Anywhere in Africa
Blog: Africa Attraction - 29 October 2009
By: Olli
A quick nightcap? Why not?
We follow our new friend Mayo through the blackest of nights to the village pub. Needless to say, it’s no Nag’s Head, just a small shack with a small bar and a small television. The all-male clientele aren’t sat at the bar, they’re sat in rows, basking in the luminous bling, bitches and beaches of hip-hop videos. All still, all expressionless.
Mayo orders the beer as we take our seats outside the makeshift movie theatre, cloaked in the invisibility of the night, looking on.
Women loiter by the door. Clumsy body language, yet implicit in intent.
Who are they? Ladies. Ladies looking for men. Men to marry? Ha! No! For money... for a beer! Anything.
One holds a baby.
The man did not want the baby and left her. She’ll go down to the beach for money.
A local sees through our disguise of darkness. He stumbles closer. He asks for beer.
He loses interest. He wanders back into the pub.
And the baby? She’ll put the baby on the sand next to her.
Outside, we sit in silence. Inside, 50 Cent in the club with a bottle full of Bud.
Seventy five percent of people have AIDS in the village. It’s better in the city – more people are educated – but here no one cares.
We watch a man leads woman and child towards the beach. The imperfect family fade into the night.
We finish our flat, sour beer, buy Mayo phone credit, and head home. Mayo fills our ears with questions about England. The air is filled with the distant smell of smoke: the villagers are burning the forest for charcoal. Hot red cuts across the hills. The world is on fire.
We follow our new friend Mayo through the blackest of nights to the village pub. Needless to say, it’s no Nag’s Head, just a small shack with a small bar and a small television. The all-male clientele aren’t sat at the bar, they’re sat in rows, basking in the luminous bling, bitches and beaches of hip-hop videos. All still, all expressionless.
Mayo orders the beer as we take our seats outside the makeshift movie theatre, cloaked in the invisibility of the night, looking on.
Women loiter by the door. Clumsy body language, yet implicit in intent.
Who are they? Ladies. Ladies looking for men. Men to marry? Ha! No! For money... for a beer! Anything.
One holds a baby.
The man did not want the baby and left her. She’ll go down to the beach for money.
A local sees through our disguise of darkness. He stumbles closer. He asks for beer.
He loses interest. He wanders back into the pub.
And the baby? She’ll put the baby on the sand next to her.
Outside, we sit in silence. Inside, 50 Cent in the club with a bottle full of Bud.
Seventy five percent of people have AIDS in the village. It’s better in the city – more people are educated – but here no one cares.
We watch a man leads woman and child towards the beach. The imperfect family fade into the night.
We finish our flat, sour beer, buy Mayo phone credit, and head home. Mayo fills our ears with questions about England. The air is filled with the distant smell of smoke: the villagers are burning the forest for charcoal. Hot red cuts across the hills. The world is on fire.
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