No matter the continent, Black men are born with two undeniable traits: the ability to talk shit and pick up women. These traits are symbiotic an can often be seen working in tandem. Today, I had the luxury of being pursued by two friends who put their skills to work.
As an American woman, my dreads and multi-colored rainboots are dead give aways that I am foreign. Men, the simple creatures that they are, have been enamoured by my uniqueness, and persistent in their pursuit. Today’s pursuers, Nigerian Dude #1 and #2, started with a common goal–to convince me that I’ve never been with a Black man. When asked what they would call a Black American man, they laughed. Evidently, it’s common knowledge that they pale in comparison to brothers on the continent. The reason? They eat too much sugar. I couldn’t deny this, the world seems to be aware of Americans’ bad eating habits. Here’s the humorous part, Dude #1 claims our improper diet disables Black American men’s strength. I wasn’t too sure where he was going with this assertion until he began to repeatedly underscore his argument with a balled fist and outstretched arm. Finally, I got the hint. After laughing uncontrollably, I told him I was engaged and wasn’t interested in determining the truthfulness, or lack thereof, of his comparison. Dude #2 was not deterred by my white lie, and began his attack from a new angle. Was I aware that Igbo men worked hard and made lots of money? Again, I wasn’t impressed, prompting Dude #1 to recall a story he heard about pitiful American women who marry for love. Although he said love like it was an incurable disease, I had to admit he was once again correct. My man and I don’t aspire to be rich, and our only aspiration for material wealth lies in preventing our family’s return to poverty.
While I was showered with compliments and drinks, it felt like I was at a 4th of July picnic, not thousands of miles away at my friend Lilian’s roadside food stand. Taking a break from their pursuit, they began to fix their attention on Lilian’s patrons. The first sister was showered with kisses and told her hips could break a man’s back. The next sister was implored for help pouring water into Dude #2’s mouth, it was hot and his hands were dirty. The sisters feigned annoyance, and fluttered away into the African sun, indifferent to the brothers’ many displays of bravado.
All eyes back on me, I was confronted with a choice. Who had told the most believable lies, wore the shiniest jewelry, and effortlessly conveyed the funniest sexual innuendos? Out of my league, I looked to Lilian for help. Like a good friend, she dismissed them both–neither was worthy of my attention. When Dude #1 asked for a peck on the cheek it was my turn to feign annoyance and flutter away into the midday sun. A little buzzed from warm Guinness on an empty stomach, I continued to giggle at our innate similarities.
