Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso

We hit traffic as soon as the outskirts of Ougadougou were conjured up. We weren’t going to travel any further, because the car wasn’t able to last much more. I was glad that I was at least having a brief stay in Burkina. We pulled into a convent, a place where the couple had stayed previously. It was the cheapest place in Ouga, and was run by Catholic nuns. I asked Mitya if he was worried about all the Popish symbols and the threat of Arminianism but he didn’t know what I was talking about. He thought it was cool we were staying in a convent, and mused over whether the nuns would be hot and “up for it”.

 

It was mid-afternoon when we arrived, Ouagadougou looking far more advanced than I had come to expect having heard Burkina was the second poorest country in the world. The roads were paved, the people purposeful, and the monuments abstract rather than personalised. The convent was in a deep driveway, but there was no-one to talk to. The guy wanted to fix something up in his car, and Mitya offered to help. The woman and I went to another wing of the convent to get our rooms sorted, but before we could go ten metres past the gate, two men approached us. They spoke English to us, asking for us just to listen to them.

“Sure.”

“Can you lend me some money?”

“Oh, er…I’m sorry. I’m not…” I trailed off so I could walk away.

“Please. We’ve come all the way from Liberia. We tried to go to Morocco, but we were deported from Algeria.” I wasn’t sure how you end up in Burkina if you didn’t make it past Algeria.

“We want to go home. But we don’t have any money.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please. Please help us. We can’t speak French.” I stared open-mouthed at him, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have Mitya to tell them to go away, or drag me away. The woman and I just looked at each other.

“Have you tried the nuns?”

“They can’t help us. They won’t help us.”

“We’re really sorry.” We walked away.

“Please? Money for a phone would help. Please?” was heard in the distance. We grimaced at each other. I didn’t know if they were being genuine, but I didn’t want to think that they were. I tried to trace through what they said, for signs that they had been lying, trying to steal my money.

“Shit,” was all that we could both say. I had spent nearly a day just talking to Westerners. Now talking to someone from Liberia of all places was draining.