “you enjoying yourself?”
“No,” I tell him, “not at all.”
“That’s nice,” he answers completely oblivious. “The star DJ, the German guy is here. He’ll start soon. You want to meet him?”
“No, thanks,” I tell him. “I don’t want to meet anyone.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Malick says. “Just be yourself.” He walks away. I get another beer and go back to the table. Landing and his friend see me sitting there.
“You’re not dancing, Mykel,” says Malick’s friend.
“No, I tell him, “I don’t like the music. You guys want a drink?”
They nod, ask for soda (I have to admit that Muslim thing does keep my expenses down a bit.) I bring it to them, they thank me and go back to the dance floor. I go back to the table wishing I were someplace at least SLIGHTLY less miserable—like, say, in a doctor’s office having a digital rectal exam with the doc using sandpaper gloves.
A woman sits down at the table next to me. “Hi,” she says, “what’s your name? Where do you come from?”
I drain my beer and walk out of the place, onto the street, looking for someplace to go out of the way where no one will bother me.
It’s weird. Usually I LOVE prostitutes and strippers. I love to watch them, to even sit and talk with them, sometimes to purchase services. But tonight I have no place to take them, and I’m not enjoying the music, and I feel like I’m being attacked—swarmed on like mosquitoes—I can’t have a moment free…they won’t let me alone…it’s awful.
I walk outside to clear my head, get away from the whores and drug dealers. Jeez, I sound like an old guy.
I go to the a nearby café, sit down, and order a beer. Nobody bothers me—for about 85 seconds.
Two girls walking arm-in-arm pass by. They look freshly scrubbed, in disco clothes, out for a night on the town. They see me sitting alone at a table. They wave to me. I look the other way. One of them shouts something to me. I ignore it. They walk past.
Jeez! What’s got into me? Maybe they were just trying to be nice. I’ve been so poisoned by the money-grubbing on this trip that I can no longer respond humanly. I’m just a ball of LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY! I HATE YOU!
I pay for the beer and go to another bar, this one right next to the awful disco. It’s coming on 5AM. I sit, order a Coke and a chicken sandwich. While I’m waiting, another rastaman comes over to talk to me.
“How’s your night going?” he says to me.
“GO AWAY NOW!” I tell him. “Just leave. Get out of here.”
“OK man,” he says, “I was just trying to talk wid choo. Der’s no need to act like that, man.” He walks away.
I get up from the table, go to the bathroom, throw up, and then hail a taxi back to Malick’s family compound.
—MYKEL BOARD
I really enjoyed this. I like hearing stories about how Africa actually functions, as opposed to all the apocalyptic Save the Children stuff.
these are by far the most interesting articles i’ve read on this site.
This is a pretty cool narrative. It’s far more interesting than looking at PR photos of celebs going to Africa and using the kids there for photo ops.
I live in West Africa, and so far this is the best of Mykel’s posts. The thing you have to figure in is that it never stops. maybe not always hookers and drug dealers, but if you are in the bush or in the biggest cities the hassling never ever stops. White people are walking mounds of money and vice.
You just learn coping mechanisms and blow up once in a while when in a bad mood.
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