As soon as I pulled to a stop, he strode toward me.
I was about to make a left turn in my Corolla, and had come to a stop at an intersection not far from my university. This particular area grows quite busy at rush hour, and so is often stocked with three or four blue-suited policemen. They are meant to direct traffic and discourage drivers from ignoring the perpetually round stop signs of Lomé.
This afternoon, I noticed a policeman in the usual spot: staked in the median at the side of the lane where I was now slowing to a stop. The second my wheels stopped moving, he glanced in my direction. Less than half a second later, he was leaving his post and motioning for me to roll down my window.
There was something about his instantaneous response that immediately started a burn of indignation at the back of my neck. Maybe it was the speed with which he walked past the other two cars that had stopped at the same time, to get to me. Maybe it was my suspicion that the way I looked was what made him do it. Maybe it was the fact that cars began to roll through the stop signs again as soon as he left his post.
“Permis, s’il vous plait.”
I handed him the requested documents with a cheery smile, secretly wondering what might be involved in getting them back. He appeared to be in his early twenties, slender, with slightly baggy blue pants and a couple of leather bracelets tied around one wrist. Tackle-able, I thought.
Seemingly satisfied, he handed the papers back to me. When I reached for my wallet to replace them, I uncovered a bit of cash that had been prepped for my shopping trip. I immediately decided that keeping it and my license together was a mistake. He spoke again,
“I see you have money there. Soooo…what can you offer me?”
He looked at me with a squinty grin, as if he wanted to be serious and cheeky at the same time and couldn’t decide which route to pursue. I’d seen that look before. It’s indigenous to the faces of middle school students begging to get out of homework.
“How about a handshake?” I responded, reaching out of my window and returning the look.
He received the gesture in silence. It seemed he was waiting for me to offer something else, but I held my peace, watching the afternoon traffic whiz past me in the other lanes. I could tell he was deciding what to say next.
Finally, it came: “Ok, so, can I have your number? So I call you on weekend?”
I feigned indecision, then pulled out my little Nokia to lend credence to the numbers I was about to recite to him. He repeated each one back to me as I listed it, seeming satisfied that this encounter was not going to be a waste of time. Poor guy, I thought. He has no idea I’m just trying to get away.
As he finished logging in what would unfortunately disappoint him later, an emergency van with lights flashing and sirens blaring materialized behind me. Traffic to the right of my car was blocking me from shimmying to the side, so I gunned my engine and sped forward without looking back.
CHLOE GOES 