Afro-Asian Games

Music in my head: Opeth- Deliverance
Today's weather: Don't know, don't care.

It’s five thirty in the evening. I’m not completely hungry yet, but on close examination I could hear my stomach rumble. I decide, what the heck, I’ll just make dinner before the chinks come and crowd the kitchen.
I grab my bread, cheese, salami, ketchup and mayo and reach the kitchen, and I literally take a step back. There was this huge black guy with an afro about half his height, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts. I try to hide the look of surprise, mixed with a hint of fear, as I place the ingredients for my sandwich on the counter, waiting for him to finish using the grill.
Then I make a big, big, mistake. I smile, nod and say “Bonjour!”
It is customary in France to greet complete strangers when you see them. Even out on the street. Although I find this custom very useful when I pass by the ladies, I’ve never been quite comfortable with it, after having spent the last three years of my life looking the other way when certain people pass by. That’s normal if you are Indian. I’m sure there are people who look the other way when I pass by. But here, you have to bring out you great big fake smile and say your Bonjour before you can pass. It’s like the password to any building or street in France.
So I give him the password and smile my big fake smile. He looks at me for a while, as if to check if it was safe to let me near him. He narrows his eyes for a moment and looks me right in the eye. Then suddenly, he lightens and up, smiles and says “Bonjour!” As far as I’m concerned, that should be the end of the conversation. I stand silently, looking out the window, making sure that I don’t make eye contact with him again.
I had noticed that his oven timer showed ten minutes, so I start listening to some music. After a while, I start nodding to the music, slightly, leaning against the wall, looking out the window. Then I hear him say “Hello!”.
I turn around and my face is inches from his hairless chest. Startled, I pull back a little, and mutter a lukewarm hello back. This is the conversation that ensued:

Afro: “You like it za music?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Afro: “I like it za music too. What do you listening to za now?”
Me: “Camel, yeah.”
Afro: “Is zat like a za fiffaty cent? I like za fiffaty cent. You call it a za Gangesata.”
Me: (Just about understanding him) “No. Not really.”

Afro gives me a big, weird smile, turns and looks out the window. He proceeds to move his right hand to the small of his back and thrust his pelvis backward, causing his rear end to stick out, barely covered by the thin fabric of the boxers. I stand there, aghast, speechless and disgusted. I start contemplating leaving the kitchen and coming back later, when:

Afro : “Ze wezzer is a za good today.”
Me: “Yeah, yeah.”
Afro: “How are you?”
Me: (Incredulous at the misplaced timing of the question) “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
Afro: “Se bien, bien. I good, like a za wezzer. I am a za shining like a za sun.”

I am horrified at this juncture. What with the ‘shining like the sun’, the lack of clothes, the arm placement and the butt projection, I’m getting really, really freaked out. “That’s it,” I decided. “I’m running out.”
And then, like a godsend, the oven starts to beep. The ten minutes were up. He was going to leave.
He takes his food out the oven. I don’t see what it is. I don’t even look at him. My gaze is fixed on a tiny stain on the floor. “Bye,” he says. I bid him farewell without looking at him, looking down at my phone, pretending that I’m going to make a call.
I hear him leave. I wait for a few seconds just to be certain. He was gone.
I make my sandwich, get the hell back to my room, eat it as quick as I could, and listen to Master’s Apprentices at full blast.
I still can’t get that friggin image out of my head.