#umarumyknight

The BBC’s Umaru Fofana live-tweeted the events that happened in The Gambia last week, when President Yahya Jammeh had refused to cede power after conceding a few weeks ago, that he had indeed lost the election to Adama Barrow. He did eventually leave but not before plundering the Central Bank’s coffers, and taking along several luxury items and cars. But Jammeh and his turncoat ways are not the gist of my story. It is actually about this brave journo Umaru Fofana, who, on the occasion I met him, instantly became my knight in shining armor.

The year was 2013.
Month, November.
Location, Ouagadougou. No, let me put that right—— scorching hot Ouagadougou.
Reason I was there- Media conference for a week.
My predicament - an Arab proposing marriage just hours after we met!

Firstly, the trip had been long and arduous, what with the West Africans treating the Ethiopian Airlines jetliner like a matatu of sorts. Speaking loudly across the aisles in their local dialects, and sauntering around the plane like it was a recreation park! It was a huge relief when we dropped them off in a country somewhere, I can’t recall which one. Was I glad to see the back of them!

Uganda’s current heatwave is nothing compared to what blasted through the doors of the airplane when we landed in Burkina Faso. It was like a cremation chamber. The Burkinabes were extremely courteous, and had it all laid out for us. They had obviously gone to great lengths, because the poverty in that country is evident as you drive along the dry dusty streets.

Away from the heat, the other problem were the hotels. Save for two, the rest in which we were booked were run-down. I and two other guys ended up in a cheap place that I will admit, looked like flea-infested whore-house in Korogocho slum. And here it was that I also had my first encounter with the Arab from Sudan, who was one of the participants at the conference. His name was Hemed somebody. He carried a black ‘no-problem’ bag, with the straps trailing along the ground as we were taken on a tour of the hotel, which was a no-no from the get-go.

The reception area was dark and gloomy. Dingy. And stuffy. The wigged receptionist with rouged lips and tight green skirt could not locate the ‘register’ for our bookings. We did not understand French. So there was a lot of sign language going on.

A quick glance outside the windows (which had no panes) in the excuse for a dining hall looked out into what was supposed to be a swimming pool, but which had turned into a dirty brown tiled crater. It had probably last seen water a couple of decades ago. We wanted to turn back at this stage.

Madam Receptionist insisted that we should at least see the rooms, there were some free, she said. So, up to the first floor she led us, in her dusty plastic slippers. The first room she showed us felt like an oven. It was a 10x10, with a bed stuffed into a corner, and no space between it and the wardrobe, so it was up to the guest to figure out where to put their belongings. Arab man was being very gentlemanly and wanted to carry my handbag, but I politely declined.

To cut a long story short, we rejected the rooms outright. We would not be sleeping in musty cells, on furniture covered in brown sheets and dodgy-looking blankets. Besides, the rooms looked out on to a street along which bicycles and motorcycles were repaired, and there was a lot of banging and clanging going on. And, before I forget— the sun set on that side of the building.

We ended up sitting dejectedly on an old wooden bench outside the building, as the ushers made desperate calls to the organizers to arrange better accommodation.

As I was busy drowning in thoughts of denial about if I was being a diva, or simply being realistic, the Arab started, “Oh, I am happy to meet a fellow East African!” His words came out staccato-like. “You said you are from Ouguanda?”
“Yes.”
“And you are working for what?”
“Uh? I’m working for money, working for passion.”
“No. I am meaning, you are working for a newspaper, magazine, television…?”
“Oh, I work with a radio station. A commercial radio station.”

The conversation continued, mainly about work, the weather and family. I wanted to keep it sane. He worked for a magazine and had three children. His wife stayed at home and cleaned the house, cooked the meals. Meanwhile, Adam the Egyptian was swearing to the perplexed ushers, in their purple t-shirts branded with the conference details, demanding his return ticket, because he could get a better place to sleep in Egypt.

