“ARRÊTE!”
He has stopped his white van in front of me for the third time. We are uphill and I am out of breath, pedalling, determined to push through. The carriage wobbles behind me. It is dark.

The first time he stopped it was the usual “hey, where are you going,” then “come, let me take your bike here in the back!” I considered it briefly but decided against it because I didn’t want to be in a car with an unknown man at this hour. I said “bonsoir, merci,” smiled but didn’t slow down. Usually they understand and leave me in peace at that. This guy sped past me and then stopped again, repeated, and I made my self more clear:
“With a man I don’t know? Never!” I shouted with a smile, but didn’t slow down.

This third time he is rude, and I am annoyed. He orders me to stop. As if he had a say.
“OUI, OUI, MERCI, MERCI, TERANGA SENEGALAIS!” I yell back, now pushing my voice from the gut. I don’t stop.

I leave him behind me and he presses the gas. He comes up to my side. I struggle to make out what he yells over the sound of the engine and the wind and my ears. I think I get the words “faire l’amour.”
Did he just ask me to come and have sex with him?
He repeats.
I don’t reply and I don’t stop.

We come up to a crossroads and a single street light, some people waiting for a car (I could find safety here, with them.) He turns off the main road and I roll downhill and into the dark again.

For some kilometers I am boiling with anger and worry: what if he would come up behind me and hit me with his car in the dark, simply out of spite?

My tire is leaking air and I am leading my bike up the next hill when a minibus stops and four young guys jump out. They look me over and decide quickly to bring me and the bike into the next town. It is not even a question.

In the light of a few torches their hands detach the carriage from the bike, lift the bike up on the roof and secure it, then lift the carriage into the bus and shoo me along, up the few steps. Inside are only women, their colorful dresses shades of gray in the dark. When a few streetlights pass I see glimpses of their faces, eyes gentle and steady, as if stroking my cheek and holding me close by just looking.
They mumble a few words in Wolof.
I am saved.

They let me off in the next town, unload everything and shake their heads to refuse my money, speeding off, the colorful bus swallowed quickly by the night. I attach and pack everything back into place.

It is always like this, always; I can not stay angry, offended or scared for a long time here.

Africa slaps me off balance with its profanities, harassments and lack of boundaries. Then, with the other side of the same hand, caresses me straight into safety, care, softness and gratitude.

…

(This story told in pictures.)