“Red Wine in Straw”. 1.

I am at a local bar in Espargos.

I’m having some “Super Bock” beer.

The beer bottles in Cape Verde are weird. First they’re small. Like, the regular beer comes in this very small bottle. It’s like a mini-beer. The first time I was served one at a bar, I was very surprised by it.

Hm, why is it so small?

Second, the caps are weird.

Usually glass bottles have these metal caps that you take off with like a bottle opener and stuff. But these ones have this miniature can-tab type mechanism on their metal bottle caps.

So like, imagine opening a soda can. Now imagine doing that on the tiny metal cap of a glass bottle. Exactly.

Like, What?

What?

---

I’m not quite sure how this evening will go.

I’m with my backpack, which has my essential belongings. All my belongings really. I don’t have so much stuff. Oh and then there’s the small propane cylinder. The smallest-sized type. I use that to cook. It’s the only thing I have, which doesn’t fit into the backpack.

I decided to move from the space where I stay at Santa Maria. I heard Mohammed recently got a comfy space in Espargos. I don’t exactly know how comfy, but I heard and was curious. And so I figured I might as well also give Espargos a shot. Plus, it’s exhilarating just packing your things and heading out, not sure how things are going to end up. I think it’s really more that, than anything else.

I had to return Toure’s white keg.

Toure is my next-door neighbour. Toure and Camara. They are both from Guinea Conakry. Camara has a smallish stature, and a relatively high-pitched voice. I think he works security somewhere, but I’m not entirely sure. Probably at one of the hotels. Practically everyone in Santa Maria works at the hotels. Or at least they work in hospitality somehow.

Camara doesn’t speak so much English. He’s primarily proficient in French. French is Guinea Conakry’s lingua franca, being one of the countries in French West Africa.

Due to the language barrier, Camara and I don’t exchange too many actual words. We interact every now and then, and there’s a lot of sign and body language.

He says a lot of “Cool ahn?”

Which is like, “That’s cool right?”

He pronounces the “Cool” like “Kul”. The “K” is very pronounced, and the “u” is very short. I think it’s amusing.

Toure is considerably taller than Camara. He has a somewhat muscular build. He speaks more English. We talk.

Haha, Toure is a cool guy.

He sells souvenirs to the tourists at Santa Maria.

We talk about travel, and our different countries of origin. We talk about Europe. He has dreams of immigrating to Europe. They all do. Everybody here. Every one of my neighbours. A lot of them see their time in Cape Verde as hopefully being a stopover between Africa and Europe.

For some reason, my own thinking is the other way around. I spent the second half of the previous year in Berlin as a student. I spent the year before that in the USA. And now I’m here in Cape Verde. By choice. To some extent at least.

I have a Nigerian passport, and so travel is very constrained by visas amongst other things. My USA student visa will expire soon. I don’t know if I’ll be resuming studies after this gap year. I don’t think so. I’m anxious about my future and the uncertainty it’s shrouded in, but for some reason I don’t see immigration to the West as the solution to my problems. For some reason.

My French West African neighbours find me odd. Very odd. I speak English. Considerably well. Left to them, I should be a tour guide. I could be making a lot of money from the tourists. I must be immensely stupid for not capitalising on such an opportunity. Practically none of the tourists in Cape Verde speak French as a first language. And so this makes communication strained for the guys who primarily speak French.

They honestly find my stupidity inestimable. Left to them, I should go find a sixty year old German woman who’ll be impressed with how hard I can fuck her, and hope and pray to Allah that she decides to take me back to Germany with her. That is exactly what I would do if I was smart.

If I wasn’t in such an uncertain situation, I would’ve found that suggestion unthinkably hilarious. However given the anxieties of my position, I just find it infuriating. And a little scary.

---

A while back Toure was telling me about his girlfriend. She was from Nigeria. She worked in a shop somewhere in Santa Maria. She had just brought him some homemade lunch that afternoon.

Mayowa you see, this girl, she like me so much.

In his deep voice, and with his smiling face.

Every time always calling me. Always say Toure Toure, how are you, why you no come see me since, she like me so much.

And then he told me about his girlfriend before that. Also from Nigeria.

You see, I just get the luck with the Nigerian women you know.

