Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso
It was evening in Bobo-Dioulasso, and I sat at a table on a small patio enclosed in the courtyard of my auberge. Across from me, an older French couple sat with the owner, sharing drinks and stories. Except for the patio lights hanging from the corrugated iron ceiling, the world around us was black. As I leafed through my West African guide book, I heard footsteps at the gate. I looked up to see a young African man approaching the patio.
"Bonsoir," I said politely. I don't know if he heard me.
He greeted the owner and asked if drinks were served here. "Oui," the owner replied, rising from his chair.
"I'll have a coke," said the young man in French. He sat down at the table directly next to the French couple and handed the owner a 500 CFA coin, equivalent to $1 USD. The owner left the patio to fetch the man's order.
I watched the young man, whose back was to me, and wondered why he was by himself. This place was in a quiet neighborhood, and it wasn't really a drinking destination for anyone but lodgers. And other than the French couple, I was the only one.
The young man called out to someone in a language other than French. The only reply came from outside the gate, where someone started a moped engine. The young man repeated whatever it was he had said. I heard the engine again, and this time a voice responded along with it, although I could not tell what it said.
"He has someone with him," I thought, "but why doesn't his friend come inside? Why doesn't he park his moped in the courtyard?"
Quite literally as I thought this, the young man stood up as if to adjust his pants. As quickly as he stood, he leaned over the adjacent table and snatched the French woman's purse. I saw him leaning over, but my voice was too slow to respond.
"Hey!" I shouted.
I jumped out of my seat and ran a few steps after him, but he was so quick-- and what could I have done anyway? Was I going to tackle him? Jump on a bike and chase him down? The French couple raced towards the gate, and the owner came running out of reception. They were all too late, though, as the thief had already sped away on his accomplice's moped.
"Voleur!" shouted the owner. "Thief!"
I stood there for a moment, shocked, uncertain what to say, unsure what to do. The French woman walked back to the table, remarkably calm, and lit a cigarette. She proceeded to pace back and forth in front of me, obviously processing what had just occurred. I watched her, wishing I could offer some sort of consolation. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. My inability to communicate in French, coupled with the theft, left me feeling terribly helpless. I returned to my seat, where I sat quietly and tried hard to understand what everyone was saying.
The couple agreed that they should report the incident to the police. This was merely a formality, probably for insurance purposes more than anything else, since there was really nothing the police could do. The owner offered to take the French woman to the station. They jumped on his moto and zipped out of the courtyard. The French man followed them out into the street, where he stood by himself for some time.
On my own now, I started to wonder at this young man's situation. Something must have prompted him to steal. He must have felt that he needed to. But he had been dressed nicely. Was he really desperate, or was he just greedy? How many people had he stolen from? How long did it take him to conceive this scam? Was he nervous as he was stealing? As soon as I'd posed these questions to myself, I knew I would never have answers for any of them. I struggled with the way I felt: shocked, frustrated, angry. I wished I had not seen what had happened moments earlier. I wished I would stop thinking about it.
In that moment, the electricity cut out, and I was instantly swallowed by the night. Alone in the darkness, all I could do was think.
It was evening in Bobo-Dioulasso, and I sat at a table on a small patio enclosed in the courtyard of my auberge. Across from me, an older French couple sat with the owner, sharing drinks and stories. Except for the patio lights hanging from the corrugated iron ceiling, the world around us was black. As I leafed through my West African guide book, I heard footsteps at the gate. I looked up to see a young African man approaching the patio.
"Bonsoir," I said politely. I don't know if he heard me.
He greeted the owner and asked if drinks were served here. "Oui," the owner replied, rising from his chair.
"I'll have a coke," said the young man in French. He sat down at the table directly next to the French couple and handed the owner a 500 CFA coin, equivalent to $1 USD. The owner left the patio to fetch the man's order.
I watched the young man, whose back was to me, and wondered why he was by himself. This place was in a quiet neighborhood, and it wasn't really a drinking destination for anyone but lodgers. And other than the French couple, I was the only one.
The young man called out to someone in a language other than French. The only reply came from outside the gate, where someone started a moped engine. The young man repeated whatever it was he had said. I heard the engine again, and this time a voice responded along with it, although I could not tell what it said.
"He has someone with him," I thought, "but why doesn't his friend come inside? Why doesn't he park his moped in the courtyard?"
Quite literally as I thought this, the young man stood up as if to adjust his pants. As quickly as he stood, he leaned over the adjacent table and snatched the French woman's purse. I saw him leaning over, but my voice was too slow to respond.
"Hey!" I shouted.
I jumped out of my seat and ran a few steps after him, but he was so quick-- and what could I have done anyway? Was I going to tackle him? Jump on a bike and chase him down? The French couple raced towards the gate, and the owner came running out of reception. They were all too late, though, as the thief had already sped away on his accomplice's moped.
"Voleur!" shouted the owner. "Thief!"
I stood there for a moment, shocked, uncertain what to say, unsure what to do. The French woman walked back to the table, remarkably calm, and lit a cigarette. She proceeded to pace back and forth in front of me, obviously processing what had just occurred. I watched her, wishing I could offer some sort of consolation. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. My inability to communicate in French, coupled with the theft, left me feeling terribly helpless. I returned to my seat, where I sat quietly and tried hard to understand what everyone was saying.
The couple agreed that they should report the incident to the police. This was merely a formality, probably for insurance purposes more than anything else, since there was really nothing the police could do. The owner offered to take the French woman to the station. They jumped on his moto and zipped out of the courtyard. The French man followed them out into the street, where he stood by himself for some time.
On my own now, I started to wonder at this young man's situation. Something must have prompted him to steal. He must have felt that he needed to. But he had been dressed nicely. Was he really desperate, or was he just greedy? How many people had he stolen from? How long did it take him to conceive this scam? Was he nervous as he was stealing? As soon as I'd posed these questions to myself, I knew I would never have answers for any of them. I struggled with the way I felt: shocked, frustrated, angry. I wished I had not seen what had happened moments earlier. I wished I would stop thinking about it.
In that moment, the electricity cut out, and I was instantly swallowed by the night. Alone in the darkness, all I could do was think.
