A new school

"Yes?"
"I said, are you watching my hand?"
"Uh, yes.."
"Ok repeat that back to me."
"Ma-iss-moo-ki!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means: what is your name?"
"Right, now let me see how you wrote it.."

The teacher looks over what I had hastily scribbled moments before (I hadn't been paying attention) and claims that I've copied his Arabic script perfectly. I'm not buying it.

I'm in a tin-roofed shack on a hill in the middle of Quran school. The other students are taking an exam while I'm recieving my very first lesson in Arabic. The whole thing was a chance meeting--I was on my way to catch a taxi to Togo when the teacher here stopped me to talk a bit. He asked me to join in and I said of course! After the lesson I agreed to return every Wednesday evening, "we also have class Saturdays and Sundays," he tells me. I'm not that gung-ho I say with a laugh as I go to shake his hand. The teacher smiles uncomfortably, shifts his weight and says, "oh, you know, between men and women...if they're not married we don't really shake hands..." Oh. Right. "Not a problem!" I say laughing at my own blunder, "see you next Wednesday!"