The moment the bartender handed me my drink and I took a sip, it hit me—I was in a disco
where people who knew about current hot music went to have fun, sing along, and dance it off.
It was then I decided to show them I knew about American music to get the conversation
restarted.

I strolled back and, in a lighthearted tone, inquired, “Do you guys enjoy rap music as much as I
do?” I made one quick moonwalk, stepped back, and continued, “I think Michael Jackson is the
greatest rapper of all time.”

They gave me a floored look, and thinking I had impressed them, I continued, “He raps so well.
As a matter of fact, he can rap the same words repeatedly, but they sound so great.” I hummed
to the tune of Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” then winked and beckoned
seductively.

“Help me rap it, ma ma se, sengu vusanga makusa, sengu vusanga makusa, sengu vusanga
makusa.”

I saw what I thought was a smile wiped off her face, and I thought she didn’t like the rap. I
switched to fascinate her with another, “Billie Jean,” but still, it didn’t get any traction.
I decided to switch to the real black music called rap and revealed, “Do you all know the black
dread-locked guy Snoopy the Dog?”

They didn’t answer, and I expounded, “The only American man that knows how to play the
Reggae version of Bob Marley songs.” I nodded my own self-approval and asked, “Do you
know he smokes the big illegal cigarette and starts talking while singing? I sometimes think he
is saying things to me personally.”

One of them asked, “The big question is, how did you enter our personal space just like that?”
“Unless you guys are astronauts going to the moon, there is no way anyone can enter any
space.” The comment hindered her, and I expounded, “Space is everything in the universe
beyond the top of the Earth’s atmosphere.”

They gave up on me and started to move away. Without knowing its creepy activity that alarms
a woman in America, if a man ceaselessly pursues her, I wouldn’t be left behind. My frame of
mind had not switched from my village, where persistence in hot pursuit of the lady that has
sparked your undying interest is complementary, to America, where this behavior is severely
condemned. When all is said and done, not letting go of your desired girl in my village is a
positive sign that shows you are a steady man who doesn’t give up easily. On this note, I started
to stroll along, making it look like we were friends who had been together from the get-go.

In one or two steps, I noticed the two cute missies had worn high heels that caused them to
walk like newborn calves. I started to consider if they could put a Learners (L) sign behind their
heels so that those behind them would be ready to catch any of the girls before they fell. With
this mindset, I decided to walk closer just in case one of them stumbled; I could break her nasty
fall and earn instant favor. Anyone watching us would have concluded we had a very tight
bond with each other.

Their careful stride didn’t slow down either of them. At that point, I remembered what I had
been told about American girls; they would instantly fall in love with any man who could
improvise a love song to fit the spur of the moment. In a voice that was just loud enough for the
two of them to hear, I improvised Whitney Houston’s hit song “I Have Nothing to Sing”: “Don’t
walk away from me, I have something, something, something—if I have you, you, you, you,
you.”

One of them couldn’t help it. She giggled, and I said, “Patti Labelle needs to hook up with Steve
Wonder and not just make music for themselves but make some music for the country.”

She shot me with a critical eye, and I expounded, “I mean making music for the country like all
those white cowboys in jeans with guitars and big hats do.”

Before they could respond, I thought I could gain more favor by making a real pro-black
comment. “That wanna-be black Detroit eight-mile dude M and M is giving rap music a bad
name.” I shook my head regretfully. “He is not even black, and I don’t understand why the
government allows him to act and sing black!”

One of the girls got lost in translation, shook her head, and asked her friend, “Who is M and M?”
“I believe this fool is talking about Eminem.”

I was happy I had gotten their attention and continued unabated. “You all ever heard of Whit
Knee Houston of the song I just sang for you?”

But they just stared at me wordlessly. From their body language, I could detect the duo did not
know that in my culture, dancers are named according to the dance they perform. For example,
if you did the stamping dance, you were branded as the stamper from the village name. If you
did the shaking dance, you were called the shaker from your village name.

“You mean you don’t know that beautiful bride with a quick-witted knee from Houston?” I
shook my head. “I can’t believe she is originally black?” I shot them the look of someone who
had just revealed some breaking news, the kind to qualify for a Pulitzer Prize for Best News
Award. They didn’t say a word, so I dropped some more information.
“She competes with Salindion for best-sounding love songs.”

“I have no clue who he is talking about,” one of them grumbled.

I looked at her disappointedly. “How can you not know the only American Canadian French
music star in the world that sang about a big sinking ship?”

