I was packed and ready to go right after breakfast. I told the guys at the reception desk that I’d like to check out after Annette’s arrival and nobody made any problems about that.
When she arrived, she found me up on the rooftop terrace where I was sitting at one of the tables, reading a bit and taking pictures of the Sunday morning life along the Avenue Kwame N’Krumah. This usually busy street still seemed to be half asleep, as if just waking from a Sunday morning slumber. The banks that lined it would probably stay closed all day. The market that I could see from the top was only now, and very sluggishly at that, coming back to life. In slow-paced and easy-going Africa, this was a particularly lazy kick-off to the new day.
True to the nature of the country, we didn’t hurry downstairs right after Annette had showed up. As befitting, she first took her seat and then took her time. Only after a while and some lazy chat, we decided we should go about whatever needed to be done today.
Back at the reception, I settled my bill and asked people in the hotel if I could possibly have my luggage stowed away until some time late in the afternoon or early in the evening, when I would go to the airport. Good people of the hotel told me that not only I could leave my luggage there, but that I could also keep the room until the time of my departure and have a rest in the afternoon if needs be. And all that free of charge.
Now, that too was Africa. Not only those pestering „cadeau“ requests and incessant tugging at your sleeves. Where in Europe would they let you have this? I’d bet my ass off that the best you could get in Europe was exactly what I asked for. My luggage somewhere in the corner, safe until I returned to collect it.
Whenever I was going to return to Burkina Faso, this was the clincher. I would certainly stay in „Belle Vue“ hotel again.
We made a short shopping excursion to the nearby „Marina“ market where I bought a few basic provisions for my trip back home and then we were ready to go on with our plan for today.
Annette, just as usual, hadn’t had a breakfast, so it was going to be - just as planned – a somewhat early lunch for me and a rather late breakfast – or brunch, really – for her. In „Jardin de l’amitié“ again. Apart from one table, or rather two connected ones, where there was a large bunch of some ten or so French-speaking westerners, the restaurant was empty. The artisan shop inside the premises where they sold those handicraft items was open and while we were waiting for our meals, I used the opportunity to have a look. Poor guys who were selling stuff there must have had their hope sparked that I would buy something from them. However, as I was not a collector of basically useless souvenirs, I was not the right person to pin their hopes on. So, unfazed and empty-handed, I left some time later.
It again took us at least two hours, probably even more, to finish the lunch. So when we finally arrived at Annette’s place, it was already well past three o’clock. They received me in as friendly and hospitable a manner as the first time around and I spent most of my time in a nice and relaxed conversation with Mr Xavier, Annette’s father. Probably the thriller of the day arrived some time later in the shape of a girl whom I was seeing for the first time. She was allegedly a cousin and had come to have her hair done, African style. Which meant weaving new artificial hair into her natural one. That thing seemed to cost quite a bit in hairdresser’s salons, at least on the scale of income of a good deal of local population, so many a local lady sought to learn to do it herself, in order cut some expenses if possible. The cousin came for the same reason.
Annette claimed she’d learned it well and she regularly did the hair to her mother and her sisters. But now it was her sister Giselle’s turn to do some apprenticeship of her own. And who better to practice it on than on a cousin who sought to get away free of charge anyway? So the two girls spread a blanket on the ground in the yard, Giselle took a seat on a yellow plastic canister next to it, and the treatment began.
At first I watched with just half an interest. Annette would come around every now and then to give her sister occasional instructions and that was it. But suddenly, the things adopted a much more entertaining spin. At one point – and I have no idea if it was just a regular part of the procedure or not – Giselle started pulling fiercely at her cousin’s hair with such an elation that the poor girl winced every few seconds with a grimace as if pricked by a pin. And every time she winced, she jerked as well, making things more difficult for Giselle to keep under control. Giselle coped with it for a while, but eventually realised she couldn’t successfully accomplish the task assigned to her like that. So she opened her knees, placed the cousin’s head into her lap between them, and then closed them again, clasping the unfortunate girl tightly. Once the head was secured and immovable, Giselle blissfully resumed her pulling business.
It was suddenly a real entertainment for me. Watching the poor, helpless cousin now, without any chance to dodge her cruel destiny, I must have grinned the widest of my grins. And that in turn made everyone else laugh. Except the cousin. She obviously didn’t find it that amusing at all. And Giselle? She kind of smiled shyly, a bit embarrassed by the realisation that she was now the centre of attention, but tried to take it in stride.
By the time I left the Fofana place, the cousin was still on her torture blanket, at the mercy of Annette’s sister and nobody seemed to know when she’d finally be released.
I couldn’t afford to wait for the final outcome. I had an airplane to catch.
