Vicki was not old, but not young either. She was moderately attractive and intelligent, reasonably successful, but unlucky in love. Time was passing and no good man had come her way.
Vicki was also a committed progressive and for years had fought for the rights of the black man who, she and her colleagues believed, was soon to be back atop the human pyramid where he belonged. A sentient being of the African forest, attuned to nature, of primal intelligence, tribal loyalties, strength, and natural virtue, nothing but racism kept him from his anointed place.
She had fought long and hard for racial justice, had called out systemic white racism, joined the forces of Black Lives Matter, voted for every racial reform that the DC city council proposed, and tried her best to integrate within black society.
This last goal proved difficult. Washington was no different than Botha's South African apartheid (east of Rock Creek park black, west of the park white; north-south busses white, east-west busses black) and as much as she tried to befriend black people, the door slammed shut before she could get her foot in. The very identity politics that she and her progressive colleagues had promoted gave black people license to swarm together and keep white people out.
And to be honest Vicki was afraid of the ghetto - a nasty, horrid place of ho's, pimps, drugs, and violence despite the inherent, innate superiority of the black man - and although she had no doubt that the miasma would soon lift, the inner city would become the social and cultural center of America, and life would be better for all, she hesitated to set foot across the Anacostia river.
She hated herself for such timidity and hypocrisy. How could a woman who stood for racial justice and the dignity and honor of the black man not be willing to go where he lived? Yet her better judgement told her to stay clear, to remain a loyal activist from afar, no less passionate, but far safer.
None of this dimmed her desire to be with black people, to live the diversity and inclusivity that she had always promoted, and to join them in their struggle, their culture, and their way of life. Perhaps most of all she wondered what it would be like to be loved by a black man.
Although she rejected the stereotype of black men as sexual dervishes, more well endowed, confident, and eager than whites, she knew that there had to be a scintilla of truth to it as there was in all stereotypes.
She had never been satisfied by white men who had been whipped like slaves by feminism and MeToo charlatanry into timid, hesitant lovers. Again, it was the fault of her and her radically progressive sisters, but the law of unintended consequences has no limits.
When she asked her neighbor, a World Bank economist whose countries were all in Africa, where she might go on her African journey (she did not confide in him the real reason but talked only of cultural diversity and historical interest), he said, 'Don't bother'.
Vicki would never have taken him for a prejudiced man. The World Bank after all had a development mission to raise the poor out of poverty, to improve its socio-economic and judicial systems, and to hasten Africa's emergence as a legitimate member of the commonwealth of nations. Wasn't that mission enough to dispel any thoughts of prejudice?
One by one the economist reeled off Africa's failures. From top to bottom, east to west, the continent was failed space, ruled by big men in arbitrary, autocratic rule; socially backward, tribal, primitive, and medieval; venal, corrupt, and morally empty.
Vicki couldn't believe her ears. What racism will do to an otherwise intelligent mind. The economist was blind to the truth and had become hardened with prejudice and racial hatred.
The tour companies were less critical but more diffident than she expected. Lindblad, Avalon, Abercrombie & Kent, Trafalgar, and others had nothing on tap for the kind of sub-Saharan cultural tour she had in mind, but could possibly configure a personalized tour for her. In the meantime, why didn't she consider something much more interesting, like a Nile cruise or a Serengeti safari?
She found a tour company which was delighted at her request. They were proud of their eclecticism, their adventurous spirit, and their encouragement of off-the grid travel. To be sure they could not offer the luxury of the big companies, but their experience would be far more rewarding. They promised her 'an insider's tour of Africa' where she would be free to roam and at the same time would be well-taken care of.
Her eagerness was such that she failed to dig any deeper than the agent's promotional pitch. Had she given even a cursory look she would have found that Ottaway Tours had filed for bankruptcy twice, recovered, repositioned themselves, rearranged their priorities, and rejiggered management. However no one but the most naive Americans hoping for adventure on the cheap, would have looked at Ottaway Tours.
Vicki was one of these credulous, idealistic Americans, and Ottaway Tours said that they would fashion the tour to meet her particular, personal objectives. When she said she wanted to meet 'ordinary' Africans for friendship and even intimacy, the tour agent immediately understood her meaning. From start to finish she would be guided to the most popular African watering holes where the best and the brightest Africans meet.
