Hair

Abidjan ranks the third least safe city in the world, after Baghdad and N’Djamena, according to a shoddy survey by a consulting group that obviously has never set foot in this country. How they come to qualify Abidjan as one of the worst places on earth is anybody’s guess as the firm’s website only tells us the streets are "generally unsafe after dark". Even that is not entirely true; it depends as much on the area as the size of your vehicle. Armed robberies are rampant since the new government began demobilizing so-called volunteer fighters who joined the rebels during their advance on Abidjan in April. I read the newspapers mainly to find out which neighborhoods are being targeted by robbers, and I keep my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror before I drive my car into the garage to check for gunmen lurking in a corner. But yesterday I was struck once again by the unassuming friendliness of random strangers that seems so typical of Abidjan. I went to the local bank machine to get money, and the watchman held out the door to the cash cubicle as if he invited me to his own house. As I punched the numbers to obtain my cash – it often takes several attempts, and you never know if the machine is going to function properly – deafening rolls of thunder announced a tropical downpour. Outside, the watchman hurriedly unfolded an umbrella and walked me to the car.
“Be careful not to get wet now, hair is expensive,” he said.
“Don’t worry, my hair is cheap,” I said. “It grows by itself.”
“Ah. Well, you know, our sisters have very expensive hair, and they always come asking us men for money to buy more hair.”
“I know,” I said. “But whites have cheap hair. That’s why they don’t take very good care of it.”
“Ah bon? Interesting. Have a good day, madam.”