It’s a beautiful, warm evening in the heart of Geneva. I take a stroll through the streets of Bel-Air, loving the sense of relaxation it brings me.
My favourite part of the walk is across the bridge over the clear and clean waters of Lake Geneva. I glance at the big stores, hotels, and banks, marked by names like Louis Vuitton, Manor, Credit Suisse and Hotel de la Paix. The wealth concentrated right here takes my breath away.
The streets are calm, despite being a bit crowded as people head home during rush hour. It’s clean and beautiful.
These evening walks along the streets or through the fields always leave me with a full heart at the end of the day.
I walk all the way up to the Basilique Sacré-Cœur de Genève before heading to the tram station for my evening class.
My mind feels at peace as I admire the beautiful architecture, the well-structured streets, the efficient roads, and the intricate details of the city that, on a regular day, I might overlook.
What’s a stroll in town without a bit of window shopping?
I find an amazing African shop with cool hair products, though as expected, they’re expensive.
Everything in Geneva is always pricey, yet people here are always willing to pay more taxes. At least they see how the government spends their money, unlike in some countries.
Anyway, before I go into activist mode, I finally make my way to the tram station. I’m proud of how well I know this town now; I don’t even need Google Maps anymore. I’m becoming more at home here.
Tired and with about six minutes until my tram arrives, I find a seat and watch the people around me. There’s something powerful about sitting quietly on a busy street, just observing. With my phone tucked away, it’s only me and my thoughts, piecing together the details of my surroundings.
While I wait, I see a casually dressed man with a cigarette, going around asking people for a coin or two.
A teenage girl is sitting near me, and I’m a bit surprised when he asks her for money. Anyway, kids today often do more than we expect, so it wouldn’t shock me if she gave him some or even more.
I sit, expecting my turn to be asked for a coin. As if I’m invisible, he skips me and goes directly to the man beside me. I’m caught off guard, thinking, “Wait, what?” I steal a quick glance at my well-dressing. I confirm that I clearly look like someone who can have coins.
But I keep my surprise to myself. Afterall, this isn’t the first time a beggar has skipped over me to ask someone else for money.
Each time, I wonder, when did beggars start picking and choosing whom to ask? If the goal is to get some money, why discriminate?
Of course, I come to the same conclusion each time, beggars can be just as selective. They see my skin colour, and who knows what goes through their minds.
Honestly, as much as I try not to jump to conclusions about racism, small moments like this make it hard to overlook.
As long as we have different skin colours, issues of racism and colourism will remain part of society.
Even today, a man reached right beside me to ask a woman for a coin, completely skipping me and avoiding eye contact. This is after he’d already asked everyone else nearby and proceeded to skip a black family right across onto the next white person.
Haibooo!
Nonetheless, there are also times when some do approach me.
There was one time at a train station when a woman with a baby in a stroller came up to me. I was so surprised that I would have said, “Whatever you want, lady, just ask, and I’ll get it for you.” But I’m not Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, or any other tycoon.
Who knew that one day I’d be so elated just because a beggar approached me? Funny right. These are the small things that make people happy in developed countries.
Aside from all this, I would like to talk about how some beggars are well dressed in this country, but that’s a story for another day.
Folks, in conclusion, it turns out that beggars can indeed be choosers or racists.