African Businessman Uses My White Ass

Arthur wasn’t a soccer fan, but as turned out, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon that watching the World Cup in a nearly deserted hotel bar.
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Being stuck in Buffalo, New York on a Saturday in June wasn’t my idea of how to spend a nice summer afternoon, but when business is like it has been lately, you do what the boss asks with a smile.
So that was why I was in the bar of my hotel, getting slowly buzzed after successfully closing what might become the biggest sale of my career. The World Cup was on TV, and I was watching it only because it was on the gigantic television behind the bar right in front of me.
I’m not a soccer fan to begin with, and that buzzing noise that blared constantly from those frigging vuvuzelas seemed to be an attempt to drive sane people over the edge, but the United States was playing, so I feigned interest.
The only other patron of the establishment was much more interested. He was a tall and very well-dressed black man who was sitting kitty-corner to me at the bar, and he seemed to know the game, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.
“Think he’s from Africa somewhere,” the bartender told me when he refilled my glass, explaining that the man had just bought that for me.
I nodded and thanked him, and he smiled and nodded back. He was a tall and thin man, with skin a deep black in tone, and in the artificial light of the bar he seemed to shine, especially his smooth shaved skull.
“Ghana!” he said with a grin, pointing at the screen and patting his chest.
“You’re from Ghana?” I asked, and he nodded enthusiastically and repeated the name of the country, and then said, “Pakmon!”
“That’s...