Girl's got game

Ladies

Strange men have a habit of finding me. I’m not sure if it’s my height or that I say hi, or if it’s an unknown signal I’m giving off. Nonetheless, they come.

Public transportation is no exception, especially here in Kenya. Matatus are an adventure in themselves: Think eardrum-shattering music, entirely rule-less driving and up to 21 people for company, all for less than a dollar.

Usually when I get into a matatu, I choose my seat companion carefully. The rule is to pick someone who is friendly but especially talkative. It’s also important that they have used deodorant recently and show no evidence of creepiness.

This time, I failed in every way.

My seat buddy was a lovely Massai man. Which isn’t inherently a problem. Massai people are very friendly and kind.

They’re also herdsmen who spend most of their time living semi-solitary lives in the hills. They have many traditions, which includes their appearance: stretched ears, long necks, headdresses, and cape-like wraps.

Additionally, the gentleman I was next too had on cargo shorts and was furiously speaking on a smart phone.

When he hung up, we made brief small talk as he grinned at me. Everything was fine. A little awkward, but normal.

Until he asked me to be his girlfriend.

Mind you, this man is in his 60’s.

Because of the language barrier (in his excitement, the man had switched over to Kiswahili), I had to rely on my fellow Beacon staffer, Jackson, to interpret.

I found out my new man friend was telling me that he already had eight wives. He said each of them had their own houses, with cows and goats.

“It’s very nice,” he said, grinning and wigging his eyebrows.

“I’m sure it is.” I said.

Luckily, my ride was short – just a few stops. I exited quickly without saying much more to him. As the matatu lurched away, I saw him peering through the window, a grin on his grimy face displaying a row of mismatched teeth.

I finally understood why my mother told me not to talk to strangers.

Visa

As an only child, it’s been interesting getting used to having two brothers. They want to know where I am, where I’m going and who I’m going with.

And most of all, they’re dying to set me up with their friends.

I keep telling them that my internship has one rule – no dating – but they’re persistent.

“Kenyan men are the best,” they tell me.

On my way home from work everyday, I usually stop by the shop—a cell phone place mixed with a copy center and a pirated movie store.

I usually stay until nearly dark, helping to distract them from the monotony of waiting for customers.

Squashed behind the barred counter (to prevent theft), and occasionally sharing chairs, we often get into interesting conversations. When I return home, I have a feeling that the majority of my Kenyan education will come from discussions in this little room.

One evening, they were feeling particularly rambunctious due to the presence of two friends – a rugby player named Kevo (aka Kevin) and another that for the life of me, I can’t remember his name. I always pretend like I do (“Hey you!”).

[Kagia, if you’re reading this, we need to talk.]

In the midst of a conversation about politics and the new Kenyan constitution, more of a debate, really, the nameless friend (N.F.) broke in with a question.

“So when are you going to decide which one of us you’re going to marry?” he said.

I laughed and attempted to return to the topic of the freedom of information in Kenyan media, but he would have none of it.

“No, no,” he said firmly “You must choose.”

“We all want to go to America,” N.F. said. “And you are ok.”

I sarcastically thanked him for the profound compliment.

He went on to tell me that he would come with me to America, but that eventually we would return to Kenya “because you love it,” he said with a smile.

The last part was true.

“You would be a good Kenyan wife,” he said.

The others enthusiastically agreed.

I reminded them that I was nothing like what a traditional Kenyan woman should be. I was too nosy, too loud. I like my independence and I have no idea how to being mastering all of Kenyan customs and foods.

“In time, in time,” N.F. said.

“What if I want an American man?” I retorted.

With an air of injured pride, they all assured me this was not the case.

N.F. continued explaining our future life in Kenya. He told me about our house in the city, trips to Mombassa and the six sons we would have.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“And the best thing,” he said, “is that you will never leave me.”

“I won’t?” I said. “And why not?”

“Because if you leave me, I’ll deport you,” he said seriously. “And I know you want to stay.”

“Yep, that’s me,” I responded. “Just looking for a visa.”

This conversation was weeks ago, but N.F. continues to remind me of it.

“We’ll be very happy,” he says with a smile.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I can’t remember his name.