I realized they were thinking deeper, more than what their façade was leading on.
I continued, “The two of them mashed together, Whit Knee Houston and Salindion, end up
making that vision-of-love girl Mariah Carry, because she calls herself black when all the
evidence of her skin says she looks white-skinned?”

I was still stuck on interpreting the meaning of names through the prism of my village because
if a lady was beautiful, men gave her suggestive monikers that referred to what they wanted to
do with her.

“I came to America to Marry-carry her back to the motherland.”

In return, I got two vacant stares, which led me to reveal, “I like her powerful black voice that
she sings in white tunes.” I gesticulated knowledgeably. “In fact, she sings like that because she
is a crossbreed between that witty knee from Houston and Sally Dion, the one whose Beauty
and The Beast caused The Power of Love, that left My Heart Will Go On, All by Myself. Think
Twice, That’s The Way It Is Because A New Day Has Come, so I’m alive, I’m your angel, Think
Twice as It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.”

They chuckled at once, and I thought I had finally impressed and dropped more. “Even Tupac
Shakur, just like Elvis Presley, didn’t die—we just don’t know it yet. He will be back, just like
Arnold Schwarzenegger said.”

I cleared my throat and initiated a fake Austrian accent, “I’ll be back!”

Feeling tipsy, I concocted some quick dance moves; I didn’t know what they were or how my
drunken mind invented them.

I paused momentarily and asked, “You know why they haven’t found Tupac’s killer?” I was met
with blank stares and went ahead to answer myself, “It’s because no one killed him.”

I cooked up a brief, brisk jiggle and tried to change to a more thought-provoking topic,
“American music is great; this is a good place to come and loosen up when you feel so tightened
with all the stress. Y’all think so?”

One woman’s eyes quickly filled with playful vivacity, and she turned to her friend. “He is
special.”

“For sure, he is a special needs case,” she agreed.

The comment I thought was optimistic caught me off guard because I didn’t expect them to
think I was exceptional with special needs when I was just an ordinary guy. They had now
upped the game for me, and I took more than a few seconds to think of what I would say to
look and sound very distinguished.

“Keep talking; I’m diagnosing you.”

I flashed a winning smile without knowing in America that when someone says you are special,
it means you are mentally slow, unable to function in a typical everyday environment. I thought
she meant she was examining what I said to decide if I was the perfect guy for her.

But then she caught me completely off guard. “You yap so much shit. I don’t know whether to
give you toilet paper or a breath mint.”

I acted as if I didn’t hear, and she lit a cigarette, inhaled, and emitted a ring of smoke toward the
ceiling, then blew out twin streams through her nostrils, something I had never seen a woman
do.

Since the buzz from the alcohol was driving me, I didn’t notice all the signs of weariness my
yapping and presence were causing. I thought I was flirting like a cat—lick and then scratch.
Feeling so sure of myself, I decided to pick up on the special angle she had giggled about
heartily.

“In Africa, love is skin deep, not money deep like in America.”

“See, there you go again.”

Without understanding what she meant, I asked, “Go where?”

“Talking too much shit.”

She slipped her goggles off, wiped off the condensation, and put them back on, and I saw what
passed like an oncoming grin ready to flash on her face. So, I decided to play the money angle
by turning my charm on her.

“But now I’m in America, and if I told you my banking manager also said I’m a special needs
customer because my account is so full that they want me to open another one, you wouldn’t
believe me. I can prove you wrong by proposing to you with my overloaded ATM card that is
tied down by a very complicated password.” Like I forgot a crucial detail, I added, “In fact, the
calculator doesn’t have enough digits to add and record the balance in my bank account.”
She remarked, “You are so full of yourself.”

“Just the other day, can you believe the bank asked me for a loan?”

“Africa, man, just move on. No one is interested in your dog and pony show.”

Even though the student visa card allowed a spending limit of one hundred dollars a day, it did
little to stall my braggadocio, “The only problem we may have tonight is that the ATM is afraid
of me overspending, so it gives me the exact cash I asked for, not even one cent more. But I can
go inside the bank the next day and get any amount I need.”

“You are such a snob,” she proclaimed.

Knowing a snob was an elitist person, I took it as a compliment. “I can make you be like that
Lucky Star Material Girl Madonna, take you on Holiday and Into the Groove.” I carried on, “Do
you know the Queen of Pop is Like a Virgin from right here in Michigan? But that shouldn’t
worry you because I’m crazy for You, so You Open My Heart and Justify My Love.”

