A little Chinese man in office clothes is idling at the car port in front of the foyer of a 4-star Accra hotel. He clears his throat in strident bursts, and leaps to one of the silver trash cans placed near the pillars (still at the entrance). He sprays his spittle into the bin with no awareness of self. As I struggle to lift my anguished jaw off the immaculate floor, he asks the doorman for the restaurant. It’s just as well that he (not I) is going to eat.