blacklisted: a rude Asian girl, who doesn’t know her place.
During lunch in the refectory one of her friends pointed him out to her. He was standing at the door, throwing sweeping looks across the hall searching for someone. She drew a deep breath and waited. His eyes found her and he hurried forward between tables, pushing aside chairs, grinning, answering courtesies on the way with waves and shouts. When he arrived, a place was made for him at the table at which he sank comfortably, putting both his hands in front of him. He looked at her.
‘About last night …’ he began. The other girls picked up their trays and left.
She laughed. ‘You pushed them out,’ she said. ‘They’ll hate you for that.’
Where had she found her confidence? He was in a red T-shirt – expensive, she thought. He looked handsome – and harmless.
‘But not for long, I hope,’ he began. His grin widened as he looked at her. ‘Again I’ve removed you from your friends – but this time I’ve come to apologise. I’m sorry about last night. I asked you for a dance and then played a tiresome little radical.’
‘It’s okay. I’m at fault too. You see …’
‘I know, I know. An innocent Indian girl in a den of wolves. But tell me – surely you expect men to come and ask you to dance in such a situation?’
She smiled, a little embarrassed. ‘Usually the presence of girlfriends is enough to deter men one doesn’t know …’
‘Trust a foreigner not to know the rules.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You came to have a good time with your friends and I spoilt it for you. Honestly I’m sorry. Look: let me make up for it. I’ll take you for a drink. How about that?’
‘But I don’t drink … alcohol, I mean.’
‘Tut-tut! We’ll find something for you.’
He should not, of course, have pressed. But, as he said, he didn’t know the rules. That’s what she told herself when she found that she had accepted his invitation without any qualms.
‘I’ll take you to The Matumbi,’ he said when they met later that afternoon. The Matumbi was a teashop under a tree, half a mile from the campus. It had a thatched roof that only partly shaded it, and no walls. She went in hesitantly, feeling a little shy and out of place. But apparently Akoto was one of the regulars. He motioned to the owner who came up and wiped a sticky table for them, and then he pulled up a rickety chair for her, dusting it with a clean handkerchief.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘No. I will just have tea … perhaps a small cake …’
‘Righto! Two teas, one cake and one sikisti!’ he called out.
She raised an eyebrow when the sikisti arrived. It was an egg omelette between two inch-thick slices of bread.
‘It’s called sikisti because of its price. Sixty cents!’
She laughed.
‘That’s the truth, believe me!’
Akoto was a professor of sociology, on loan from the Government of Ghana.
‘What is your major?’ he asked her after some time. ‘What subject are you taking?’
‘Literature.’
‘Literature?’
‘Yes.’
Now he thinks we are all shopkeepers.
‘Tell me: any African writers?’
‘Yes. Soyinka … Achebe …’
‘Things fall apart …’
‘The centre cannot hold.’
He laughed. ‘Ngũgĩ? Palangyo? Omari?’
She shook her head. She hadn’t heard of them.
‘Local writers. Budding. You should read Omari. Nuru Omari. She writes about the Coast – your territory.
Wait for Me
: that’s her first book. I could lend it to you if you want.’
‘It’s okay … I’ll borrow it from the library.’
He looked astonished. ‘But it will take time before the library acquires it!’
‘I’ll wait … I don’t have much time right now.’
‘All right.’ He was miffed.
‘Now that I have made up for my rudeness,’ he said at last, seeing her a little restless, ‘I hope – having apologised and so on – perhaps we can go.’
I am studying literature and I have no time to read the most recent
During lunch in the refectory one of her friends pointed him out to her. He was standing at the door, throwing sweeping looks across the hall searching for someone. She drew a deep breath and waited. His eyes found her and he hurried forward between tables, pushing aside chairs, grinning, answering courtesies on the way with waves and shouts. When he arrived, a place was made for him at the table at which he sank comfortably, putting both his hands in front of him. He looked at her.
‘About last night …’ he began. The other girls picked up their trays and left.
She laughed. ‘You pushed them out,’ she said. ‘They’ll hate you for that.’
Where had she found her confidence? He was in a red T-shirt – expensive, she thought. He looked handsome – and harmless.
‘But not for long, I hope,’ he began. His grin widened as he looked at her. ‘Again I’ve removed you from your friends – but this time I’ve come to apologise. I’m sorry about last night. I asked you for a dance and then played a tiresome little radical.’
‘It’s okay. I’m at fault too. You see …’
‘I know, I know. An innocent Indian girl in a den of wolves. But tell me – surely you expect men to come and ask you to dance in such a situation?’
She smiled, a little embarrassed. ‘Usually the presence of girlfriends is enough to deter men one doesn’t know …’
‘Trust a foreigner not to know the rules.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You came to have a good time with your friends and I spoilt it for you. Honestly I’m sorry. Look: let me make up for it. I’ll take you for a drink. How about that?’
‘But I don’t drink … alcohol, I mean.’
‘Tut-tut! We’ll find something for you.’
He should not, of course, have pressed. But, as he said, he didn’t know the rules. That’s what she told herself when she found that she had accepted his invitation without any qualms.
‘I’ll take you to The Matumbi,’ he said when they met later that afternoon. The Matumbi was a teashop under a tree, half a mile from the campus. It had a thatched roof that only partly shaded it, and no walls. She went in hesitantly, feeling a little shy and out of place. But apparently Akoto was one of the regulars. He motioned to the owner who came up and wiped a sticky table for them, and then he pulled up a rickety chair for her, dusting it with a clean handkerchief.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘No. I will just have tea … perhaps a small cake …’
‘Righto! Two teas, one cake and one sikisti!’ he called out.
She raised an eyebrow when the sikisti arrived. It was an egg omelette between two inch-thick slices of bread.
‘It’s called sikisti because of its price. Sixty cents!’
She laughed.
‘That’s the truth, believe me!’
Akoto was a professor of sociology, on loan from the Government of Ghana.
‘What is your major?’ he asked her after some time. ‘What subject are you taking?’
‘Literature.’
‘Literature?’
‘Yes.’
Now he thinks we are all shopkeepers.
‘Tell me: any African writers?’
‘Yes. Soyinka … Achebe …’
‘Things fall apart …’
‘The centre cannot hold.’
He laughed. ‘Ngũgĩ? Palangyo? Omari?’
She shook her head. She hadn’t heard of them.
‘Local writers. Budding. You should read Omari. Nuru Omari. She writes about the Coast – your territory.
Wait for Me
: that’s her first book. I could lend it to you if you want.’
‘It’s okay … I’ll borrow it from the library.’
He looked astonished. ‘But it will take time before the library acquires it!’
‘I’ll wait … I don’t have much time right now.’
‘All right.’ He was miffed.
‘Now that I have made up for my rudeness,’ he said at last, seeing her a little restless, ‘I hope – having apologised and so on – perhaps we can go.’
I am studying literature and I have no time to read the most recent
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