stamp

Africa finds me, even here.

I could tell that the guy who sat next to me on the bus was from Africa, and so when he said hello, I took out my headphones.

"DRC or Republic of Congo?" I asked when he mentioned Congo.

"DRC," he said. "The former Zaire."

"Which part?" I asked.

"Lumumbashi," he said, and we both said, at the same time, "In the middle." "In the center, in the south."

"I lived in Rwanda for a couple of years," I told him.

"In Kigali?"

"No, in Kibuye."

"By Goma? In the west?" he asked.

"Yes, on Lake Kivu. Halfway between Goma and Bukavu."

And as so frequently happens, he said, "You are African!"

"Two years can't make me African," I said.

"No, but so few people from here go to Africa that once we give you the stamp, you are African," he said.

I've always wondered about that.