Osapong

“Passport?”
“Sure. By the way, my name is Osapong. I am headed home, in the North.”
He peruses my passport. He is dark. Taller than me. He must be six, or more. I am almost six.
“I see you have been to America.”
“Yeah!” I say, nonchalant. “But I am not coming from there now.”
He stares at the visa. The American one. It is still valid. He notices that.
“Are you planning to go back there?”
“Maybe.”
I have no plans of going back. In fact, I have as well forgotten about the visa.
He shifts his feet. They are in black boots. Very shiny. His black khaki police uniform has no creases. A few patches of a clean shaved head peer from under the black beret on his head.
He is now looking at my photo. He calls out.
“Osapong!”
“Yes sir.”
“But this is not your passport. It has a different name.”
“Aaah, Osapong is my name for this country.” I try to effect a West African accent but what comes out sounds more like Ofuneke in By God’s Grace 2. It is so Nigerian. Anyway, I am not the first one to give a West African who is not from Nigeria (see what I did there) a Nigerian accent. Hollywood has done that several times.
“But what is your name?”