"The great nation of Lumumba appreciates beauty, whether of a waterfall in its rainforests or in the grace and beauty of a woman."
Debbie glances over her shoulder. "Are you kidding me?" she snorts.
"Miss White, you photograph Miss South Africa, but you yourself was nearly crowned Miss United Kingdom."
This gets her attention. She stops taking pictures and turns to face the man. "I was runner up," she whispers, nodding sadly. To a fucking East Indian from suburban London!
"And now you take the pictures, instead of having pictures taken of you," the man continues. Debbie glances at Brooke, the focus of attention. She had to admit some jealousy of her rich friend and her fantastic life. Meanwhile, she relies on her photography "hobby" to keep her out of performing in strip clubs or pornography.
"You have my attention," she says.
"Let's walk," the man offers. They walk down the hallway into a quieter area. He introduces himself as Dewayne Ndulu, the head of the Miss Lamumba Beauty Pageant. "We would like to offer you the opportunity to become Miss Lamumba."
"Are you serious? First, I've never even heard of Miss Lamumba, and second, I'm from England. I'm white!"
"I can see that, but race is no barrier to beauty. In our poor country, there is not much time or interest in beauty pageants. Miss Lumumba often comes from foreign countries," Dewayne explains. "Last year's winner was from Norway. And now, she is the wife of the President's son, with one child already and another on the way."
"Must love family," Debbie remarks, glancing at one of the ubiquitous portraits of the President hanging in the hospital: he is short, fat, and ugly with a dark, spotty complexion. Debbie tried to imagine him with a tall willowy Scandanavian. It seemed crazy! But he is obviously wealthy. |