Sometimes, exoticism manifests as white skin, a slender build, and light brown hair. As a woman from the north with translucent skin, occasionally tinged green, blushingly pink, or pastel yellow. Accustomed to the biting cold, she bears as much skin as possible to fully enjoy the electrifying contact with the humid heat. 

She proudly struts in her faded denim shorts and oversized sunglasses, which are too large for her narrow face.

Flattered by a stranger’s compliment praising the elegance of her stride, she continues walking with a smile.

She chuckles at the three men, their faces etched with the lines of sun and time, who whistle as she walks by.

She scoffs at these libidinous old men. 

She grins at the charming, handsome man who halts her in the street to ask her to remove her sunglasses—supposedly to admire her eyes.

She briefly lowers her sunglasses, instantly regrets it, exchanges a quick handshake with the young man, and leaves.

He whistles at her and, in a plaintive tone, pleads with her to consider marrying him.

She quickens her pace, which is intended to be light but suddenly feels heavy. She fixes her gaze ahead, determined not to look back.

The suitor gives up the chase. A sigh of relief escapes her.

As she passes a family, the father shifts his gaze to her behind. Ayayaye, he exhales.

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. Poor mother, she thinks.

She ignores the two young men scrutinizing her from mouth to ankles as she frantically searches for her way on her phone.

Impatient, she knows she must quickly find her way, lest a self-proclaimed good guy offers his assistance.

She looks up at a new man who asks her, in a saccharine tone, if she needs help. A beautiful woman like her shouldn’t be alone, he adds.

She smiles, feeling uneasy.

Further along, a group of young boys stares at her, clapping their thighs and talking loudly. The saccharine man gives them a complicit smile.

She is thirsty and hungry. She could seek refuge in a small restaurant, eat, and escape the scrutiny of the street.

The insistent gentleman is still in front of her, just two inches closer. His persistent gaze never leaves her.

She turns around sharply, thanks him coldly, and quickly scans her surroundings for a place to hide.

He persists a little, follows her for a few metres, then gives up the pursuit. Some might say he looked disappointed.

She enters the first restaurant, hoping to find refuge. She sees three boys at a table and decides not to risk it.

As she walks on the street again, catcalls and whistles abound. She ignores them all, her expression stern, her lips pressed firmly together.

She enters a second restaurant. Two families are sitting at tables as she hurries inside. The waiter gives her an eager look. She changes her mind and leaves.

A boy blocks her path and makes a crude comment about her breasts. She responds with a universal gesture of disdain. Bitch! he yells, laughing.

She enters a third restaurant, deserted, as a welcoming woman greets her with a smile.

She sits down, relieved, at the back of the narrow eatery, far from the electrifying sun, to avoid the gaze of pedestrians.

Confused. Sad. Angry.

She should be happy, others might say.

Next time, she’ll ask a man to accompany her.

Next time, she’ll wear a bra.

Next time, she’ll choose to wear pants.

Next time…