Unwanted Attention
on Tales from a Mud Hut (Cameroon), 17/Oct/2008 13:25, 34 days ago
Are all the men in Maroua completely mad?One evening, shortly after I arrived home, there was a knock at my door.  It was Bogo, my landlord's mother in law, who handed me a sheet of paper and launched into a long explanation in Fulfulde, not a word of which I understood.  The sheet turned out to be a letter addressed to someone called 'Jeanne' and signed 'Dieudonné' (yes, literally 'God given').  Being that my name wasn't Jeanne, I had never heard of aDieudonné and Bobo's insights into the matter were lost on me, I decided to ignore the letter.A week later a young man with glasses and a baseball cap appeared on my doorstep.  When I opened my fly-screen door to see who it was, he greeted me like an old friend and asked me if I was settling in well.  I have a terrible memory for faces but I was sure that I had never seen this person in my life before.  I asked him who he was and he replied in astonishment, 'Mais c'est moi,Dieudonné!'  I wracked my brain and then remembered the note.  'Didn't you receive my letter?' he asked.  'Yes,' I replied, 'but my name isn't Jeanne.' 'But you're a new VSO volunteer.  I do a lot of work with VSO,' he continued, 'helping new volunteers to settle in.'At this point he made a gesture to come into the house, but I blocked his path.  'So you work for VSO?' I asked.  'Well, not exactly,' replied Dieudonné.  'I assist VSO volunteers if they need help.  'But if you don't work for VSO, what do you do?'  Pause.  'Actually, I'm a student teacher... but I appreciate the work that VSO does and I want to help VSO volunteers.'  Again he tried to enter the house and again I had to stand in his way.  'Could I have a glass of water?' he asked, finally.  'Of course,' I replied, and as he again made his way up my front steps I closed the fly-screen in his face and left him outside as I filled a glass from my water filter.  Thinking back, I wish I'd given him amoeba-water straight from the tap.By the time I brought him his glass,Dieudonné had recovered himself and immediately launched into a detailed description of all the VSO volunteers he was friends with.  As I heard names I recognised I began to feel guilty about treating him so coolly - had I just insulted someone's best friend?  I mentally chastised myself for  being so mistrusting of people's motives, and so when he asked for my phone number, I couldn't think of a single reason to say no.My suspicions had not gone away, however.  The next day I decided to investigateDieudonné's background from the many volunteers he had listed as 'close friends'.  Of the ones who had heard of him, most said that he had randomly turned up at the Baptist Mission in an identical manner to my encounter, alleging an alliance with VSO and promising to help them with any problems they had settling in.  Some people were concerned by what had happened and encouraged me to do something about it.  'You should tell Abdoulaye,' they warned.  'IfDieudonné knows where you live then it could get more serious.'My relationship with Abdoulaye is two-fold: he is in charge of VSO volunteer welfare in Maroua, and he is also my landlord.  My little house, squeezed into his compound, is so close to his that I wake up if one of his wives so much as coughs in her sleep.  I cannot begin to describe how comforting it is to live within a stone's throw of someone whose job it is to keep me alive and out of trouble.Abdoulaye has already caught on to how completely daft I am (whenever he explains things such as how to pay the water bill or where to empty my rubbish bin, he turns to me and says 'Do you understand?  Are you sure?').  For this reason I was a little hesitant to relate myDieudonné story to him, especially as I had so rashly given away my phone number.  'Well that wasn'tprudent,' was all he said when I eventually told him, 'but if you hang up whenever he calls you, he'll get the message,'  As an afterthought, he added, 'If he keeps calling, tell him you have a fiancé.'Dieudonné called and texted at all hours of the day and night and wasn't in the least put off my my non-response or by my hanging up on him.  In an effort to avoid surprise visits I spent my evenings at friends' houses, not returning home until after 9pm.  Thinking myself finally safe after a lull in thephone calls, on Tuesday evening I invited some other volunteers over for a curry at my house.  Realising that after several days of avoiding my house I had not so much as washed a plate in a week, I headed home early to start scrubbing pots and peeling vegetables.About ten minutes after I arrived,Dieudonné appeared at my door.  'Can I come in?' he asked.  'I'm busy tonight,' was all I could think of to say.  'What about tomorrow night?' he continued hopefully.  My British phobia of being rude to people can be really inconvenient sometimes!  As I stood in the doorway, stammering, trying to think of a polite way to say 'sod off,' Abdoulaye suddenly marched around the corner towards us.  'Are youDieudonné?' he asked.  WhenDieudonné replied, Abdoulaye launched into a furious tirade in Fulfulde.  Snippets were in French and so I caught '...you can't just come to volunteers' houses uninvited...' '...taking advantage of people who are new to the country...' '...no connection with VSO...' '...her house is private...' .  Havingsaid all he needed to say, Abdoulaye turned and went back to his house. Dieudonné, slightly shaken, turned to me and said, 'so can I come in?'  'My fiancé doesn't like me having male friends in my house,' I replied upon a sudden burst of inspiration.  It seemed I had found the magic word that could do what even an angry onslaught of abuse in Fulfulde couldn't:Dieudonné apologised for troubling me, turned and walked straight out of the compound.  I haven't had a single call from him since.The next day, I was cycling home from work when I head the sound of a motorbike behind me.  I moved closer to the side of the road to allow the bike to pass, but instead of continuing down the road, the biker cut across in front of me and tried to block my path.  As my bicycle is slightly too big for me, I try to avoid stopping (and therefore falling over) whenever possible and have turned wobbling precariously around obstacles into a sort of art form.  I therefore somehow managed to circumnavigate my interceptor and carried on cycling, speeding up so as to put some distance between us.  The biker accelerated and then I realised that there were two of them, both well-dressed, in their thirties and riding large Hondas.  One drew level with me and the other followed behind.  At this point I started to panic.  I tried to maintain a passive expression and ignore them but this became more difficult when they again attempted to cut in front of my bike.  'Leave me alone!' I shouted to the first biker.  'I won't leave you alone!' he shouted back.  I sped up and he kept pace with me (to be fair, I can't cycle very fast and he was on a motorbike).Not knowing what else to do, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mobile phone.  Before I could even dial the number, the bikes were gone.  I called my friend Calla who lived about two blocks away and five minutes later I was recovering in her living room, trying not to burst into tears.  When I recounted the story of my traumatic encounter, first to Calla, then to some friends and finally to my work colleagues, they all concluded that the men had simply wanted to talk to me.  And they couldn't think of a better way to get my attention?!  Anyway, I'm fully recovered now and according to my Theory of Limited Fear (in that I cannot be afraid of too many things at once else I'd be in danger of spontaneously combusting) Men on Hondas have replaced cockroaches on my list of Scary Things.  Which means I'm no longer afraid of entering my bathroom, and that can only be a good thing.