Page 61 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge

OBRUNI IN GHANA 59
“She doesn’t want to work,” her friend replied. Uncertain how to react, I kept my tongue.
Pulling into the station, the driver of that same car began to slap my arm and point emphatically out the window, shouting to his friends. Several men started catcalling and teasing the driver about his “white wife”.
“I am not a zoo animal,” I scolded the man fiercely. “If you want to sell tickets for people to see, you can find someone else.”
On the way home, every little thing annoyed me. The snapping of the black market dealers who see me every day but still ask me to change money, the vendors who called out for me to buy their wares. The taxi drivers who pulled up in front of me and said, “Oboroni, where are you going? Get in.” Even though I was only trying to cross the street.
The smallest things make me want to cry. I can speak to the girl who marches up to me and flings her hand at my face in indignation. “What’s wrong with you white people? You don’t like blacks!”