I once had a friend named Robin. She was svelte and statuesque. Her oval face was framed by pixie cut auburn hair. Her softball pitch was clocked at over 90 mph.

She excelled as much in business as she did in sports. Men and women liked her because, despite her good looks and multifaceted talents, she was a solid and reliable friend. She was also intelligent, adventurous, and tenacious.

So much so that she traveled to Africa to retrieve the love of her life from Zimbabwe, where he reveled in his role as a safari leader.

I can’t, wouldn’t, won’t provide the romantic and/or salacious details because the trip occurred before I met her. I’m a storyteller, but not a tattletale.

Also, I didn’t ask – because I sensed that it was deeply painful – and she didn’t volunteer.

You see, the dude, the high-value male she traipsed after, declined her invitation to return to America, to her great chagrin. There may have been tears and deep depression, but I missed them. I would have, could have, should have comforted her if I’d known there then.

But she didn’t return to the States empty-handed. She bagged a trunkload of handmade African bling, and I bought several pieces. I garner many compliments on my big-beaded necklaces, made by African tribal women.

That wasn’t the only boon to me, though. She inspired me to travel to safari in Africa. My husband and I didn’t make the trip until a decade later and we went on the Great Migration route, through Kenya and Tanzania, in 2012. We agree that it was the trip of a lifetime, animals in the native habitat, moving and grooving, eating – even killing – splendidly.

Unlike Robin, I didn’t need to travel to Africa to snare a man…. I took him with me and it was grand!