I met Kin Shaka at the public beach near Accra, where he sold patchwork clothing and local weed. Because his eyes were concealed by thick sunglasses, I noticed only his partially-chipped front tooth and his long dreads, piled high into a beanie cap.
As I sipped Coca Cola in the shade, Kin Shaka sang me an improvised a song in which he claimed me as his “Goddess Divine.”
I wanted to puke.
Kin Shaka (Rastaman) sat with me for two hours and then stared at me from the neighboring table. When I wandered to another area of the beach, he followed me there with a fresh joint in his hand. I permitted him one dance before I washed away my discomfort with boxed wine. I left the shore unhappy, shaken, and thankfully unattached.