Whoa Nellie! Not all Africans are needy

Last week I went out on the town in Newcastle on my own because my hosts were away at a prearranged engagement. It was really windy and cold so I stepped out in a thick jacket, scarf, gloves and faux fur ushanka all wrapped up like a mummy. First stop was Chinatown to line my stomach as you do before any drinking. I got lured by the promise of eat as much as you can for £8 which was good value and most of it was rather yummy. It’s no secret that Chinese domination of the world has been accelerated by buffets of egg fried rice, chow mein and shredded roast duck. And soy sauce.

After the feast I walked towards the Life Centre around that triangle which is home to the city’s gay bars and settled for a pub favourite with bears. Forty minutes later I was minding my own business pretending to cruise when three hunks in kilts joined my table by the window overlooking the sidewalk. I was glad for the company of the three hairdressers from Scotland and we started chatting about nothing in particular, they even bought me a couple of drinks. Oh, by the way did I mention that one of them was black? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it a little odd hearing a Glaswegian accent from a black person.

Shortly the two other guys excused themselves to go outside to smoke. That’s when the black Scot asked me where I lived. I said I’m only here visiting friends, I live in Kenya. He says how cool is that, you speak verrie gurdt Inglish. (Lol. Sorry I can’t do the accent). I answered yes I do but just for the record I speak even better Swahili and two other languages. By this time his compatriots were back, that’s when he asked me whether I had a %^*~@&. I replied sorry I didn’t understand what you just said, what was that again? Obviously I need to work on my Scottish. I think he got my point because he started speaking very slowly: DO. YOU. HAVE. A. BOYFRIEND? I said yes I do have a very beautiful boyfriend, and told them a little about Gee. Curiously ebony Scot wanted to know what colorr George was so I said as black as you and me. That’s when he said don’t take this the wrong way fella but 'gay Africans are way too needay when it comes to marney. They can‘t seem to stand on their own two feet'....

I pretended to take his offensive comments the right way even though I was seething inside, even his friends looked embarrassed. I know that in recent years ‘refugee’ and ‘asylum seeker’ (read foreigner) have become dirty words to many Europeans largely thanks to a slew of articles about benefits scroungers in hugely popular rags aimed at swathes of the population whose reading age hovers around 9. So I asked ‘Field-slave-now-eating-at-the-big-house’, is that your experience? Have you ever dated an African? He said no but a friend of a friend has. Then he added all I know is the people there are starving and dying from aids. I couldn’t hold it any longer so I said to him Oh don’t be ridiculous, you don’t see me saying all Glaswegians are drunk illiterate morons who like to stick dirty needles into their arms. But I said it sweetly because I’m from the land of hakuna matata where ‘jaruos’, ‘kales’, ‘wasepere’ etc still have more than a few issues to sort out. I now accept that some form of bigotry exists inside everyone. Call it preference, type whatever. Also I blame charities who think the only way to fill their coffers are media campaigns showing emaciated and unwashed orphans with runny noses. It doesn’t matter that the kids’ dignity is violated by whoring their images, they are just poor god-forsaken souls from distant lands.

I didn’t even begin to say what I was really thinking. There’s a time and place for debates and I wasn’t in the mood to start a fight which I‘d have lost anyway. So we dropped the subject and some jägerbombs instead (my round) until the stripper came on. Then we just drifted apart to darker parts of the bar where one could get off anonymously. Needless to say I was only a spectator to any monkey business. Before I left the pub I went to the toilet where I bumped into black Mr Kilt. By now he looked a bit worse for wear but he still recognised me as I stood next to him at the urinal. Then without the faintest of warnings he lifted his kilt. I wasn’t too shocked because some gay men can get up to sleazier things in toilets, eh you don‘t want to know. Come to think about it, I’m sure some of you want to know hahaha you'll have to go and ask George Michael. Anyway I clocked him and appreciated that like a true Scotsman he wasn’t wearing anything under the tartan. Luckily for him there was no one else in the toilets because let me just say that it’s not all true what they say about black men. Even in the dimmed lighting I could see that he was packing mini, or how shall I put it, well below expectations in both length and girth and I’m no size queen. Worse still said appendage was as dead as a doornail.

After I finished peeing I gave mine the customary two tugs and three shakes (always a pleasure) and washed my hands quietly staring at kilted flasher’s reflection in the mirror. Before leaving him alone in the toilets, I said bitchily whilst looking at his needledick, so sorry dear - even Africans aren’t that needy.