Hahahahaha. Toure Toure!

---

I had to return Toure’s white plastic keg. He gave it to me when I needed a container to store drinking water. Every now and then I would go get it filled with water for about a hundred escudos at the funtunario.

The funtunario is really just a bunch of taps with running water, adjacent to the clothing market. I don’t know why people refer to it by such a fancy-sounding name.

---

I am still at the local bar in Espargos. Drinking Strela mini-beer.

There’s this swing-set thing outside. Like a mini playground. I spent some time hanging out there.

I am now in conversation with someone. Some guy. A Cape Verdean. We’re discussing. At some point we talk about what I’m doing in Espargos. I mention that I’m on a journey from Santa Maria. And that I’ve got my belongings in my backpack. We talk some more. At some point he offers to host me for the night.

Don’t worry. Don’t worry. You can stay in my house. You come to my house to sleep. Don’t worry.

He’s very kind. He’s a very cheerful guy, laughing and exchanging banter with the waitress and the other people at the bar.

I’m touched by his offer.

I feel like Cape Verdeans can be very very generous. Like, very very. And gradually I’ve been getting accustomed to their initially surprising generosity and welcoming nature.

I say okay. I take my time to express appreciation.

We keep talking and chilling.

Hm. It seems like a roof over my head for the night is sorted out at this point.

---

Image: Somewhere on the streets of Santa Maria. A bunch of people betting money on the outcome of dice rolls.

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This post is one in a series. The other pieces in the series can be accessed here.

Circumventing Sunday Service/ Meeting with the IMF.

I just escaped the building.

Sunday Service will begin very soon. Everyone finds it very weird and disrespectful whenever I walk right through an ongoing gathering like they’re not there.

Their church gatherings are where they congregate to commune with God. Walking right through an ongoing gathering is perceived as a flagrant disrespect- both to them and to their almighty God.

Well it’s not completely my fault. The space within which they hold these meetings is right between the entrance and the rest of the building. And so sometimes when I need to get into the building and upstairs to the room where I’m arguably being lodged as a guest, I have to walk briskly through their gatherings so I can be on my way.

They don’t like it. They don’t like it at all.

And so this morning I’m exiting the building before their Sunday service even starts.

---

I am at Hotel VIP Praia.

Hotel VIP Praia is a 4-Star hotel erected on the expansive black rocks lining the southeastern coast of Santiago- the capital island of the Cape Verdean archipelago.

I was recently here to make inquiries about the hotel facilities.

At this point in time, I am aware there is a penthouse bar overlooking the awe-inspiring crystal blue ocean water. I exchange pleasantries with the receptionists and head into the elevator.

I am yet to come to a convincing understanding of why the beaches in Cape Verde have such crystal blue water.

I raised this question with a Dutch engineer I met on Sal island. He brought up an interesting idea, and we hypothesized along the lines of sand particle weight.

Maybe the sand particles here were somehow heavier than in other places, and consequently always settled to the ocean floor very quickly- leaving the water crystal blue.

I think it makes sense, but I’m not too convinced that’s the answer.

---

I am at the penthouse bar.

I walk past the bar, and past the rooftop swimming pool on my left, as I head up a staircase.

There is an elevated platform right above. I ascend the stairs up to this platform and take a seat.

I take a few minutes to marvel at the impressive woodwork in my immediate surroundings, while breathing in the refreshing ocean air and thoroughly enjoying the engrossing view of the entrancingly blue ocean water.

I open up my computer and attempt to connect to the WiFi.

My time at a college in the USA whose program was structured around online classes and distributed learning, has given me considerable experience with shamelessly striding into the most upscale of locations primarily intending to make use of their WiFi network.

In the US no one seemed to care if I spent hours in a cafe or restaurant, making pretty heavy use of their WiFi while buying just a few cups of coffee and some light snacks.

In Germany things were also similar, although some places could be problematic.

In Cape Verde, the smaller restaurants and cafes made me feel guilty. Past a certain point I would begin to literally feel the owner/manager’s gaze drilling into my skin. Or maybe that was just me feeling self-conscious.

But this right here is Hotel VIP Praia- a 4 star hotel. This sublime edifice is definitely more than capable of handling my meager WiFi consumption. I prepare myself for a good time.