She rolled her eyes for her friend’s benefit and said, “Fat chance.”

Thinking that a fat chance meant I had a big opportunity, I smiled unrestrainedly and threw my
fist in the air in a victorious manner. “Awesome!”

Looking muddle-headed, she drove in a remaining zinger. “That student banking ATM card
won’t change the fact that you are the proof we need to know the evolution of man is still going
on in Africa.”

“But I’m sure of one thing.” I got their attention and challenged, “If we walk to the ATM, and I
show you my balance, you will start apologizing for all the crude things you said to me.” I
bobbed my head knowingly and added, “Y’all will be all over me like hungry city birds on
breadcrumbs.”

She castigated, “No amount of money can change your looks.”

I did my best not to look wounded by the comment and countered, “I guess you forget ugly
means no other woman would snatch me away from you.”

“Wow, that’s news to me.”

Hearing I had given her good news, I perked up with egotistical self-confidence, but it didn’t
last five seconds.

She bombed me, “Up to this moment, I had no clue you were a purse that could be snatched
away.”

I was caught with my foot in my mouth, and she ignored me and turned to her friend, who
declared unequivocally, “Even if I had the worst itch in the world and there was no one else, I
couldn’t let him scratch it.”

Realizing I had been caught asleep at the switch, quickly falling and not getting up, I blabbered
through my retort, “Maybe I should stop drinking right now because from what I see, it’s
beginning to look like I have yet to see true beauty.”

“If you had a mirror in your house, you wouldn’t have the nerve to come to talk to us,” she
struck back with a quickness I didn’t foresee.

Her buddy feigned a look of total surprise, “Wow. I’m so shocked. I have never seen an ugly
person like you that is still alive.”

Her friend added, “If ugliness were a crime, you would get the electric chair without any trial.”
They both burst out laughing at their jokes.

“Do you know you could make a lot of money selling a costume that resembles your face during
Halloween?”

Amid the loud music, I misheard, bobbing my head in agreement, “Sure, the custom of saying
hello wins all the time.”

The other girl asked, “He is from Africa and in college, right?”

When her friend nodded, she delivered her punchline: “Can you imagine he has what passes for
an entire village’s brains?”

“It means his brains are good, but his face didn’t get the memo,” she rejoined and howled a burst
of laughter. “That is why I will call National Geographic to let them know ugly people like you
still exist.”

Her friend interjected, “Stop. Don’t do that. It won’t work.” I smiled, hoping her friend was
about to take a high road and at least say something gratuitous. My hope vanished when she
said, “Just call your Congressman and ask him to make a law where ugly people should be
required to walk by faster so that they can get out of people’s eyesight.”

More chuckles escaped their lips when the other looked at me directly, faking sincerity and then
blasting me away, “Look here. There is a book titled ‘How Not to be Ugly.’ Buy it, open it, and
keep it right in front of your face wherever you go.”

My mind started to churn for a more scalding response, but not before her friend dared, “I bet
you if you give him a blood test, you will find ugly in his blood.”

The alcohol buzz caused me to smile the comment away. “I guess you guys don’t know the
ugliest are the best lovers. So take your pick—cute face or best game.”

“No worries. I can understand being an ugly man is a curse. If you are unattractive, you shall
remain ugly. You can’t fix your look with a wig, lipstick, penciled eyelashes, or makeup. The
only thing that will save you is the money in your pocket.”

“It’s not me that hates the way I look. It’s you that hates the way you look. Look at all that
makeup, eyes, lips, face, and fake hair.” I paused enough to let it sink in and concluded, “At least
I’m not like you, that is wearing a fake face so that you can meet a real man.”

“Dude, there is the usual ugliness a man can get away with by height or shoe size.” She winked.
“If you know what I mean.” But before I could put together what she implied, she added, “Or if
that doesn’t work, the size of his wallet will do the trick.”

I interrupted, “Of course, I know I’m ugly until you find out how much money I make or have
in my bank account.”

She proceeded as if I hadn’t said anything, “You are so Third World ugly, I wouldn’t let my dog
pee on your foot.”

The putdown didn’t faze me. “You call me ugly because no man puts on makeup, polishes his
face, or gets extra eyebrows to attract females.”

She dismissed me. “There is always someone out there for everyone. For you, it’s a psychiatrist.”

“You are correct. I would need my head examined before getting involved with you.”