The bar at the Amitie Hotel in Abidjan was one of those places. Wealthy Ivoirians from Yamoussoukro, the new capital far inland, came to the more cosmopolitan coast for a reprieve, and gathered at the Amitie and the Palm Bar to meet and greet, drink with old friends and meet new ones. It was a sophisticated place with an Olympic-size pool, illuminated at night, festive, and filled with beautiful people.
'Why not start there?', the tour organizers agreed; and so it was that Vicki was housed in a modest hotel somewhere between the foreign enclaves of Le Plateau and Treichville, the popular center of town. It was far enough from white privilege and close enough to native reality to give Vicki the impression that she was finally in Africa.
After a quick wash and freshening after the long flight, she was met by an Ottaway agent who brought her to the Palm Bar, deposited her, gracefully left and promised to pick her up when she called.
It was there that she met Ibrahim who showed her every courtesy, every bit of African generosity, charm, and attention. This could only augur well, she thought, meeting such a wonderful, attractive African man on her first night in the country; and went back to the hotel feeling happier than she had been in a long time.
Now, Ibrahim was not just an incidental African, but a businessman, one who like his Nigerian counterparts was a master of the scam. However he did not deal in financial instruments, but in women. Vicki was not the first American woman to come to Africa looking for bi-cultural adventure, men, and political justification.
His conquests, however had only been partial. He was given gifts, bought five-star dinners, and paid generous emoluments by eager women, but his goal - to marry well and go to America - had not yet been realized.
Vicki was so blinkered by her desire to meet real black men that she was as careless about her male company as she was about her choice of tour agencies. She was delighted with Ibrahim, found him cultured, sophisticated, attentive, and overwhelmingly sexy.
They were all like this, these American women, Ibrahim learned early on. He was delighted that his American brothers had done the prep work. With women like Vicki who were convinced that Africa was the cultural motherlode and that African men were soon to sit in the citadel of honor, seduction was a piece of cake.
Vicki was a wealthy woman who had recently inherited stock in both Amazon and Nvidia, and was easily able to extend her stay in country. Cote d'Ivoire Immigration had no problem extending her visa, delighted as they were to see American tourism increase after so many years of civil unrest.
And so it was that she and Ibrahim became an item, and coaxed by him to upgrade into his real Africa, she moved to a suite at the Amitie overlooking the ocean with all the amenities of a first class stay.
Ibrahim stayed with her there, and after a month of growing intimacy, the ultimate prize - marriage - was broached. She would travel with him up country to meet his mother and his family, they would be married in a village ceremony and then one officiated the American consul, and would then sail to America.
Vicki couldn't believe her good fortune. God had indeed smiled upon her. She had not only found her man but found an African one!
After arriving in America and moving from her small apartment in Dupont Circle to a more spacious home in McClean, Ibrahim continued the scam he had learned so well, and with his Nigerian lawyer worked out a very favorable financial partnership with his new wife.
When his residency was well established, his marriage official and documented, and his financial future set, he announced his departure. He took thousands of dollars from their joint account and secured it in an Aruban offshore bank account, redeemed the millions of dollars of Amazon and Nvidia stock he had had cannily transferred to himself, and disappeared.
He had done nothing wrong - he did not steal anything nor had he taken anything that didn't belong to him so he was not a wanted man, just a rich one thanks to - yes, his native intelligence, cultural superiority, social sophistication, and primal African sentience.
Vicki's World Bank neighbor wanted to say, 'See, what did I tell you?' when he learned from his colleagues what had happened to her, but held his tongue. She had learned a hard lesson, and would never forget it.
However, he underestimated her progressive idealism and true belief in the rise of the black man. The misfortune was entirely her fault, she admitted. She was too smitten, too much a naive, desirous woman, too much in thrall to men and sexually deprived, too ambitious in her desire to champion blackness to protect herself.
Some thought that this was an example of Christian charity, forgiveness, and absolution. She had made peace with herself, had forgiven her predator, and returned to the higher values of life.
The reality was far different. Once afflicted by cultural myopia and infected with an untouchable idealism, her return to the canon of social reform was a given. Ibrahim was her doing, not the black man's, not Africa’s.
Back in Abidjan, Ibrahim's family was delighted with their monthly checks from America and were as proud as punch over the success of their brother. He was a true hero and his fame spread far upriver, encouraging young men to make the trip to the capital and to try their luck with white women.
A development success story, not exactly the kind envisaged by the World Bank or USAID, but a success story nonetheless.
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