---

There is a problem with the WiFi. The computer is not connecting to it.

Maybe it’s the location.

I walk about the roof of the bar, and eventually head down the stairs to the rest of the penthouse.

There is a guy working on a computer. He has multi-colored tattoos all over his body. Arms. Legs. He also has a fluffy white square beard. I think he looks really interesting.

I mention something about the Wifi. He empathizes, and says a WiFi extender would be a useful installation. To extend the network to the area above the bar. I agree with him.

I take a seat opposite, and we begin to engage in conversation while I connect. At some point I learn that he’s a consultant with the International Monetary Fund.

Hmmm!! The IMF!!! Hmmm!!

I am very very surprised. I had no idea the IMF hired people who were like covered from head to toe in multicolored tattoos.

My classmates at the US college during my last semester there, were beginning to experience this existential anxiety involving charting out some sort of professional path for oneself. Frantic internship applications were the principal community-wide activity.

Students who had secured shiny-sounding internship positions were being quietly envied by others. The college itself was featuring these shiny professional engagements on their website.

The school hired some Professional Development Managers or something like that. They periodically organized Career Development meetings where they gave guidelines on how to craft the most effective CVs.

I never went for their meetings. One of them kept sending me emails. Jesse or something like that. He was probably a nice person, but the context of his employment in the university and what he represented, made me find him and his emails very annoying. I never replied.

I even began to hate the word “career”, because to me it represented this very ascetic concept that required one to completely shed every strand of individuality and personal idiosyncrasy, to facilitate direly needed absorption into the cold, phlegmatic and completely unfeeling machine of the world of work.

And so sitting here right now at a 4-star hotel penthouse bar, across the table from this white-bearded biker guy covered in multicolored tattoos- the very exemplar of individuality and personal ideosyncracy- who is currently on a professional assignment with the International Monetary Fund, I feel like there is hope for me. Me with my complete disregard for somber career development meetings and lifeless CVs.

I casually give an exposition on some mathematical nuance I’m engaging with, in the course of some of my work involving Artificial Intelligence and Endangered Languages.

He seems very interested. I provide some more detail over which we discuss.

The mentioned research endeavor was one I crafted myself as a conceptual spear head with which I intended to transpierce and forge a path through the nebulous terrain of life professions. It did not exist prior.

It was a number of things to me:

It was an emboldening intersection of passions, skills and expertise which I wished to structure my life around.

It was also an endeavor to procure solutions to what I believed to be a pressing world problem.

In addition however, I think it also sounds very cool and important. You know, something you can casually bring up in conversation with a consultant from the IMF.

---

We’ve been chatting for over an hour, all the while sipping on beers and working on our Macs.

We’ve talked about his motorbikes, about his family and mine, about his children’s disapproval of his tattoos, and about my mother’s sudden visit to Cape Verde to understand why in the name of God I took a gap year from college in the US.

We’ve talked about his frequent travels on the job, and his divorce which was largely a consequence of that. We’ve talked about financial worries and anxieties about the future.

Now we’re talking about his current relationship. With a woman he met in Albania. She recently created a photography page on Facebook, where she posts pictures he takes during his travels. She sounds sweet.

At some point the excited bartender offers to bring up some Cape Verdean girls for entertainment.

The IMF guy turns to him:

Sorry I’m not here for that kind of fun, thank you.

We keep talking.

At some point his supervisor joins us at the table.

First I am very taken aback by the very idea that this person has a supervisor.

The supervisor is a cool guy. He brings some very interesting perspective to the conversation. Sheds light on some illicit activities foreign hotel chains are engaging in:

Leveraging subsidized import duties to sell imported construction materials at a profit on the black market. IMF is here to keep such behavior in check.

Mmm!! Interesting!!!

I nod my head in excited understanding.

We keep talking.

At some point in our conversation, the tattooed guy mentions that I’ve had a very accomplished day. I laugh out loud and express my complete agreement with him:

Escaping Sunday Service to end up having a super interesting chat with IMF officials at the penthouse bar of a 4-star hotel overlooking the Cape Verdean Atlantic. Excellent day.