“Get over yourself. I can’t imagine a girl like me ever saying she likes you.”

Like I had remembered an overlooked detail, I intoned, “Oh wait, your face looks beautiful with
stuff that will be removed by Kleenex tonight. Am I right?”

“Sure, that could be true, but for now, I would prefer if you changed into a frog and hopped
away.”

I returned fire, “At least I’m not the one whose face is treated like an art project, always trying on
different colors, foundations, and shades using various brushes and liners.”

It was now getting into a wave of nasty exchanges instead of an exciting conversation with the
opposite sex.

“Out of all the ladies in here, how did he pick us out?” she asked her friend.
The companion grinned from ear to ear and imparted, “Gurl, butterflies don’t go to ugly
flowers.”

I angled an amiable grin. “I picked you guys out because there is always a winner and
runner-up in a beauty contest—that’s why I came up closer to see for myself.”

Talking to each other, they completely ignored my jab. “He is a butterfly—he smells good
perfume with his feet. That’s how he walked up to us without looking to realize he is too ugly
even to consider standing near us.”

She leaned over to her friend, “But don’t worry, gurl, such unsightly aliens won’t be coming
anymore—I will send a letter to my congressman to make it illegal for ugly foreigners like him
to come to America.”

Her buddy divulged, “I’m a plastic surgeon.”

“Really? That is so cool.”

She delivered the rest of her line. “You have such a bad case of ugliocis. Thankfully I have been
looking for a face like yours to challenge my skills because it must be turning a few stomachs.”
I disagreed, “No, my face is a head-turner.”

“Yes, like turning your head and head back where you came from. But I doubt you can do it fast
enough because the size of your head is so big it can be installed on a cow.”

She high-fived her friend, who snapped her two fingers and quipped, “You go, gurl—I bet his
reflection turns away in disgust when he looks in the mirror.”

The smoker inhaled another puff and blew it in my face. Although intoxicated, I ducked in time,
smiling at the thought of what I was about to say.

“If your lungs looked like your face, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

She eyed me severely and snapped back, “You are a complete idiot.”

“No, not yet—some parts are still missing, like your face!”

“Good, because if you say you like my face, I will shoot myself.”

“Should I say you are a twin sister to Miss Too Ugly?” I asked.

She hissed, “Get your zoo-smelling ass out of my face. I’m sure Rosa Parks would have
forgotten about civil rights and gladly gave up her seat so that she didn’t have to sit next to your
ugly stinking face.”

“I’m surprised you can smell anything with all that smoke coming out of your nose.”

“I still say you are so zoo-ugly.”

At that point, I knew I had lost and might as well go down fighting.

“I may be ugly, but I still don’t understand why you put on so much makeup because your face
looks beautiful—it’s your personality that needs the most makeup because changing the
packaging does not change what is inside. Have you ever considered eating your makeup so
that you can look pretty from the inside too?”

Instead of getting mad, she gave me a coy smile that effectively took the sting out of my
comment.

“You are so full of shit. Get your ass out of my face.”

It was clear I was now chasing rainbows, and I jibed, “And you, get your facts straight. My ass is
not in your face.”

She removed a small mirror from her purse and started to study her face, pursing her lips in the
process, and I shot back, “Unlike you, I don’t think beauty is found in makeup on your face
because one swipe of your facial appearance and you will instantly drop from an A to a D.”
Rebuke came promptly, “You are such an idiot!”

She removed a small brush and rubbed it on her face as I gestured, “And don’t forget your
heavy makeup may attract a man’s attention, but with that foul personality, it will never attract
his heart.”

She put her brush back in her purse, snapped it shut, and advised, “Do America a huge favor,
Kunta Kinte—take your drunken ass back to the bush and drink some more filthy moonshine
from diseased roots.”

I had no clue what moonshine was, so I faked my understanding of her comment. But before I
could respond, the other girl said, “Dude, your breath stinks so bad I can read the smelly words
that come out of your mouth.”

“Don’t worry—I know if I had lots of money right now, you would not be smelling my breath
but fighting each other for my attention.”

She snapped her head in my direction. “Not in a million years!”

“I guess that means I should get away before any of you gets drunk, turns pregnant, and blames
it on me.”

Her face turned disgusted. “Take your pissy drunk ass to bathe in a sewer. You may smell a little
better.”

“Yeah, I’m drunk, but tomorrow morning I will be sober, and you all will still be ugly.”

I whooshed off without giving them a chance to hit me back.