When I’d studied abroad in Senegal many some time ago, I’d walked with confidence down the streets, sidestepping advances from local men with ease. I walked with my husband because it was easier. I didn’t walk next to my husband because I couldn’t get enough of him. I didn’t walk next to my husband because I couldn’t get enough of him. I walked with my husband because it was easier. There’s no way to put this softly-it’s just plain hard being a white woman in Africa. This is not some declaration of undying love, nor the romantic tale of a newlywed couple. And in the fifteen months I’d been here, I hadn’t stopped walking. As I walked, I thought back on the last time I had walked solo along an African beach some fifteen months back. I walked alone along Lake Malawi, past children bathing, women washing pots, and fishermen repairing hand-carved wooden pirogues.
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