We talk some more. Later the supervisor gets up to leave. It’s his birthday today. I think it’s his seventieth birthday. He’s probably going in to prepare for some sort of celebration later in the evening.

---

Image: View from the Santa Maria pier at Ilha do Sal.

Waking Up in a Brothel at Obalende.

It is about 1am.

Someone is banging on the door.

Come out come out! Una time don finish! Come out come out! Una short rest don expire!

The human being on the other end of the door for some reason assumes I paid for just a few hours. The time has run out now, and I’m supposed to exit the room with the prostitute I’m expected to be spending time with.

I get up from the bed, sleepy and annoyed.

I paid for a full night! I did not pay for a short rest! I think you have the wrong room!

---

It is about 3am.

Someone is banging on the door.

Come out come out! Una time don finish! Come out come out! Una short rest don expire!

Jesus Christ. What is wrong with these people.

This time I’m too annoyed to properly get up.

I yell furiously at the person to leave me alone.

---

It is about 11pm the previous evening.

I am at Obalende. I was on the way to Oyingbo on Lagos Mainland, to purchase some replacement parts for my motorbike. Rear brake pads are worn. Entire chain drive needs to be replaced.

Expenses expenses expenses.

The major bridge connecting Lagos Island to the Mainland has recently been under repair. This has led to an immense traffic congestion on the alternate routes connecting the two segments of the state.

I should have gotten to Oyingbo since afternoon, but for some reason I am still at Obalende at 11pm.

Ugh.

I need a place to spend the night.

---

I am at a bar.

Drinks. Conversation. Flirtatious interactions.

There are lodgings upstairs. This is the lowest-priced in-house accommodation I was fortunate to come across this night.

It’s a pretty interesting room. At least I find it interesting. It’s in one of these like colonial-era Lagos buildings.

Sharp edges. Gable roofs. Windows made of patterned glass panes fitted into metal frames. I spent my early childhood in one of them.

I do not quite understand these colonial buildings though. They look absolutely nothing like what you’d expect of like usual British architecture. I would expect a much higher number of resplendent Victorian buildings and stuff. I mean, there’s the Cathedral at CMS and there’s this Lagos House place close to the Tafawa Balewa Square, but that’s like just about it.

What did all of those British people do when they were here, if they didn’t build like actual legit British empire kinds of structures?

I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t have such a substantial familiarity with British architecture. My only impression is gotten from movies and the internet.

Possibly if I’m in Britain at some point in the future I’ll make sure to pay close attention, and properly delineate commonalities across British architecture and that exemplified in the general colonial-era Lagos buildings.

---

I am at a bar.

I have been continually extricating myself from the physical and conversational grips of sex workers since I got here.

Handsome man, Sweet Guy, I want you this night, Let’s go upstairs, I want your cassava today, I am going to show you wonders tonight, etc etc.

The usual perfunctory attention and desire that I imagine the sex workers in this place have learnt to express– a consensual façade for what is little more than a largely unfeeling financial transaction.

Woman stop lying, you don’t really like me. Not really.

You have rent to pay. Tomorrow’s breakfast is not sure. That’s why you’re telling me all of these pretentious things. You took one look at me and came up with an estimate of how much you could obtain from me at the end of a night. Now you’re expressing insincere excitement and desire with the aim of realizing your financial anticipation, let’s stop deceiving each other please.

Now I don’t mean to be sanctimonious or anything, but unless there is a brand of masochism where getting paid for having sex with people you don’t like, is perceived to somehow be more enjoyable and desirable than having sex with someone you’re attracted to and who expresses genuine desire for you, prostitution is a pretty sad situation for the sex workers.

We talk about this. Me and the pretentious woman who is trying to get money from me at the end of the night.

Everything is bad. Life is bad. She needs money. She agrees.

She used to be a DJ. Things happened.

I give her something for her time and leave her to go find actual customers. The night is still young.

---

It is about 6 am the next morning.

Ahhh!! E fuck you four times, him no pay??? Ahhh!!! Na God go punish am!! Ahhhh!!!

I do not understand what is happening. My sleep has been interrupted multiple times in the past few hours. I still need to sleep some more.

Ahhh!! Why you sef no tell am say you no dey okay??!!

