“It looks like I am now the African and you the European” he says, arms folded over a dishevelled white t-shirt, shoulders perched against a Karite (Shea) tree. The butter fromwhich soothes the calloused palms of African drummers. Fabrice steps in as translator for a group of bewildered ladies who throw words at me in Djoula, a Burkinabe dilect.  They are confused. I look like them, I am built like the men they know, but I do not speak their language. “Anglais”, The French...