STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN MILANO I

I have always thought of bringing a guest writer on board. So when Fola, my childhood friend and one of my best friends would send me an email about his adventures in the far away Milano, I knew I had found my very first guest writer. And to be honest, I have been too busy in the last few months to write. Alas, Fola has rescued me with this.

Fola writes in the most humorous way so enjoy. Strange things happen in Milano will be in two parts. Here is the first part.

A West African proverb reminds us that no matter how tight a monkey's trousers are, there will always be room for its tail.

Literally and figuratively, last weekend I wore tight trousers and on two occasions, had cause to flee with my tails between my legs. Not that I'm calling myself a monkey of course, because that would be self deprecating although I've had cause to eat a lot of bananas as my staple diet out of a matter of necessity in the past 3 weeks because of how expensive Switzerland is. Maybe that also explains my tight trousers in keeping with the theme of poverty that I've come to appreciate and live by these past weeks. And oh I also thought my tight trousers attracted the affections of a supposedly gay man which made my life generally awkward. But more on that in a separate piece. No more tight trousers for now.

So Milano. I have always romanticized the idea of visiting Italy. The language rolling off the tongue, incredible food, opera and of course the well tanned women with black hair. So my excitement on arrival in Milano should be quite understandable.

A long walk exploring the sights and sounds of the city culminated in a rest in the afternoon shades of the Castello Sforzesco gardens. Sitting in a park and attempting to take unsuccessful selfies, I naturally smiled at passersby including a gentleman of respectable appearance. The kind you knew rode scooters and probably was a newspaper boy as a child in a vineyard village cycling around the village. He nodded and smiled back at me and came to join me on my park bench. This gesture interrupted my thoughts on how racially different Milan was with the number of black people around particularly in the park hanging around, playing basketball and riding their bicycles.

It reminded me of scenes from the classic TV series, The Wire, in Baltimore’s downtown drug infested areas. At this point, I was also thinking how much I miss seeing black people after the last three weeks in Bern. In Bern, there's that unspoken camaraderie of brotherhood in poverty when you see another black man holding a fruit or drinking water because there, that's all your worth can afford and you nod at each other in acknowledgement. But again I digress.

My new friend at the park greeted me in Italian and muttered words I did not understand. I smiled and on realization he was asking me questions, I shook my head to indicate a lack of understanding. He kept on looking at me keenly speaking in low tones and looking confused asking one word questions. I could pick out the word that sounded like Maria repeatedly, but I sure knew he wasn't trying to preach the gospel.

Then it hit me what was happening. Oh no, it can't be. I'm black and I'm sitting in a park. He wants to buy drugs and he thinks I'm a dealer. Oh no. So this time around, you can imagine I was shaking my head more vigorously like an agama lizard and waving my hand hysterically. He seemed to get the message and sat next to me quietly. I was getting ready to leave when a fellow very black man with curly rough hair riding a bicycle stopped right in front of us at the bench. He stared at me and started talking to the man next to me occasionally glancing at me in fast Italian in what sounded like an angry tone. The man was trying to respond whenever he could and suddenly he had a stammer. You can imagine how I played out the conversation I did not understand in my head.

What are you doing trying to buy cocaine from a new dealer? Are you not our customer? I'm going to deal with both of you, cut off your heads and fingers and drop your bodies in the lake to be eaten by the swans. Of course there was a lake with swans in front of us so my imagination was quite vivid.

What I did hear however was a negotiation in what sounded like figures and the man glancing in the direction of a park bench in front but further away from me. Our black acquaintance rode away and the white man opened his wallet, took out a 20 euro note, smiled again at me and said gracias while he walked away to the bench.

Quite thankful for my trademark English gentleman cap which I now wear these days, I observed the man as he sat and lit up a cigarette. It was not long before our black acquaintance rode down again to stop in front of the Italian, let us call this black man Omar, for the benefit of those who have seen The Wire to capture how reverent his presence and appearance had now become to me.

In plain sight, casually, I watched money and a small package exchange hands. As they both disappeared out of sight, I picked up my bags and here, my first story ends with my tail between my legs, in my tight trousers, walking as far as I could out of the park.

Fola.