For a month, in my new job in Mozambique, I had not dared go out at night. I had been told stories of how dangerous it was for a “mzungu” in the town. Mzungu is the Swahili/Bantu name for foreigner—I prefer the possessive form, kizungu, which means aimless wanderer. Many foreigners dislike the word; it could be translated as ‘whitey’.

Old hands loved to recount spine-chilling accounts of the robberies, muggings, and stabbings that were waiting for the unwary white man. Still, after all that time cooped up with a bed, a table, and a moody short-wave radio, I had to break out. I decided to take my life in my hands and sample what was on the ‘danger’ menu.

I made my way to the nearby bar-discotheque, which a guidebook described as “tawdry”. I felt I strode purposefully into the joint, but I think local girls can recognise a newcomer to town by the way he pushes open the door.

At the bar, I was still trying to roll my tongue around the Portuguese word for beer when she had already pulled up a stool, had her hand on my knee, and was looking deeply into my eyes. Esmeralda had a plunging neckline that I didn’t, at first, dare let my eyes follow. Combine that with a bare midriff, a mini miniskirt made of something silvery that sparkled, and very high heels. For someone with weeks of BBC World Service news as his only night-time entertainment, indifference was not an option.

We drank a couple of beers as she tried, in her broken English, to check if I was worth her time. Around midnight, we moved to the disco upstairs, where I saw that there were dozens of other Esmeraldas already on the dance floor. Though I have undoubted dancing skills, I struggled with the local passada and the Mozambican version of salsa. Esmeralda was fantastic and held me so tight that there was no danger of my falling over.

During the night, I discovered interesting facts about Esmeralda. She had a child in primary school for whom she needed money, she would love to open her own beauty salon for which she needed money, and the following week she wanted to visit her mother up-country, for which she needed money.

Towards 3 a.m., I decided to leave. There was a certain lightness in my head, but I still had the feeling of being in control. Esmeralda wanted to come too. I said it was impossible and made several far-fetched excuses. My mind was racing with stories of danger I had heard. I had just read in the newspaper of a girl who had offered a piece of chocolate to a man, and he had woken up with everything gone—except his underpants.

I detached myself from Esmeralda’s vice-like grip as I struggled down the stairs. She grasped me again outside, pleading to come with me while shouting that I was a bastard to have wasted her night. I normally avoid police officers as much as I do evangelical preachers, but now I looked imploringly at the one on duty outside. He was busy collecting protection money from motorists, who paid so that no urchin still wandering around at that time would steal wing mirrors or headlights from parked cars. Finally, he came across, prised Esmeralda’s hands off my arm, and told her to get inside and that she should be ashamed of herself. He then demanded that I pay him.

Somewhat lightheaded, I weaved a path down the middle of the street on my way home, having forgotten it was the road referred to as “mugger’s delight”. Whatever street lamps existed were standing dark, giving me—I tend to look up when inebriated—an exhilarating view of the star-studded southern sky.

Suddenly, a minivan screeched to a halt. The driver leaned out and, while I didn’t understand what he was saying, his thumb gesture invited me to jump in. A woman sat between him and a second man in the front. Excited by the beer and the night sky, I recklessly hopped in, trying to explain where I lived in a bizarre mixture of Portuguese and English.

Maybe surprisingly, they pulled up in front of my place while suggesting having another drink somewhere. I stumbled out of the back saying I had to go to bed, but I was lucid enough to notice the driver giving a significant nod to the girl. The girl had some difficulty getting out. She seemed drunker than I was.

I began to stagger across the road to my building, then, seeing her coming behind, I admit, to my shame, breaking into an unseemly run. Up the stairs to my apartment, I missed the keyhole at the first attempt, succeeded the second time, got inside, and locked the door.

She hammered on the door for a long time with some short intervals—maybe to massage her knuckles—while I sat with my hands between my knees on the edge of the bed in some consternation. I was afraid her friends might come to break the door down. She seemed to be repeating in Portuguese, or maybe a local dialect, “Let me in, let me in…” What could she want, I wondered: to rob me, to rape me, to be my friend? I sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, even after she had left. I was both frightened and exhilarated at the same time.

Next day, a teacher colleague who lived with his family next door said, in his scholarly English with a smile that resembled a leer, “I see you irresistible to women, but why you make terrible noises in middle of night?”

I couldn’t even try to explain.