Southern Skin

I had no idea how aggressive and volatile I had become until I saw the look of fear and horror on Shanna’s face at the Foumban artisan market. We had just come from our tours of the Grand Mosque and the Palace museum, and were excited to wrap up our touristy morning shopping at the local crafts market. I was as happy as a clam, excited at the prospect of some Cameroonian retail therapy. Upon entry into a shop, I inquired the price of a small pendant that had caught my eye. When the salesman replied that it was 5000 FCFA (10 USD), I flipped. my. shit. I threw down the pendant in disgust, spat at the salesperson that his price was insulting, and spun on my heel to exit the shop. The salesman and his colleagues called after me that I did not understand the ways of African bargaining, only further incensing my rage. I stormed off, to the tune of Shanna trying to placate me with the prices she had hurriedly negotiated out of her deep embarrassment on my behalf. I screamed back at Shanna about the PRINCIPLE OF THE MATTER! and whipped around to muff (MUFF! roughly translates to fuck off) the salesman blathering on about African bargaining, flicking my fingers into the open-palm position to show him that he should shove that noise up his mother’s vagina. Shanna followed, her head hung in shame, apologizing profusely to the victims I had left in my wake. Minutes later, we arrived at a shop just down the road, where I found a similar pendant for 500 FCFA (1 USD), and bought it, returning to my clam state of happiness just as quickly as I had violently torn away from it.

I recall blanching at the way southern Francophone Cameroonians interact in a not-so-distant past; doing my best to ignore the obscene cat calls from strangers, flinching when casual discussions escalated into screaming matches, and all but collapsing into the fetal position at the hand of bus station cacophony, where at least four separate screaming matches happen simultaneously whilst Cameroonian music blares over the loudspeakers and mobile salespeople come and aggressively shake their goods in your face. I cannot pinpoint when my internal transformation occurred, but I can definitively say that the change did not begin or end at the Foumban artisan market.

Growing up, my mother was constantly reminding me to smile because that was her PC way of alerting me that I had reverted to my natural state of “bitch face,” and to turn it off immediately. Now, I find myself actively utilizing this all-powerful bitch face gift passed on to me from my Grandma Bunny. I have developed a visceral jerk reflex when I hear someone call out “tu me plait (you please me),” “ma cherie (my darling),” “petite fille (little girl),” or any other condescending phrase along those lines: upon hearing the phrase articulated, my head whips around in the direction of the speaker with full-blown bitch face turnt all the way up; menacing scowl, narrowed “imma kill you” eyes- the works. I’m starting to get whiplash from all the bitch face I’m slangin these days. Lately, however, I’ve noticed that my head is whipping around to throw bitch face in the direction of a lot of men who are not cat calling to me, but to other girls, and have fleetingly considered this trend to reflect a hyperaggression in mine self. Fleetingly.

I have also found myself readily raising my voice in casual interactions with Cameroonians, doing the most for the least: last night I tried to stiff a cabbie 50 FCFA (10 cents) because I thought he was bullying Shanna and I into paying too much for a very short cab ride. I chewed him out extensively and walked away from him, but the man could not be deterred. Shanna, mortified as usual, forked over 100 FCFA for the two of us. I’ve been doing an awful lot of haggling over amounts totaling less than 2 USD of late, resulting in many more embarrassing moments for Shanna in the past week [and, I’m sure, the three weeks to come]. Like I said: the most for the least. And that bus station cacophony I described earlier? A symphony to the ears that decorate my now full-time bitch face. I have bought watches, sweaters and shoes from the traveling salespeople. I dance along to the music playing from the speakers, and ask my neighbor what the name of the new P Square song is when it comes on. I have multiple porter (bus station workers who load and unload luggage from the buses) friends who know me by name and want to know when I’m coming through next so that they can bring me gifts from their villages, and who often bump me up to an earlier bus. And how did I get these friends, you ask? By being a full-blown southern Cameroonian bitch. They love that shit.

Now I just have to figure out how to shed this southern skin before getting back to the states… Can I get a Lannister lackey up in this bitch for a partial flaying?

peace love and bitch face