His name wasn’t Dube, but that’s what we’re going to call him.

I met him at a club in Egypt – a rare occurrence in itself, because I was clubbing. In Egypt.

Egypt is the racistest place I have ever been to…and that’s saying a lot, because in Ethiopia, the beggars call you a slave (coz you’ve been colonized and they weren’t). Clubbing in Egypt is dangerous because Egyptian men think black women are prostitutes and treat them as such. So it becomes a delicate science of finding a club that won’t turn into a fight with the guys you’re with that has good enough music that you might actually be able to dance to.

We lucked out that night (hahahahaha see what I did there?).

They were playing African music, and there were a lot of Africans. Nigerian tunes, a lot of Nigerian, but a lot of East African too – like Kigeugeu and Goldigger. Interesting.

The guys we were with had their eyes on my friend, and not me, which saved me from excessive small talk. Plus, I had informed them about Wolverine, so. (not that that usually stops anyone, but it’s nice to try)

Then a fat drunk friend of theirs shows up and begins to monopolize my attention like he’s somehow worthy and/or paid my bride price. I’m not good at drunk people. I am especially not good at drunk people conversation. He was irritating me, largely (hahahahahahahaha) because he was acting like I owed him something. (shawty…say what’s your price)

Dube tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, excited about being rescued.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘He’s a bit drunk.’

‘Ignore him!’ roared The Fat One. So I ignored…him.

Dube and I sat down. He had an accent, and I am a sucker for accents.

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘And I don’t know yours.’

‘If you can pronounce my name right on the first try, I’ll buy you a drink.’

3 minutes later, I have my drink. I’ve watched too many episodes of Generations not to know how to pronounce a South African name. The Fat One tries to drag me away when Dube goes to get my drink. I indulge him politely until Dube comes back to steal me away again. The Fat One looks like he is getting very annoyed – especially since he has found out he speaks my language, and now feels even more – if possible – entitled.

Dube and I talk about nonsense things. He tells me about his children, I tell him about Wolverine – preempting is important to me so that I don’t have to have The Conversation. I tend to shoot myself this way in the foot often. To be fair, I am not looking, and I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. And it’s almost bubble-like – I don’t ask about the kids’ mother. He doesn’t ask about the seriousness of my relationship.

We don’t prick the bubble.

He keeps pushing up his glasses. I look through his wallet. He says he travels a lot and likes a good Tusker. The Fat One slumps sullenly in a corner. There’s…something. It feels good. I think it’s harmless. I think it’s flighty, but for the moment…good.

We are leaving half an hour later and I can’t see Dube. Not that I was looking, but…he was nice. And you never know. Right?

Fatty has blacked out. I still can’t see Dube. We are walking out. It was fun.

My head turns to the right. I see Dube wrapped around another girl who probably doesn’t have a Wolverine. He doesn’t see me. My heart sinks just a little bit, irrationally. My heart is a bit of a whore for emotion; gets attached and possessive real quick, even if nothing is ever going to happen and I cant do anything about…anything.

I almost imagine him saying for the (third? Fourth? Fifth?) time that night…’I don’t know your name…’

tSN