Burnt teeth and Ivorian fabric

"No disrespect, but I don't want your man." 

"Why did my husband take you into the market? You didn't ask if he was married."

"I'm not asking if he's married, unless I'm interested. Again. No disrespect, but I don't want your man."

I look hard into this woman's eyes and see her insecurity and fatigue. I'm not to blame for her husband's bad intentions. A few days ago, I ducked into a pharmacy to hide from the Liberian deluge. It was a sudden and violent storm that sent raw sewage gushing down the street. I was wearing sandals.

A pharmacy had a sign posted outside advertising German pharmaceuticals. I thought I may stay dry and find a transplanted German apothecary. Instead I found a young Liberian man with rotted teeth and a whole lot of ideas. Time flew by. We talked about health, religion, and education in Liberia. I then went to the more superficial topic of fashion and jewelry. 

"Where do you think I can find Malian beads and Ivorian wax cotton?"

"Madam, I am not a woman. I do not know these things."

Simple response in a country that has clearly demarcated gender roles. 

"But, I do know a woman who sells these things. I will take you there when the rain stops."

I hesitate, but go anyway. He knows the back way to avoid the flooded streets and raw sewage. We skip over stones like frogs jumping over lily pads. We finally make it to well- kept secret along Water Street. A small kiosk with a rotund Mandingo woman sells the most exquisite fabric in West Africa. Every piece feels smooth and has a wonderful weight to it. Unfortunately, I am nearly broke and try to strike a deal.

"Can I pick out a few I like and pay a deposit?"

"Sure, put your phone number and name on a sheet of paper." The rotund oma smiles with a shiny gold tooth up front. She then says something to the rotted tooth man in a language I don't understand.

Rotted tooth man looks at me and says:

"Pick up the fabric at my pharmacy on Friday. Friday's a holiday and she won't be working."

Friday's a holiday for sure. I reluctantly agree. My spidey senses are tingling, so I hurry onto a motorbike and zoom off to the house. The next Friday I am back at the pharmacy to pick up my fabric, but the burnt tooth man is not there. His wife is. She may accept my explanation, but she doesn't trust her husband. She gives me a coded warning and I feel a little foolish. No man takes a woman shopping without a hidden motive.