“Are
you single or married?” asks the tall, slender nursing student with a thin
mustache. We are standing beside sandy path in front of male nurse’s dorm. We
had, just a moment ago, been talking quite normally. I hesitate not sure if I
should tell the truth, very Christian-like…..
“Uh, single; but I am too young to get married. I am not
getting married for a long time, several years from now. I am too young, now.” I explain, waving my
arms, avoiding eye contact.
Pause.
Let me stop here and explain a little about Congolese culture. As far as I understand
it, the age that a girl is ripest for marriage is 18. 18! At that point, if you
are interested in a girl, you voice your interest. If the girl accepts, you must
go to her parents and talk about the bride price. You save up and once you pay the price, you can
continue with the proper procedures to get married. There's no real official dating period, you're friends, maybe, and then you get married. Okay, play.
He scratches
his head, “Oh hmm, that’s interesting. So, I am looking for a wife.” At this
point, I kind of have an idea where this might be heading and start shifting
from one foot to another. I hear a goat’s death-like baaa in the distance.
I smile as I slowly back away, “Oh really, how
nice!!!”
He interrupts, trying
to get to the point before I disappeared “And I was thinking…”
“Oh, No, no, no!! There is so many
girls here!!!” I say, gesturing around to the village. Now, I turn and start
walking. “But!” I swat the air, “Nah, nah, nah!”
That
was the first of many similar “proposals.” Men of different ages, from
different parts of the village, and different life situations tell me they're looking for a wife. They never come straight out and ask me the actual question,
they just kind of lead up to it and by that time I’m gone.
“Mbote.” (hello) An older man says
to Sydney as we’re walking on a sandy path next to a football (aka soccer) field.
I look at Syndey, “Pesa Papa mbote, Sydney!” (Say hello to
papa)
She puts out her hand, “Bote!” He turns to me,
I notice that he’s probably in his 30s,
“What’s her name?”
I looking down at Sydney whose on my hip, “Sydney. Her name is Sydney.”
He looks at her and smiles with a bit toothless grin, “Ahhh, Yney.
And you?”
I look at him, “Me, my name is
Nancy.” We shake hands.
“Are you her mother?”
I laugh, “No, I watch her while her
parents are working. She’s like my niece.”
“Ah, I see, I see and are you married?”
I pause, not again…”Yes, I am.” (I promise you, my parents didn't teach me to lie.)
“Ah, okay, how many kids do you have?”
“None yet, but I have Sydney, she’s
like my niece.”
“Yes, yes, well, I am looking for a wife.”
I sigh, seriously. “That’s great, but I am
already married.”
“Yes, but I am looking for a wife.”
I start turning away wanting to get
away from him, “Well, Sydney’s very tired, we have to go.” “But…”
“Nah, nah,
nah, we must go, I’m sorry.” I say as I swat the humid air.
This didn’t make much sense to me
while I walked home, but then later, Ryan explained it to me. Polygamy is a thing here. That may have been it, or it may have been he didn't understand why I would be married and not have any kids... Every
time, I’ve seen him since then, he’s been very demanding and scowls at me.
Why
aren’t you flattered Nancy? Why are so frustrated and annoyed at these men? Because these men don’t know anything about me. Because some of them only
know my name because a kid just told him. Because they know nothing about my
personality; they don’t know how I love to laugh uncontrollably, but I don’t
often. Because they don’t how I love to eat good food with good friends and
share stories. They don’t know how I long to heal the pain of the world and that I feel it pressing on my heart everyday. They don’t how many sisters I have or that I
have “adopted” siblings. They don’t know me.
They only know that my skin is white; which is thought of as beautiful and
associated with intelligence. They only know that my skin is white; which means
I have money. They only know that my skin is white; which means I have
opportunities. My skin is white. That’s all.
It’s about my skin. It’s
literally skin-deep. It’s actually feels more like an insult than anything
else. It’s just frustrating, I would have liked to get to know these guys, to be
friends or at least acquaintances; but I’m just a resource to them, not much
more. I am a walking, white dollar sign.
Now,
whenever I walk past “hot spots” places where I know they are a lot of men who
have or are likely to propose, I walk fast. I don’t want to dawdle and take my
time because no matter how nicely it starts, it always ends up with the same, “I
am looking for a wife.” thing.
Last
night, I was walking with Shannon and Sydney back to their house. We were
walking past the white dorm buildings again. The same young nursing student
called out to me from his seat on a bench next to the path. “Why do you always
walk past here so fast?”
“Because I am always late.”(Very white-rabbit-from-Alice-in-Wonderland-y) I reply
slowing down a bit. (This time I'm not lying, I promise)
“Late for what!?
This is not friendly, it’s not nice!!” (Now, it’s important to remember here,
that I am in Africa and being late and time have little importance here. Relationships are key. At the
time, I kind of forgot about culture differences…)
I spin around, heat springing to my face, he’s
calling me a liar, “I am late because I have to watch Sydney while her parents
are working!”
“Ah, no!!!! This is not nice!!” I
spin back around, I couldn’t say another word. I continued on to the Potter's with tears in my eyes.
Cultural differences are hard, ya’ll.
They are very hard. It’s a learning experience. With God’s help, I hope to learn
slowly. Sometimes I can laugh about it, but sometimes I have to cry about it. Please
keep me in your prayers as today, I must go talk to the nursing student and
explain why acted as I did and apologize. It won’t be easy, but then again sometimes things aren't…
P.S. I don’t know of these guy’s
names.
 |
| I think this photo pretty accurately explains how I feel right. |
