Written: 14.10.09

His eyes are docile: slow moving but attentive in their own way. They linger on me or my fellow trainee for long after either of us finishes speaking. Perhaps they judge the truth or sincerity in our words, perhaps they probe us to divulge further. But I’m not confident in my French, so I look away and take another drink of the beer he bought me—a Tuborg Gold.

He again offers us a cigarette, but we decline. He’s a businessman in Yaounde—the capital—but he comes from Bamena—where we’re staying. He becomes confused when I offer to light his cigarette with my lighter. You don’t smoke? he asks in French. No. It’s for my…my… I search for the word, …my…candles, when the electricity doesn’t work. Ah, he nods, that slow nod that keeps his half-open eyes fixed on me. Ah, that nod says, I understand.

We talk at length about soccer, the beauty of the Western Region, the Peace Corps, and what we want to do afterwards. My companion mostly talks; I listen and look around while the businessman alternates his gaze between us and takes drags on his cigarette. Et vous? he asks me when the last subject rises. Je ne sais pas, I start and then mumble something about going back to school. Mais, I want to say but don’t, c’est beaucoup des choses faire—-there are so many things to do.