Crossing Borders, Finding Desire in Chennai

I’m not from here. That’s the first thing people notice. In Chennai, most of the time, I stand out before I even open my mouth. The sun feels sharper on my skin, the eyes find me in markets or on buses, and I know my Tamil is clumsy, even though I’ve gotten better month by month.

I came here from Lagos three years ago, chasing a business opportunity I thought would change my life. It didn’t—at least not the way I pictured. Life had its own rhythm here. Mostly I eat, work, sleep, and watch football streams from back home. But after a while, loneliness piles up. I missed the laughter I grew up with, the way women back in Nigeria joked and teased, the familiar flow of body language.

In Chennai I tried to go on a date with a few local women. But the truth? My heart and my body only sparked for African women. I can respect beauty in all forms, but my attraction has always been to my own people. It’s not a rule, just a truth in my blood.

One evening, scrolling on my phone, I found myself on Locanto. I had heard about it before, people looking for connections, some casual, some not. Out of curiosity, I searched for an escort in Chennai. And then I saw her profile.

No fake glamour, no overdone lines. Just a short note: “African woman in Chennai. Looking to meet good people. Mature and real.” One picture—her smile electric, full lips, cheeks that looked like they could break into laughter at any moment. I stared for a long time.

I typed a simple message:

“Hello. I’m from Lagos, living here. You caught my eye. Could we talk?”

She replied within an hour.

Her name was Ama. From Ghana. She had been working in Chennai for almost a year. She knew the feeling of standing out, the double stares, the whispers.

We chatted back and forth over the next two days. Easy flow. She told me she missed the food back home—jollof especially, “not your Nigerian version” she teased. I laughed out loud at that. “Don’t start a war you can’t finish,” I shot back.

Finally, she said: “We should meet. Tomorrow night maybe? I’ll arrange a hotel so it’s comfortable.”

I didn’t hesitate.

The next evening, I took an auto-rickshaw into T. Nagar. The noise, the horns, the weaving of traffic—it was like Lagos in its own way, chaotic and alive. I clutched my phone, her directions buzzing on the screen. She had chosen a modest hotel, nothing fancy, but clean.

Walking into the lobby, my chest thudded harder than I expected. It had been a while since I looked forward to meeting someone like this.

I texted, “I’m here.”

Seconds later, I saw her.

Ama stepped out of the elevator. She wore a simple black dress, hugging her curves gently, her braids falling to her shoulders. The moment our eyes locked, we both laughed nervously, as though the screen had suddenly become real and raw.

“You’re taller than I thought” she said, tilting her head playfully.

“And you’re more beautiful than your photo, which I didn’t think was possible” I replied.

She shook her head with a smile: “Smooth talker.”

We walked up together, the air between us building something unspoken. When the door closed behind us in her room, the world shrank to silence.

We talked at first, sitting on the edge of the bed. About Ghana, about Nigeria, about the strange pull India had on Africans who came for work, for study, for opportunities.

Our knees brushed. At first by accident. Then, not by accident.

“I didn’t think I’d meet someone like you here” she said softly.

“Neither did I” I replied, my hand inching closer.

Her fingers reached for mine, clasped them, warm and certain. She leaned in, and her lips touched mine quickly and shyly. Then again, slower.

Soon, the talking melted into longer kisses. Lips pressing, parting, breathing in each other. My palm traced the curve of her shoulder, down her arm. She shivered slightly, pressing closer. That spark I had been missing roared alive.

“Do you want this?” she whispered, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes.

“Yes” I said without hesitation.

She smiled. “Then relax. Tonight we forget the loneliness.”

The hours slowed, tangled with touches, kisses, teasing laughter. We didn’t rush. There was heat, yes, but also an ease, the kind that comes when two people know exactly what they want from the moment.

At one point, Ama leaned against my chest, tracing lazy circles on my arm. “They don’t understand us here” she murmured. “But you…you get it.”

“I do” I said, brushing a slow kiss along her neck.

“Then stay” she whispered, pulling me close.

And I did.

It was past midnight when we finally lay side by side, catching our breath. Outside, in the streets of Chennai, horns still blared faintly, the never-sleeping traffic of this city. But inside, it was just us.

Ama rolled over, propped on her elbow. “So. Nigerian jollof or Ghanaian jollof?”

I groaned loud enough to make her laugh. “Don’t start it again.”

“Coward” she teased, nipping playfully at my shoulder.

I pulled her closer. “Let’s just agree the Indian food doesn’t compare, okay?”

She pretended to think. “Fair compromise.”

We fell into laughter again, drifting slowly into sleep as the night folded around us.

For the first time in a long time, Chennai didn’t feel like exile. It felt like a place I could breathe.