During a recent business trip to the sparkling city of Marrakech, Morocco, I had the misfortune to meet a young man from Mali, Paco. After settling into my hotel, I logged on to Grindr to cure my boredom with a taste of the local cuisine. It was a relief to stumble onto his profile after being bombarded by unsolicited nudes from horny, hairy, old white men on the app. I could tell from our photo exchange that Paco was not my cup of tea, but I was still eager to meet him. I wrestled with this thought for a while, but after a long flight and several hours of performative heterosexuality around my colleagues, I craved the camaraderie with a friend of Dorothy, even if it meant linking up with a stranger. So, I ignored my inner voice and invited Paco to my hotel.

 

After concluding the logistics with Paco, I received a text message on my company’s WhatsApp group chat informing me and my coworkers that we would be switching hotels in an hour. I quickly buzzed Paco to update him on this development and cancel our arrangement, but he begged me to allow him to visit, claiming that he was a stone’s throw away. His appeal seemed sincere, so I brushed aside my apprehension and conceded to his request. A moment later, Paco hit me up on Grindr to notify me that he had arrived at the hotel reception. I had intended to meet him at the lobby for a quick chat, but a pile of unpacked clothes and scattered documents were staring me in the face. With the clock ticking, I asked Paco to join me in my room.
As soon as I told Paco my room number, I started to feel anxious about his visit. It was as though scales fell from my eyes and common sense came back from a sabbatical. As the danger of my naivety became substantial, I quickly gathered all my belongings that were scattered around the room into my suitcase and stepped out of the room to intercept him. In the hallway, looking lost and confused, was a dark-skinned, lean, and rugged man whom I would soon come to loathe. “Paco?” I called out, extending my hand out for a shake. He collected my hand in his, grinning like a doll in the showroom. As we shook hands, I was certain that I was not even remotely attracted to Paco, and our meeting would undeniably be platonic. After a few uneasy glances at the hallway security camera, I ushered Paco inside my room.
When Paco entered the room and noticed there were three beds, he turned to me and asked if I had roommates. I explained that I stayed alone and that the hotel made a mistake with the accommodations to allay his fears. My explanation didn’t convince him completely, but ultimately he sat down and we started talking. Despite Paco’s poor command of the English language, he spoke with a seductive French accent. He introduced himself as a 27-year-old call center employee from Mali who moved to Morocco with his family in pursuit of a better life. I was struck by the parallels in our lives as we discussed his experience as a closeted gay African. I did not have liquor, so I offered him a glass of water and probed him about the Marrakech LGBTQ scene. He replied that same-sex relationships were illegal in Morocco even though several of the top authorities were on the down low. The rest of our chat is a blur to me now, but Paco remained nervous throughout our hangout.
As the evening progressed, Paco placed his hand on my thigh and rubbed it seductively. He gave me the kind of look that a wolf gives a sheep. I was confused and repulsed by his gesture because I had explicitly told him on Grindr that I did not want to sleep with him—or anyone, for that matter. I reminded him that I was only open to making platonic friends in Marrakech. Paco did not appreciate my revelation because he had other sexual intentions. He staggered to his feet, arranged his features, and declared that he was prepared to leave. His disappointment soured the air like a stench when I offered to walk him out. He moved one step toward the door before turning around to face me as though he had received an epiphany.
“I go now. You give me money!” he roared, with a smidge of entitlement.
‘Huh?’ I blurted, confident that I had misunderstood him. “I don’t understand.”
Paco gave me a menacing look; his eyes scorched with anger and greed. “You give me money, and I go”. There was nothing warm or friendly in his tone.
“Paco, uhm… I’m sorry, I don’t have any money on me,” I stated, assuming he was asking for his fare. “I just flew in from Nigeria yesterday, and I don’t have any local currency,” I added, hoping that my explanation would pacify him, but Paco was ready to throw caution to the wind.
“You give me money or I scream!” he thundered, with more than a pinch of hostility.
Paco’s threat reverberated in my head like the sound of clanging bells in an ancient cathedral. Then everything started to make sense to me: his messages on Grindr, his persistence to visit despite my caveat, his questions about my roommate, and his uneasy disposition. It became apparent that this was his modus operandi, a trap he laid out to blackmail and extort money from naïve and weary travelers like me who gambled with their safety.
