He said: “I need you to shoot, but don’t kill me.”
He was passing by, a man of considerable height, strongly-built like people in the Congo.
“The original Congo!” he said, half-berating me for failing to distinguish between his Congo (Brazzaville) and Congo Kinshasa where they speak French with “a different accent.”
“Ours is like the real French” he said before proceeding to speak to me in the language. “Juste un peu”, I mustered up that tried-and-tested (in my world) phrase. Just a bit, I said in an effort quell any qualms from his side about my non-existent French skills.
He asked for my contact number before we parted ways, but not after he’d told me about his family who live in America. “I live here with my two kids and wife” he said.