It was a mid-December night in africa. I’d been in Bénin for a couple weeks already, and now that I was beginning to know my way around the neighbourhood, I had decided to test myself, ungluing myself from the friend with whom I was currently staying to find my way home alone while she chatted with a cousin we’d come across in the street.
It had been on the verge of dusk when we’d started walking, and somewhere in the span of an instant, complete darkness had fallen over the city. This did not surprise me: I’d already learned that the sun does not set this close to the equator; rather, it plummets. It is there one minute, gone the next. What did surprise me was the new world I found myself in in the absence of daylight and a native Beninese by my side.
Without my friend to serve as a buffer between her world and my own, to keep others’ curiosity and manners in check, I was suddenly slapped in the face by the reality of africa. With no one to talk to or guide me, everything seemed foreign and I was overloaded with new sights, smells and sounds that clashed in my head. Polyrhythmic music blared from a stereo, women haggled loudly over prices, motorcycle taxi drivers hissed to get my attention in the hopes of getting a customer. Exhaust fumes mixed with the odours of roasting cassava, smoked fish, sweat, oranges and the black market petrol sold at roadside stalls. The white eyes of silhouetted market women followed me as I passed, turned to one another behind stacks of bread, yams and batteries and whispered.
I had never been so acutely aware of being awkward and alien. Of being white. My steps became small and self-conscious. The market women, I was certain, were talking about me, scorning my fluorescent skin and the way my shoes didn’t match with the traditional pagne skirt I was wearing. Children either hoarded together to watch me, giggling behind my back, or burst into tears and fled to their mothers, screeching "Yovo!" — whitey! I couldn’t decide which was worse. I made up my mind to get home as quickly as possible to avoid further ridicule.
as I approached the last street corner, however, I was stopped by a stoop-backed elderly man bundled in a ski hat and woolen mittens — in ninety-degree heat. I tried to squash the fear that leapt to my throat by reasoning that he was not necessarily an escaped mental patient: it was technically winter, Bénin being north of the equator (albeit only by five degrees). But, supposing he did indeed have all his faculties about him, what did he want? Money? Food? a Canadian visa?
"Bon soir, mademoiselle." The man’s grin flashed in the night as he stopped in front of me.
"Do gbê, monsieur," I responded, greeting him in the local Fon language. His grin widened, and we exchanged inquiries about each other’s family. I took comfort in the fact that he was at least being polite before he made his ulterior motives known.
"I just wanted to tell you, chérie, that we are very glad to see you here in Bénin. Tourists do not come here often. are you here for Christmas?"
I replied that I would indeed be in africa over Christmas, and the man took my hand in his own, mitten-clad one.
"Your family must be missing you. You must tell them not to worry, because you are welcome here in Bénin. as long as you are here, you will always be looked after. Tell your mother and father that someone is thinking of you and your family, wishing you well. Tell them a man in africa wishes them a Merry Christmas. God bless you."
With that, he shook my hand warmly and began to walk away.
"We dessou, monsieur, we dessou," I repeated over and over to his retreating form in the darkness. You too, you too.
He did not turn around. He was not in the least bit crazy. He did not ask for a visa.
The shame at my presumptuousness melded with the pleasant, touching surprise of his words, piercing my heart and sending tears down my cheeks. I continued to walk, no longer avoiding people’s gazes but looking directly at them and greeting them. Every single time, I was met with a warm "bon soir", and another smile that lit up the night.
Being on the road often while in africa, I did not see the old man again, though I looked for him. Now, a year later, I can’t help but wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Or if he knows that someone is thinking of him and his family and wishing them well. That a girl in Canada wishes him a Merry Christmas. God bless him.
Stacey Tsourounis is in her second year of French Studies at Glendon College, York University, after which she plans to be a teacher. Stacey is currently planning a one to two year stay in Bnin after getting her degree and is looking forward to temperatures perpetually above 80 degrees.
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