To leave or not to leave, that is the question

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The Hos of Kilamanjaro

One scene about Senegal...comments and disdain welcomed...

But bedlam continues in Gamorrah. Because, going out and down in Dakar at night is like lashing yourself the mast, similar to Odysseus, and stuffing your ears with wax. Sirens indeed, singing in cadence with contemporary rap videos, the odor of coitus and pyrite functioning like sleeping gas. You amble unsure through throngs of couples dry-humping, floating across a low-level troposphere of economical cologne and testosterone. From time to time, lights shoot rods through the cigarette smoke. This summers’ hits are throbbing out of the woofers as the girls and the women alike bullfight with their hips facing a wall of mirrors, fancying themselves contemporaries of talented ballet dancers. A veritable Degas for Francafrique. One particular evening a low swinging desire was upon me, sweet chariot. She blows her name in my skull but I can only make out something with a sound like S, a snake or something similar. She tries to tickle my belly with whispered compliments, “you are the best looking guy in the club!” She scratches her wig, sipping a cock-tail with a spoiled tongue. Her and I, we traipsed like monkeys, hanging off each others inside thighs. She had a head on her this girl: “What, you came all the way from Guinea to hook?” said I. And to this “And you, you came all the way from France for an internship?” Touché chéri! On that we decided to keep it physical, made it on the dance floor. I showed her my moves and she showed me hers. And let it be said, there is an inexplicable thing that only Africans can do with their behinds. For a moment you are precisely where you need to be. You request to take a seat on those burnt shores, henna and snuff-colored. Big things, they wave to you from a long off horizon, a ship leaving port. Indeed, there is more communication had from those thighs than a hand blessed with opposable thumbs. They both say the same thing though-come. And I would have, what with all the encouragement from my idols, if I hadn't thought this singular thought “What, of value, will I have to hide?”

I curled up with my integrity once again. Suppose we are all virtuous in some regards right? But integrity and virtue are poor substitutes for a lay and a very ungrateful one gun salute.