I’d sooner boycott coffee. Permanently.

Nouakchott
Today, I’m tired of integrating. Usually, I cannot help but smile, be nice, start conversations, continue conversations, continue, continue, continue, continue… In Atar, it’s my job. But here, in the capital, it’s a distraction from an otherwise peaceful day. And by it, I mean an especially tactless and determined Mauritanian patronizing the café at the French Cultural Center.

I should have known better from the way he slinked up to my table and took an empty chair with a slick and imposing grin. I continued reading my book in silence and disinterest, which translated into “please, talk to me.” He was all too eager to oblige.
“I’ll teach you Hassaniye,” he eventually proposed. Clever, I’ve never heard that offer (read: come-on) before.
“My family has a huge house in Aioun.” Really.
“HUGE. It’s the uncle of my mother.” Intriguing.
“My mother’s side of the family.” Right, you mentioned that.
“Wearing the veil is easy.” Uh huh.
“You’ll get used to it in no time.” Glad to hear.
“Hassaniye is easy too. I’ll teach you when I come up north to visit…”
COULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME IN PEACE??

My brain shrieked it, my skull somehow contained it. How I held my tongue, I’ll never know, but the pressure is mounting, mounting, the conversations continuing, continuing, and why does this unkempt yokel think he has an ice cube’s chance in Mauritania with me?

Maybe it was my disinterested tone and annoyed inattention. I surely egged him on by not hissing at him outright and throwing hot coffee in his face. But honestly, imagine the scene. Holding a cold compress against his scalded face, he would sneak a glance with his good eye. After dropping my cup slow motion to the floor, I would stare him down. I would wait in hostile, expectant silence. And to my animosity, he would respond, “your accent is so pretty. Could I buy you another coffee?”