Headed to the photo studio behind my house, where all my passport and visa photos have been taken over several years, and where a week ago I blew up a portrait of my parents at the Abu Dhabi Louvre for a framed Christmas gift. My usual guy is there – Indian, young, good looking, always curious about my hair. I realise he must know so much about my life at this point.

 

He acknowledges me with bright, wide eyes but they flutter away when a pair of Emirati men follow me through the door. There is a queue but they have expressed their entitlement by leaving the Nissan Patrol running outside. The queue also includes a Pakistani man laden with manila folders and an Indian couple and their newborn in a stroller.

 

"Passport photos?" I blurt out, just to make sure I am known amongst the group, then sit. But the storekeeper nods me over to the backroom and says he'll be a minute. He huddles with the family to whisper a conversation in native tongue, while other people outside start talking – I hear a translated version of the word 'African' somewhere from someone. In the room I tie my long braids in a way that discreetly hides my severely shaved undercut.

 

He comes in with his camera but just says "uhh...", while the family man, rocking his baby in his arms, peers into the room.

 

I wave them in. "Oh! Yes, yes, of course." We switch places.

 

"Because she is about to fall asleep."

 

"I thought they were done, no worries at all."

 

Father nods thanks and stands with baby, photographer slips off his sandals, hops on a stool, leverages himself with one hand on father's shoulder as he zooms the lens straight up into baby's smushed, sleepy face.

 

She can barely keep her eyes open and I realise I've got my camera out too. It takes several minutes for us to capture her actually looking into his camera.

 

Father nods at me again and leaves.

 

I sit on the random purple velvet chaise lounge in front of a draped white cloth and focus intensely on reining in an imaginary double chin. It all takes seconds, he is so flustered with the Emiratis waiting. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he whispers, squinting behind camera.

 

There is a small tea shop next door so when he begs me to wait 10 minutes, I go there. "You want chai?" I say, breezing out the door.

 

"No no, no thank you. Ek minute, uh?"

 

I wave a hand not caring. It is the first day of the new year and all I have to do this month is get on that plane. That's all, that's all, easy breezy.

 

Indian businessmen and labourers in blue jumpsuits clear the widest possible path for me to approach the tea counter.

 

"One chai?"

 

Immediately a hand slides forward steaming milky tea in a tiny cup through a face-sized square in a glass booth. All the shelves around it are stocked with tea thermoses, Lipton and Chips Omani boxes, colourful pictures of several dozen types of blended fruit drinks you can order, each one layered in their smoothie glasses, fruit by fruit, like a rainbow.

 

One display has a plate of hard-boiled eggs, and a hand grabs one to slice and prepare a simple Indian breakfast for, presumably, the man rolling up his shirt sleeves and adjusting his tight trousers to sit at a tiny table out front, tie over his shoulder.

 

I palm the teaboy one dirham coin and he bends to see what my arm continues up to. "Ethiopia?"

 

"No. West Indies. Cricket? Brian Lara?"

 

So practised is this response that I forget that I've even said it until he responds: "Yessss. Chris Gayle... Ohhhh, such a funny guy, this Gayle."

 

I smile.

 

"Ohh, thank you, thank you. Have a nice day, sister."

 

"Happy New Year!" The sea parts again and I sip outside the photo studio, enjoying the swaying winter breeze.

 

I have found a way to become oblivious to the men staring, trying to figure me out. When I went to Goa, they spoke their language to me there; same thing when I ran into a few Nigerian prostitutes at a bar the other day, who mistakenly plopped themselves down at my table. It must be confusing, I get it.

 

My photos are ready, I assume with the shopkeeper popping his head out the door in my direction. The Emirati men are back in the car and one raises a palm to him asking after his pictures, which will be brought to his window.

 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry" under his breath again to me, as he hands me my packet. With the transaction he smiles, as if to say "sorry babe, busy day, next time it's a date".

 

I get home and immediately check out my photos. I like that he has photoshopped out my septum piercing (thoughtful – he wants me to have no trouble at all getting my visa). and I am not surprised that he has lightened my skin and matted it of any imbalances. Also thoughtful?