It's Hard Out Here For a 'Ho...Especially One With Hot Flashes

If I’m going to keep traveling in Africa, I’m really going to have to make peace with the fact that everywhere I go, people will automatically conclude I’m a ‘ho.

It was funny for about 5 minutes when I was in Uganda, especially whenever I was with The Intern, my 23 year old white colleague. The thought of that strapping young lad paying me for sex just tickled me to death. First of all, it’s been so long, I’ve forgotten most of the logistics. The kid would have been entitled to a partial refund even if money had exchanged hands.

Mostly, I just couldn’t understand how people reached that perfectly absurd conclusion given the prevailing physical evidence. Don’t get me wrong…my self-esteem is actually quite strong. But my feminine charms are not even remotely close to “hoochie grade.” For example, I wore sequins ONCE during my entire stay in Uganda, and maybe applied full make-up twice. I never purposely flaunted my boobies, or flirted or smiled seductively at total strangers in bars. On mornings when water pressure was non-existent, deodorant and toothpaste were optional.

Bottom line? Most days, I looked like I’d been rode hard and put up wet. (Come to think of it, that’s probably not the best metaphor to use in this discussion, but for those of you who DON’T have filthy minds, that expression means I looked like a tired old workhorse who’d been sent to the barn ungroomed after a long day’s work).

Honestly, I've never exhibited any ‘ho’ish behavior in my entire life. No outrageously long fake nails or “unbe-weavable” hairdos. No painfully tight jeans or plunging cleavage or 4 inch heels. Basically, the only thing that could remotely lead to the conclusion that I’m a prostitute is the fact that I’m a female of African descent traveling alone.

I hope I don’t sound like I’m whining here, because there are a lot worse things that could be happening to me. In fact, I could actually BE one of the slim, pretty, tarted up young ladies who even as I type these words are draped across couches in the bar at the Nicon Luxury Hotel in Abuja. (Life Lesson Number 1: if you are ever traveling through Africa and come across a hotel with the word “Luxury” in its name, RUN, DO NOT WALK in the other direction. You are being hoodwinked, bamboozled and led astray. You will intensely regret the experience.) I actually COULD be one of these girls with no education, no family support, and no reason NOT to try and eke out a living allowing repulsive strangers to use their bodies like a public toilet.

But I’m NOT one of those girls. But that doesn’t matter. About an hour after checking in yesterday, I was on the elevator when a Nigerian businessman joined me, his suitcase and satchel in tow. I smiled and said hello, and he responded, “I like your structure. You take care of yourself. Here is my card, I am in room xxx.”

It took a few minutes to process the interaction. He “liked my structure”??? Once I figured it out, I actually thought it was kind of cute. It was certainly a lot less crude than some of the comments I’ve heard on the streets of the US. I mean, back in the day, when I actually had an ass, it garnered a wide range descriptive adjectives. Still, mild amusement quickly changed to shock…..this dude had just handed me his business card and suggested that I stop by his room, like I was some sort of room service order he could place at his leisure.

Okay, I ain’t gon’ lie. After guiltily savoring the Eliot Spitzer debacle this past week, I definitely experienced a Garden of Gethsemane moment. If homey had been SUPER fine, and seriously bringin’ the bling, I may have tried to rock a deal. Shoot, $4,300 for 2 hours work ain’t nothing to sneeze at. Granted, the workin’ gals of Africa don’t pull anywhere near that much paper, but ain’t no shame in trying to get a few months’ car notes cleared up.

Obviously, you all know I’m kidding, right? Mostly…..

Anyway, the experience was a harsh welcome back into African culture. But I really couldn’t dredge up the energy to be outraged or offended. After all, I’m gonna be here for 2 weeks, and I knew it was just the beginning. In fact, just 10 minutes ago, one of the hotel security staff walked up to me and kindly requested that I sit up straight on the couch I’m perching on.

You know how sometimes when you travel and decide you don’t want to spend all your time holed up in your hotel room, so you go down to the lobby or to the bar area and you settle onto a comfy couch, stretch your legs and get down to some serious e-mailing or writing? That’s precisely what I was doing. And yes, it’s pretty obvious that the glittery girls sitting on three or four of the other couches are plying their trade, but shouldn’t you be able to look at me peering at my laptop screen and realize I’m a business traveler trying to unwind while getting some work done?

Apparently not. Mr. Security guard came over to me and said, “Excuse me, we don’t allow legs on the couch.” I looked at him like he’d lost his damned mind and requested an explanation. He said, “Because this is a hotel.”

No shit, Sherlock! I’m PMS-ing BIG TIME, so I snapped, “I’ve been in hotels all over the world, and no one has ever objected to me getting comfortable on a couch.” But that cut no ice with Mr. Security. He stood there staring at me with a blank, imposing expression until I turned around, legs closed and facing forward like a good girl. Then I added, “By the way, I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He mumbled and walked away. And I couldn’t help thinking that if I’d been a white woman dressed exactly the same way, doing the exact same thing, that security guard wouldn’t have come near me. I also couldn’t help remembering that brief moment last year, when I was almost flattered that somebody thought I was young enough and hot enough to be a ‘ho.

I’m definitely hot, all right. It got up to 107 degrees in Abuja today, and the air conditioning in this hotel is pitiful.