There are multiple female voices in the next room. These people are not going to let me catch the last few minutes of sleep I’m aiming for. An additional hour of sleep is just infeasible at this point.

Oya wash the floor wash the floor!!

Someone is scrubbing the floor. The air smells of soap and disinfectant.

Okay that’s it. That’s it, I have to get up.

---

It is about 8:30 am.

I need to get to Oyingbo.

There was an issue in the room next to me at the very-low-priced-lodging cum brothel. A sex worker was sick, but was not able to take time off work, most likely due to financial pressures.

She found herself with a particularly demanding customer. Their activity ended with feces on the bed. Feces from her body. The unconscionable customer employed his repulsion at the feces as an excuse to escape the brothel without paying for her services.

The soap and disinfectant I could smell was to clean up the room.

It is about 8:30 am.

I just got some gum.

I need to get to Oyingbo.

---

Image: View from the bathroom window.

Consecutive Burglaries and a Palliative Cocktail.

Life is terrible.

Life is extremely terrible.

I need money.

I am at a party at Espargos. There is music playing. The inside of this bar is painted bright lemon. I think it’s a very interesting bar. I spent some time just walking about and marvelling at the markedly appealing aesthetic of the place. Elegant looking chairs at the bar, pretty fascinating layout.

There is also some Western music. Cape Verdean music is great- it’s very very great, but every once in a while it’s extremely refreshing to hear some EDM on big speakers.

Life is terrible.

Life is extremely terrible.

I need money.

I am talking with this guy. He works at the wind power station to the east of Espargos. I am excited by wind turbines. I think they are really cool. On bus rides from Santa Maria, I used to stare at the turbines on the hills in the distance. I haven’t been to the power station physically- not yet.

Talking about wind turbines is exciting, but life is very terrible right now and I need money.

I ask him.

I ask him for money.

At various points in our conversation I made him aware of the terrible things that had recently happened to me.

The burglary at the beachfront apartment at Santa Maria. The burglary at the living space I relocated to, in the desert of Terra Boa.

Those unconscionable thieves. Those reprehensible Cape Verdean motherfuckers.

Two consecutive burglaries.

Back to back. Back to fucking back with no intermediating space for a relieving breath.

These experiences are making me learn to perceive myself as someone who has things people would like to steal. And someone whose movements some other people closely monitor. I never really used to see myself that way before. The second realisation is an unnerving one. A very unnerving one.

Admittedly the security measures at the first apartment were weak, and the second living space had nonexistent protection because I had just gotten there and was still putting a lot of things in place.

In spite of this awareness however, those two burglaries occurred in ways I did not expect, and at times when I was not around.

Life is terrible.

Life is extremely terrible.

I need money.

The guy keeps refusing+ignoring my financial requests. For some reason he does not expect his continued refusal to have an attenuating effect on my interest in the conversation. He keeps talking about his job and his life. I think he is trying to give me life advice.

But right now I do not need life advice. I need money.

What sort of a guy is this. I am sure he has money to spare. I am sure. He is talking like someone who has money to spare.

• And he acknowledges that my recent experiences have been immensely debilitating.

• And I have made him understand that some liquid right now would really improve my situation and my mood.

• And so I do not understand his unwillingness to give me some money.

I am frustrated.

Or maybe he does not have money to spare.

Well in that case, he should simply let me know, so I can go get money elsewhere, and then maybe continue the conversation about wind turbines later.

The guy keeps on talking.

Just standing across the bar table from him, listening to him go on and on and on, gives me a nauseating, bitter taste in my mouth.

——————————————

You are a great guy.

Oh my God you are such a great guy.

Oh you are so great. You are such a great great guy.

One of the bartenders just made me a cocktail. For free.

The sharp sour taste of the free cocktail injects a stimulating incisiveness into the overwhelming mire of this evening’s disorienting angst.

Oh wow this thing tastes so good.

I just gave this guy a surface-level description of my situation and he compassionately made me a free cocktail. I talked and talked and talked with the turbine guy, and yet he didn’t give me shit. To hell with that turbine guy. To hell with him.

I keep drifting around the party, contemplating my situation while sipping on the soothing drink.

Life is terrible.

I need money.

.

.

Image: From a night at DNA- a club in Victoria Island, Lagos Nigeria.