Another Saturday afternoon in what is the pressure cooker of Conakry.  It is like most weekends during this March through May period of consistent heat before the sky bursts and rainy season begins.  After going to Marché Medina I decide I have to cool off before melting under the noonday sun.  A friend agrees to meet me at one of the upscale hotels in town, Camayenne, where one can find much sought after amenities: air conditioning, tennis courts, and of course the pool. We agree on a time and I prepare a bag with some drinks and food to sustain our bodies and budgets.

I arrive on time and wait in the air conditioned lobby, thankful for the opportunity to catch my breath.  Shortly thereafter I see my friend Juanita and her daughter Kemi and happily greet them both.  We proceed out to the pool and look for a place to sit.  There is one family at the pool, a woman with several children from Holland or Germany judging from their accents.  They stare at us for a few minutes and then continue enjoying their lunch. 

Juanita and I go straight for the water and for two or three hours just enjoy swimming and chasing after her overly curious and active two-year-old.  During this period several others join us at the pool.  Two men and a woman who have come from the tennis courts.  Apart from Juanita and I, the only other Blacks at the pool are the wait staff.  One of the men approaches me as I chase my little friend from the tennis courts.  He asks her name and comments on her curiosity.  Later by the pool he asks why I don’t want to swim.  I politely reply that I was taking a break by the poolside and plan to swim later.

Later arrives and I lower myself into the pool.  My friend and I race back and forth and enjoy a short conversation before I go off to check on Kemi.  As I arrive at the ladder the man asks why I am leaving the pool; I reply that with young children one can never be too vigilant.  As I make my way towards the ladder he places his hand on my side.  At first I think it is just a push but his hand remains pressed to my body though it is obvious that I am strong enough to raise myself out of the pool. 

I check on Kemi and all is well. I do not get back in the pool. I stand feigning that I am not yet satisfied of her well-being, back facing the pool.  I am actually processing my own feeling of what just happened.  This older white man just put his hand on my body not actually expressing verbally, but still communicating his interest.  This non-verbal communication to me is clear.  He is not interested in talking, he is looking for a companion for the evening, something to do…

This is not uncommon and has happened before.  I have been swimming in another country and have been touched by another stranger in town for a job, but today my reaction was different.  This was a White man from Europe, France or Belgium, judging from his French.  I was unhappy – that is certain.  I never like it when a stranger feels at liberty to touch a body not his, mine.  But this time I feel dirty, like a child when an adult touches them, they know something is wrong but cannot articulate exactly what.  I am not a child, I am an adult, so why do I feel sheer anger and an inability to express my discontent with him?

As an African-American woman in Guinea, I have been delightfully well received and accepted for the most part as Guinean.  Many times I walk down the street or at the market and people will speak to me in Pular, one of several local languages, assuming I understand.  The guards at my apartment call me Mme Diallo and seek to give me language lessons at every occasion. My dark skin and African features indicate to them that I am one of their own.  This gives me a sense of pride and connection that I was looking for when I came to Conakry. 

But today it is that same skin and those same features that have indicated to this man that my body is available to his non-verbal suggestion.  He watched my interaction with my friend and her daughter, both clearly African.  He understood as we conversed in French for the afternoon, discussing work, the hairdresser and what to do for Kemi’s upcoming birthday.  He saw my milieu and decided that I was African.  So why does this upset me, when that is in fact the conclusion that I wanted people to draw while I was here?

The answer is simple: Conquest & Desire.  Hotel Camayenne is one of the most expensive hotels in Conakry.  Only ex-patriots are able to afford their exorbitant prices, but opt to stay there due to its re-creation of the Western resort: tropical plants, ocean side view, satellite cable from France, air conditioned rooms, tennis courts, and the pool.  Never mind that the entire service staff is African and the guests are almost exclusively European or of European descent.  They work for non-governmental or UN organizations and often consult, moving between continents, between countries and their former colonial powers, between racial realities. 

Of course Guinea is a majority Black country, but the White minority is a financially empowered one, as in most other African countries.  And sometimes, not always, this means that they avail themselves of certain privileges.  The best housing available, luxury vehicles, chauffeurs, maids, cooks, etc. Meanwhile, neighbors live in abject poverty while the Whites’ every whim is met, creating a neo-colonial atmosphere.  They come to develop, improve, spread democracy, spread religion, spread their version of civilization and acceptability to the rest of the world (read U.S. and Europe –  same old motives, new song).  Apparently today my Black body figured into those privileges. 

For some reason behaviors that are considered unacceptable in the Western world, are acceptable in places like Guinea.  Racialized and sexualized behavior is not taken very seriously here.  As a consultant you can, for example, come into the country, stay at one of several hotels, find a young willing partner to spend your nights with for a low price, maybe even just dinner.  High class prostitution, meal ticket, international development, or just getting to know the locals – read it through your own lens. 

The ease with which this man communicated his intent made me incredibly uneasy.  I knew that if I stayed in the water more advances were sure to follow, including perhaps a dinner invitation, where he would make polite conversation, attempting to illustrate how much he knew about my African country and culture.  And then to his room.  The thought made me sick because I knew that if I were White or if he knew I was American he probably would not have approached me or least with a minimal degree of respect.  But today at the pool I was just the African other… Black, woman, and available for exploitation.

Devanne Brookins is a Fellow with IFESH/Africare. She is interested in constituency building that incorporates youth into Diaspora and global justice struggles.