I noticed him across the room. His eyes burning with desire. I’m used to men staring at me because I wear very short things, but there was something different about this one. When he came over and asked my name, I was intrigued.
“Nancy,” I said. “Nancy Combs.”
He laughed appreciatively. Either impressed by my western sounding name or my bosom.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Ronnie,” he replied. “Ronnie the third, Ssabassajja. But you can call me ‘ayi’.”
I gasped as he said this, overwhelmed by his machismo, his confidence. It was almost regal. “So, what do you do for a living, Ayi?” I asked.
I knew I would be bent over in the back seat of his range that night when he smiled a proud smile and said: