Lappa

On Saturday, I left my house wearing a lappa, a rectangle of patterned fabric you wrap around yourself and hope for the best. The theme of that night’s party was “Come as Your Country” and, having failed to find cowboy boots at the market, I decided to be Liberian.

For the record, I hate costume parties. (Incidentally, this made a love affair between San Francisco and me impossible.) Naturally, because this is my life, only 6 of the 200 attendees came in costume, so now I’m traipsing around in what appears to be a tablecloth for no effing reason. At some point, however, I forgot how out of place I looked and found myself flailing along to the techno.

Then I started to wonder if anyone realized I was in costume.

See, the following confusion occurs nearly every time I meet an expat:

Expat: What brought you to Liberia?

Me: I was into natural resource management and my parents are Liberian so I figured I’d check out the scene.

Expat: So, you were born here.

Me: No.

Expat: But you grew up here?

Me: Nah, I never lived here.

Expat: Is this your first time here?

Me: I came before and after the war.

Expat: {{Pauses}} You don’t sound Liberian.

Me: Right. I grew up in the States.

Expat: Do you speak Liberian English?

Me: Uh. It sounds kinda lame in my mouth.

Expat: {{Squints}} Wait -- so, you're not Liberian?

I imagine that showing up to a pool party in my lappa and head-tie finery put an end to the mystery. Maybe I make this a Saturday tradition, incorporate it into my wardrobe. Once you accept that you’re in an unsecured tube of cloth, it’s pretty damn cool. Lappas really hold their own when you're dancing/eating/visiting restrooms. They come off as easily as tear-away pants, yet no one suspects you’re a male stripper. Badass.