On Love and Harassment

The first time I proposed to my fiancé, I did not have a ring. I also did not assume the conventional kneeling position during my proposition to her. And I had only known her for two hours (i was just that sure). She did not answer me, but instead asked me where the ring was. Marriage isn't something to be taken lightly, you know. And it would have been bad signs if she had said yes so quickly. Just what I would expect from my fiancé.

The second time I proposed to my fiancé, I did have a ring. It was a toe ring; a crude, brass thing that was unconnected at the back (potentially adjustable), and molded into the crest was the “peace” symbol. I was wearing a lime green suit, sandals, and I played “Amazing Grace” on the harmonica as I kneel-ed in front of her. Who could refuse that?

Therefore, I have a fiancé. Her name is Alison and she lives in Paraguay.

As fate would have it, I have come to Kenya and I have fallen in love with a local. After all, who can control the whimsical feelings of a passionate heart? Her name is Maggie, and she is a beautiful Kenyan. She also hates me. And she is two years old.

When I first got to my small rural village, Maggie's mother (who is 24 years old) and I became instant friends, simply because she could speak English. I spent the first few weeks with her as she showed me around the neighboring villages, introduced me to all the people, and made me feel welcome. As we meandered together through dry fields, she would knowingly reach out and caress a tree leaf or a shrub between her index finger and thumb, explaining what type of fruit or food the plant bears or what other uses it has. It felt like I was in the Disney movie Pocahontas.

As a general rule, women are attracted to money. Me being a white person, I am the walking, talking, singing and dancing embodiment of money. Therefore, women here in Kenya are attracted to me. Dora is no exception.

Because cultural norms make it inappropriate for women to confront men with their emotional feelings, Dora has been all but forthcoming in her “subtle hints”. When we spent time walking through the fields, she would say how the other villagers think we are married. And since Maggie turned out a little bit browner as opposed to a dark black complexion, it is as if the baby was the product of a racial mix (i.e. the baby was MINE).

It had become a vicious circle of love. I love Maggie, who in turn loves her mother, and her mother “likes” me, but to go the other way around, Maggie hates me, I do not have feelings for Dora, and Dora tires of Maggie because she cries all the time. I am not going to lie, for a moment or so I considered marrying Dora just so I could keep Maggie. I am not kidding.

Once, Dora asked me why the only women in the 'pornography films' were white. The question took me aback on two levels. First because such a subject would appear on the mind of the rural, conservative Kenyan mother, and second because this rural, conservative Kenyan mother had been exposed to pornography. Dora continued to press the issue, asking me if Kenyans were not as beautiful or desirable as white women because of our their skin. I told her that I thought Kenyans were astoundingly beautiful, and that I didn't think they were less or more so than other cultures. Then I told her that I have a fiancé, and I cannot take another women, and all during this exchange, I couldn't help but think about the movie “The Graduate,” the part where Dustin Hoffman boldly states, “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me.”

From that point on, I decided to claim Alison as my fiancé, producing pictures of me proposing to her (which actually exist) to prove to the community that I am truly engaged. My fiancé has become my means of crowd-control, my harassment prevention method, my protection from the onslaught of willing Kenyan women, or worse—Kenyan mothers that offer their daughters or cousins to me.

So here in my village I am engaged (well, I really am engaged). Every Mama knows I am engaged, and a surprising amount of people remember her name. Every now and then, a Mama would ask me, “So how's Alison?” and then follow up with, “Ah, two years? That is a long time. If I were you, I would not wait for her. Just take a Kenyan wife.”

Two years is a long time, and romance is a big deal – in both Kenyan and American cultures. Luckily for me, romance has been among the last things on my mind. I have been trying to cultivate a different type of love, one that is pervasive and addicting and enduring. The kind of love that inspires compassion and kindness. On the subject of romantic love, someone could give me a soap-box and a megaphone, and I would stand up and speak into it until the batteries ran low (and my trigger finger was sore) but I will spare my readers for now. There is a place for romance, and despite my spoken resistance to it, I am among the most susceptible to its wily charms.

As for Alison, my “Fiancé” is simply in name only. I cannot claim that any feelings are attached from her end. It would be hard to imagine being romantically involved with someone so out-of-reach, so intangible. Yet many other volunteers maintain long-distance romantic relationships, and to them I offer my sincerest regards.

As for me, my romance is confined to my attempts at poetry in my quiet times. This poem was written for no one in particular, but with someone in mind. It goes out to all the long distance relationships that us volunteers subject ourselves to.

Maybe She Waits


Maybe she waits,
she waits for me only.
Maybe I've gone,
I've gone too far away.

Maybe she waits,
She waits patient and lonely.
Maybe I'm wrong
to have asked her to stay.


Maybe she thinks,
She thinks of me only.
But maybe her thoughts
were mine, just for one day.

Maybe when I,
When I come back I'll be lonely.
But maybe her heart-
Not so easy to sway.


But if she waits,
she waits for me only.
When I return
I will hold her and say,

“I'm sorry that I,
That I left you here lonely.
Never again
Will I leave you that way.”