Driving through the chaos of Babayara, the taxi driver informed me that he was rich and I was poor. When he dropped me at my gate, he took my hand and told me he would like to take me out some time. His gaze was earnest, and somehow seemed to beam through the gap in his front teeth. I accepted out of confusion and flattery.
In this foreign place, I don’t know if I can promise friendships I cannot keep, or if I should lend my hand to anyone who finds my white skin my only mystery.