Please don't call me Masta

I get yelled at a lot in Freetown, and I get called a lot of things. I'm a rarity, a freak occurence, and I'm reminded of it often.

My favourite way of being identified is as 'Mr. Mike', which is what Santos, the guard at the station, and the other handful of young guys that chill on the front steps of the Kalleone building, tend to call me. Even when they're feeling less formal and drop the Mr., 'Mike' is always accompanied with a broad smile and a Salone handshake, which, as luck would have it, is just the first three motions in Paterson's distinctive handshake style. The guys seem to enjoy simply pronouncing my name, always uttering it cheerfully instead of 'hi' or any other standard greeting.

Unfortunately, Mr. Mike, just Mike, or any other monikers that elicit pleasant feelings do not really extend beyond the station, and the Senegalese restaurant that I hold so dear.

Most commonly, I receive shouts of 'white boy' and 'orpoto' - meaning, you guessed it, white boy. To these seemingly unending calls, my responses vary from polite nods, quick pleasantries, smiles and waves, to simply pretending I didn't hear them as I continue on my way. The reaction is generally dictated by the tone and motives of the caller, and how tired I am.

Frankly, I don't especially enjoy being called white boy, and I was actually stoked to hear 'white guy' today because it at least didn't have the connotation - never intended, of course - that I was a little kid being spoken down to by an elder.

It's hard not to find the constant calls a tad obnoxious, knowing I would never yell "Hey, black boy"; after all, I don't think people generally enjoy being equated solely with one attribute of themselves. But I know it's a harmless cultural difference and whenever these calls breed annoyance, I catch myself and feel a little sheepish at being bothered by something so insignificant, especially in light of the white man's colonial legacy throughout Africa.

Unfortunately, sometimes the calls make it pretty impossible for me not to recall that collective shame of the caucasian race. When I walk along Siaka Stevens St., which is the main road in downtown Freetown, I always pass a stretch of road where the same group of beggars set up daily. I pass it at least three times a day, often more, and without fail, the calls of "Masta! Masta!" spit forth from the lips of several elderly women and two particularly haunting little girls.

The first couple times I passed by, these five- or six-year-old girls would run at me and tug at my hands or shirt, repeating over and over, "Masta, Masta, Masta". It immediately felt wrong. I now walk on the road to avoid these children.

From talking with a couple of my local colleagues here, they don't seem to think much of it. One of them told me it's just a way of showing deference, much like we would use the term 'sir'. That comforted me a little.

Still, I can't help but feel profoundly uncomfortable as homeless beggars shout "Masta" at me as they hope for a handout. I'm the only one I've ever heard them refer to in this manner and, intentional or not, it reeks with overtones of a master-slave relationship that sickens me to my core.

Freetown was settled as a colony by newly-freed slaves in the late 1700s, many of whom escaped the United States and shipped over from Nova Scotia. I'm probably reading way too much into it, but the calls of "Masta" nonetheless make me wonder if the lips from whence they spill still view the divide between white and black in such stark delineations of servitude, and I pray that they don't.

A couple friends here have told me that I should learn the Krio to yell back "black boy" or "black girl" every time someone yells "orpoto" at me. But as long as they're only calling me orpoto, I'll try my best to smile and laugh, and just hope I never have to hear someone call me "Masta" again.