Mr. P: Or How I Learned To Let Go Of My Social Anxiety And Love A Good Story — PART I

by Al

 

By that time, I’d finished taking all the pictures I had in mind. Didn’t like anything I shot.

Part of me was angry at myself for going all the way over there and not getting any decent shots; another was pissed at Hassan for making we wait so damn long. The fool told me he will be there around 8PM. It was a few minutes to nine, and still, no sign of him.

It was in this state of anger and self-loathing that someone tapped me on the shoulder. Obviously I was startled, and even more so when I turned around and saw someone I’d never seen before. He was grinning or smiling — hard to tell. It was quite creepy.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not a stranger,” he said. And just when I though things couldn’t possibly get any more creepy, he added “Just think of me as an uncle”.

Those who know me think I’m a bit misanthropic. Those who really know me know it’s just severe social anxiety. So this random stranger talking to me was in every sense of the word, torture. Add that creepy smile into the mix, and everything becomes so much more scary.

I’m a bit paranoid too.

“So where are you from?” He asked. That’s a standard question. Everyone I’ve ever met over here has asked me that one — even Nigerians.

I told him.

“Nigeria — good in football”, he said and gave me the thumbs up.

Better football than 419 scams.

“So who do you think will win the world cup?”, he asked.

I don’t watch sports. Never really liked it. Used to watch football a while back so that I could have something to talk to the guys about, but the whole thing became too tedious and I gave up.

“I don’t know,” I told him. And I don’t really care.

“No, just pick a team” he urged.

Fine.

“Argentina,” I said.

“I think Brazil”

“Cool”, and there was silence.

“Look, we’re all black here — more or less,” he said. “So relax. Plus, Obama is president”

I smiled. That transition was amusing.

“Do you like Obama?” he asked.

“Sure”

“Do you think he’s a Muslim?”

“I don’t think so”

“But you know he lived in Indonesia”

“Does that really matter?”

“Are you Muslim?” he asked.

“Yes I am”

“So you don’t drink,” he asked.

“No I do not”

“But some Muslims do drink”

“A lot of Muslims do a lot of things that aren’t Islam”

“I don’t drink too,” he said.

“Cool. Are you muslim?”

“No I’m catholic”, and then he added “Actually I do drink, but only on occasion”

“That’s cool too,” I said.

“Like tomorrow, I know I’m going to get drunk”

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“My nephew is getting married”

“Nice”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

“No I do not”

“Why not?”

Beats me too.

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“Is it that you don’t like girls, or that girls don’t like you?”

It was the are-you-gay-or-just-a-loser type question.

Loser, unfortunately.

“Don’t worry, it’s probably because of your body,” he said with a smile “You’re tiny and slim. Girls like a man that looks like a man. Maybe you should think about hitting the gym”

“OK I’ll keep that in mind”

Silence, for a few seconds and then —

“Can you believe this is the first time in a long time that I’m talking to a negro?”, he said.

Really?

“Really?”

“Really,” he said “Last time, these two negros ran away with my money”

“No shit”

“Don’t worry I’m not judging you. You’re obviously a nice guy. There are bad people everywhere — Indians too, those two just happened to be Negros,” he said almost immediately.

Of course. And then I got a brilliant idea.

“What’s you name sir?”, I asked.

He told me. Asked me mine, probably just to be polite, and I told him.

“Can I take your picture, Mr.P?”, I asked.

“Sure, where do you want it?”

“Lets go over there,” and pointed to the area that had a little more light.

We did, and immediately, he posed for the shot.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “Just sit down right here and tell me Mr.P — How did those negroes get their hands on your money?”

“Well,” he started “It was many years ago…”

 

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PART II is now up.