"A-ou?", the man in the scruffy blue security uniform barked at me as I tried to walk through the British Airways office door.

"A-ou?" I asked, incredulous "What does 'a-ou' mean?"

"Foi djem?" he replied, asking me in Wolof where I was going.

I think what you wanted to say was, 'Madam, can I help you?'. But I resisted the urge to say to this him, because he wouldn't get the irony.

Every building, car parking space and square inch of land in Dakar has a guard, from a man officially employed by a security company to stand with a baton infront of the office door, to a young boy who hangs out waiting for someone to park his car so he can earn some money looking after it. Even though these people belong to one of the friendliest populations on earth, once they get a cap and a uniform, they become gruff, mistrusting and often downright rude.

"Is there a press conference today?" I ask the guard at the ministry, knowing full well that there is but that I have not been invited.

"The press is here, yes," he says, questioningly, looking me up and down with a doubtful glare.

"Can I come in then?" I say, moving to get my press card from my bag.

" Well who are you?!" he shouts, turning to face me and drawing his large frame up to what feels like double my size.

"I'm press..." I say, feeling small.

The guard turns my card over and inspects it for a long time. "OK, go in," he conceeds, disappointed.

I go into the salle de presse and the air conditioning is on so high that the air is icy. The room, layered with red velvet curtains and stuffed full of highly polished wooden furniture, is also stuffed full of journalists. The ministers have not arrived yet, and when they do it is not the minister who I had expected to be there. A mis-print in the announcement in the paper means I was expecting someone from another country.

At the prime minister's office, the guards are more friendly. There are many more of them, perhaps giving them less chance to play the policeman.

I arrive at the impressively white building and am met by a policeman, a real one, wearing dark glasses and high leather boots. He is standing in full sun and I want to move into the shade but am afraid to move past the man, who no doubt carries a gun somewhere on that belt, in case he should think I was making a run for the prime minister himself.

I tell him I have a meeting with Mr. D. He almost smiles and waves me towards a guard in a cabin, just inside the front door.
Beside the guard's cabin is a suitcase which is half-covered in the celephane they use at airports. If it is half wrapped or half unwrapped I am not sure.

The second guard is polite. He adresses me as 'Vous' and 'Madam'. He asks my name. I tell him, but he struggles, as everyone does in this country, with the pronunciation. Eventually we decide on 'Kelton', which everyone can say. He shows me into a room, jammed full of sofas, too many for the space, and closes the heavy louvered doors, waving his hand infront of the air conditioner to check it is working. A moment later he comes back and gets a bag out of the gray cupboard wedged in the corner of the room. He puts something away in the bag, slides it back into place, and has to rearrange the cupboard door which has fallen off in the process.