"Okay" he said "Have you ever been to Jamaica?"
"No" I said, slightly annoyed as I assumed I was about to get the 'hey rasta!' stereotype.
"I had dreadlocks when I was younger and people would judge me." he said.
He seemed slightly out of breath and rushed, as if he was on his way somewhere but saw me and had to tell me these things. He had a thick African accent and that combined with his rushed stream of consciousness sentances left me in the dark until .03 seconds after he'd said something and Id figured out what it was.
"I had dreadlocks down to here," he gestured to mid-forearm "and my father used to ask me when I had been to Jamaica and people would say I was a rasta. In africa they judge you."
"Sometimes people judge me here for my dreadlocks." I said.
"They look very nice on you."
"Thank you. What country are you from in Africa?" I asked.
He answered "Ghana" and then gave a slight wave and ran across the street.
The bus came shortly after and I was beaming a bit, feeling good and connected and humane.