I bowed my head in shame as Paco’s thieving eyes scanned my room for valuables to steal, disappointed but more angry that I had made myself his prey.
“This man isn’t all that,” I thought. “I could take him.”
I wasn’t scared of Paco, despite his attempts to make himself look intimidating by bulking up. With one precise uppercut to his jaw, I knew that he would crumble into putty in my hands. I shook my head and chuckled, struggling to accept that I left my country only to be Kito’d by a scrawny thug. If Paco had pulled this stunt back home in Nigeria, I would have pounded him to a bloody pulp without breaking a sweat. However, I was far from home, in the heart of Morocco, a country that only spoke French, and in a city where a low-life criminal like Paco would have the upper hand.
On the table, my phone buzzed with a notification from my company’s group chat. I knew it was time to switch hotels, but Paco, who had grown to be a huge pain in the ass, wouldn’t go away. During my brief stay in Marrakech, I neglected to take my prescription medicine for hypertension, and my impasse with Paco led to heart palpitations that spiraled into a panic attack. My breath was suffocating, and my hands were trembling as I pleaded with my blackmailer.
“Paco, please… Don’t do this to me,” I begged, an army of tears gathering around my eyes. “My life, career, and safety are on the line. Please don’t ruin my life. I am begging you,” I groaned.
“If you don’t want trouble, give me money!” Paco replied, confirming that my plea fell on deaf ears.
“But I don’t have any money!” I protested, my voice gaining some momentum and volume. “I just got here yesterday for fuck sake, Paco! Why are you doing this to me?”
Grrrrrr! On the desk, my phone rang. “My colleagues are waiting for me downstairs, Paco. I have to go now,” I remonstrated. “They’ll come here to look for me if they don’t see me soon.”
“You are wasting my time,” he responded. “You know it’s illegal here in Morocco. If I make a scene, the police will come here and arrest the both of us”.
“I don’t have money! Don’t you get it?” I lied through my teeth. “All I have in my wallet are Naira and Francs,” I added.
“Will you take Naira?”
“No,” he replied. “Your money is useless here.”
“Then what do you want?” I demanded, exhausted by his shenanigans.
“I want dollars, pounds, or euros.”
As if a gun were pointing in my direction, I lifted my hands in the air. I moved to conceal my suitcase, which contained a stash of foreign currency and declared “Paco, I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t have that kind of money. I am just a young guy from Nigeria trying to earn a living”
The realization that I wasn’t some wealthy Nigerian prince caused Paco to lower his shoulders. It looked like he was prepared to accept defeat.
“Don’t do this to me, Paco. We are both Africans. We are like brothers. Please let me rejoin my co-workers downstairs.”
On the desk, my phone rang a second time and punctured the silence in the room.
“Ask your friends to give you money”, he advised, determined not to leave empty-handed.
This time, I acquiesced. I called a colleague and begged her to lend me some local currency. I then informed Paco that I had to leave the room to collect the money. He didn’t like the plan very much, but he also didn’t have a choice. I sneaked into the hallway, leaving the door wide open, and pulled out 20 dirhams from the stack of cash in my suitcase.
When I returned, Paco was pacing around the room like a tiger in a cage.
I extended the money to him and murmured, “Here.”
He looked at the cash in my hand and yelled, “Twenty Dirhams? What am I supposed to do with it?”
“I don’t know, but that’s all she has.”
“This is too small; I want two hundred dirhams!
I replied with a straight face. “That’s all I have, Paco. If you can’t accept it, call the police.”
Paco was dumbfounded by my confidence and assertiveness. He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options, before finally sighing and reluctantly accepting the twenty dirhams. As he
pocketed the money, I could see a mixture of frustration and resignation in his eyes. He could tell the jig was up, and I was no longer afraid of his threat. He took one final glance at the room, perhaps in a last-ditch effort to steal something, but when he met my ominous stare, he dashed out. I slammed the door behind him and collapsed to the ground, relieved that my ordeal was finally over.
I walked over to the window and watched Paco disappear into the Marrakech night. I was livid and determined to get back at him. I whipped out my phone, scrolled down to my applications, and opened Grindr, but Paco had blocked my profile and there was no trace of him. I shrugged off my disappointment and deleted the app before checking out of my room. As I joined my colleagues, a sense of liberation washed over me. I knew that leaving behind the toxic experience with Paco was the best decision I could have made. With a newfound resolve, I looked forward to the adventures that awaited me in Marrakech, ready to embrace a fresh start.

 

Written By:

Orobo Hunter