After what seemed like a couple of hours in the sun, dust and din, we were moved to another hotel, a little bit better. Adam threw another tantrum, and Hemed was swallowed into it, and off they were shipped to another hotel. I was happy to see them go because now I was thankfully free from the Arab’s questions. Little did I know that I had made the grave mistake of giving him my number.

After I had tucked into the whole poulet and the bowl of riz, half of which I returned to the cook, I retired to my cramped furnace-like quarters. At least there was a shower and hot water. And air-conditioning, which I immediately turned on. The wooden door looked like it could be kicked in, but it didn't even matter at this stage, because I was so exhausted and all I wanted to do was to lay my body down.

My phone beeped and my screen lit up. “Sleep well, I love you.” No name, just a foreign number I was seeing for the first time.
I wondered who it could be. Then I saw the +249.
“!!!!!!” I was irked. The cheek! It must be the heat that was messing with his head.
I ignored it and didn't reply.

The next day, the Arab, perhaps a little too anxiously, asked me if I had seen his message. We were in the middle of a tea break after the first session of the conference, and he got the opportunity to slip into our circle and stood next to me.

“The message of mine, you got it, yes?”
I raised my eyebrows and narrowed my eyes, feigning puzzlement.
“The message I sent on your phone yesterday.”
There was no way I was getting out of this one.
“Oh, yes. I saw it, I saw it.”
“Yes Linda, I like you very much."
Uncomfortable silence. He was looking at my face to see my reaction.
"Did you like the message? Actually, I want to marry you.”
The words came out like a machine gun. A repeat of the staccato. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
I nearly dropped the cup. In the same second, I took a sip of the hot liquid and it burnt my mouth. I spat it out.
“What??!!” I sounded like I was choking.

The women in the circle looked at me. My mouth was agape. The Arab was probably waiting for an answer after springing his “primitive” proposal. I mumbled an apology and fled. I guess they thought I was disturbed or something. That maybe I had put salt in the tea, or the chilly in the samosa was too hot.

The second session went quick. My mind occasionally darted back to what the Arab had said. And even though I was recovering from the shock, I was repulsed. How do you make such an offer to someone you hardly know? What if I was a night dancer? Maybe they didn't have night dancers in Sudan, how would he know? Was this his culture? That you just see a woman and like her and want to make her your wife? Was he just naive and didn't know the meaning of the word “love”? How do you belittle the word “love”? Maybe I was just overreacting, or was I?

I looked over at him, hunched forward, straining to hear what the interpreter was saying through his headphones. He smiled occasionally, showing his small sharp upper teeth.

Lunch was across the road from the conference venue. The Arab used the opportunity to sidle close, offering to hold my bag and materials. Again! I politely declined, not glancing in his direction. My eyes were already scanning the area in front of us, for table that was nearly full. Thank God there was one with a space available. Full of people who spoke French, but what the heck!

“Oh, you have sitted there? Come and we sit over here.” His r’s were emphasized.
I rolled my eyes. “No, I want to sit here.” Firmly. God, this man was becoming a louse.

I think the women had got wind of what was happening. (From what I later found out, Hemed the Arab had attended this kind of conference twice before, and had ended up wooing other women, who had declined his advances).

He pulled a chair. The table had six places and they were all occupied. “Will I get you a soda?” His desperate attempts at making small talk were fraying my nerves.

And that was when my knight in shining armor appeared. From nowhere. In a pink shirt and grey patterned tie. And thick-rimmed glasses.
I wondered who he was. 
“Sir, why don't you leave the lady alone, eh??!” he demanded loudly. One of the women sniggered.
Hemed the Arab looked up, scared and lost.
“Don’t you have better things to do? If she doesn't want to be disturbed, then respect her wishes. And her space!”
The Arab could not believe his ears.
“Yes, you leave herrr elone!” One of the women said in a French accent. They erupted into laughter.
Hemed the Arab stood up and slunk away to another table.
Umaru Fofana, my savior, my champion, my protector jumped on to his white steed and rode gallantly away.
And I enjoyed my lunch of succulent boiled poulet, bread and potatoes in peace.