Dave was the first black man I met in Prague. He works at an underground reggae bar with cheap, sweet beer and walls covered in graffiti about Jah and Emperor Selassie. During his shifts there, Dave sells plastic cupfuls of weed to grungy locals and giggling international students. He gently sways to the island music while he talks, explaining that he came to Prague to find better job opportunities. He didn’t want to say what he did for work at home in Nigeria, although he ensured me he was better off here. “Prague is a great place, it’s my home,” Dave said. He paused and his big, gap-toothed smile disappeared. “But I can still feel the racism. Every day.” While