Lost in transit

The Whorehouse Down The Street

In my African politics lecture series, the sharpest white boy in the class asks pointed and interesting questions about the future of the black nation that the lecturers can't even answer. He is tall, he has a nice nose, and when I sat behind him in the Nkrumah lectures, I got a whiff. He was wearing CK Be.

The whorehouse at the end of Cowley Road is the most notoriously seedy joint in the whole of Oxford University. I live about ten blocks from it. It's a relatively safe area, but the whorehouse itself I doubt is safe. Jogging past there once on a Sunday afternoon I saw a lady run out of there with a black eye. I stopped to help her but she jumped into the next Thames Valley bus that came by and left me standing there.

Mr. sharp white boy came staggering out of the whorehouse this afternoon. I saw him on my way to Tsung's Chinese. He dressed as crisply as he normally does. He looked left and right in his attempt to slink out unnoticed, but I saw him. He saw me, too. But I kept walking.

I know that when he voices an opinion in the Ghana lecture this Thursday I'll still listen and take notes. It's kind of like being in a politics class with Bill Clinton.