March 26 2017

jungle drums. We stopped and therein lay our first mistake — we showed fear, and the girls, long skilled in exploiting weakness, fell upon us in a flash.

“Sir, why don’t you buy a bracelet for your wife?” “Um, this is my girlfriend.” “Oh? You must marry her, sir! Here, I have many nice things she will like!”

They flanked and separated us in a movement of which King Shaka would’ve been proud. My girlfriend, a softer target, couldn’t stand it any longer and cried out: “Please! I don’t want anything! Leave me alone!”

The girls who were probably aged between seven and 12, disregarded this cheerfully. “Don’t worry, madam,” they said, “you’ll feel much better after you buy”.

They followed us for a little while longer, making small talk, asking me about my hair and my girlfriend about her complexion, but any answer would end with, “Buy this!” or “Buy this for your mother/father/brother/sister/child”.

Finally, my girlfriend snapped and, in as many words, yelled at the hustlers that no, we weren’t going to buy anything for our mothers-fathers-brothers-sisters-children. We fled. Well, we weren’t actually running but we were as close to it without actually running.

“Madam, you a bastard girl!” shouted one of the would-be salesgirls. “You a dirty liar woman!” screamed another. The insults rained down on our heads. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The girls had spied another tourist.

We walked home in seething silence. As we arrived at the guesthouse, my girlfriend turned to me and hissed. “Why me?” she said. “Why didn’t they call you a bastard boy?” — © Siyabonga Dennis

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