About My Country

You invited me to your home after hearing my pitiful story from a third party, and you wanted me to have a taste of your beautiful life. Crumbs of your goodness could last me a lifetime of goodies, so I came with my stories in my heart.

If I tell you about my country you will sip your wine, turn your lips to your wife’s ear. You will whisper something that could have waited for your bedtime, because it was meant to be funny in the world you’ve been immersed in, but for my sake you wore your sober looks and nodded.

You guys are actors, you and your wife. I’ve seen your faces on billboards in my country, advertising blockbusters. The billboard telling of your latest release was the last charred image I set my eyes on before getting a spot on the plane that got me here.

So, it shouldn’t be hard to imagine being cast in this big budget production. Imagine that unlike your earlier works the mention of money, the reputation of the director, and that of your co-stars made you sign stuff without asking for the script or at least a plot summary.

Then you realize that you were meant to improvise, together with your co-stars, without any clue what the story was meant to be.

If my country were a film you will shine as an analyst, and a film reviewer, you will talk about one-dimensional characters played by charismatic actors, you will wax lyrical about cheap aesthetics, half-baked subplots and a third act that stretches your skepticism to the limit.

Your fingers would work fast on your keyboard if were an article, and your mouth would run freely like a broken tap if it were a podcast, you would have a great time with your host if it were live TV.

If I tell you about my country you would end the day in bed, tuck my stories about a dysfunctional African state in the back burner of your memory and tuck the hardness between your legs into a woman who listened to your whispers about my story.