Heading for Peace - Part I

There is a moment – after the power and water have been out for hours, after you’ve delayed dinner and a bath past your usual grandmotherly hours – when you’re absently itching a mosquito bite on your ankle...

...that you realise it’s all hopeless.

That you hate the government so much because it has kept its bright, hardworking citizens from baths and Wikipedia and they can do nothing about it.  That you can only sit in the light of your cheap phone and play Tetris on it for so long before the horrible epiphany – akin to remembering you’ve left something on the stove - that you used to have some sanity, but now it’s all bubbled over and burned up and you have a mess to clean up.

It’s around this time that you discover another bite also in the vicinity of your ankle and you just want to dig your shoulder blades and heels into the couch, arch up in total rebellion, and scream with the itchy injustice of it all.

Then you have one of two scenarios.  Either the lights (that you’d switched on in desperate, pathetic hope when the sun began to set) suddenly come on and you find yourself singing a Gregorian chant in honour of Jesus and Joseph Kabila.  Or you take a cold bath in the light of the only small appliance you haven’t managed to break (well, you did once but Captain fixed it), throw on socks and a hoodie, try to switch off any lights in case the power returns, and fall asleep hoping that tomorrow is literally a brighter (and waterier) day.

All this to the repetitive beat of some party or church service (I can never tell the difference until Justin Bieber comes on the mic to apologize for missing more than just my body) that only adds to the sense of powerless isolation.  Thankfully, I never feel that way during the day, when I am lovingly solicited by small children asking for food or money, youth who make nasal noises at me as part of a sterling comedy routine, and men who have a deep wellspring of interest in the church, English, and me (not necessarily in that order).  Sometimes women say things to me too, but they are rarely agressive, don't tend to follow me, and I've usually smiled, greeted them, or asked them for prices or help first.  

A minute into a conversation with an excitable black man from a neighbouring country, in possession of an Indian accent so strong it was actually making wince:

“Are you here alone?!”

“...I’m here with my team.”

“Are you married?!”

“Um, no.”
“Why?!!”
“...”

“Do you love your cousin?!”

[This was unexpected, but part of my brain was already busily formulating a convoluted answer about being an immigrant in Canada and away from family.  Thankfully, the rational part of my brain held the reins to my mouth.]

“...My... cousin...”

“You love someone and you will go and be with them!!”

“Right, so boyfriend or fiancé – not cousin.”

“Oh really!!”

[The conversation continued as he followed me all the way home and was only unwillingly ended due to the fact that I was closing my gate in his face, telling him to go home, and not giving visiting hours.]

“I’m so glad to meet you!!  Everyone here is black!!”

The next day, a car containing three soldiers in camouflage and porting rifles offered to give me a ride.  I work next to a military office, so I they may have innocently been extending a hand of friendship because they’d seen me in the area.

Regardless, I smiled, thanked them, and chose life instead. 

At work, one of the ladies proposed marriage.

For her brother. 

I hope I refused gracefully, with many compliments on her wonderful family, but I may have just clapped my hands over my ears and screamed – it’s hard to remember. 

So it’s not just guys on the street who have the temerity to strike up conversations despite my brisk pace and earphones, it’s also youngun’s!  One snowflake at church, just about to enter university, took me to task for always having to call.

“I want you to call me now!”

Excuse you!  I never asked you to call me!  In fact, I fervently wish you didn't!  That time you called me at work and wouldn't tell me who you were?  Yeah - not impressed!  I don’t even call my teammates!  I don’t even call my brother!

Another little one who joined me on my walk home – first introducing himself as 17 years old, and finishing up at not yet 16 – asked if I’d date him if he were un grand garçon (literally a big boy).

How do you even respond to this? 

When I’m fifty and desperate, I may spare a thought for the apparently lucrative business of gigolos, but as of right now I’d prefer not to be deported for pedophilia. 

He seemed surprised when I said I’d date him if he were 30 and a good guy.  I later worked out that this was because he’d estimated I was eighteen (I swear I thought he’d guessed twenty-eight – I’ve been confusing this of late in French in a transparently Freudian attempt to regain lost time). 

As I was enjoying a chat with this little soul (who’d managed to picked up a few even smaller friends with bread baskets on their little knobbly heads), we met a more manly Egyptian contingent who knew about me.  I’m unsure as to the rumours circulating about me after that party I was at a few weeks ago, but at this point I guess all I can hope for is that they’re a lot juicier than the sad truth of my life. 

At the time, I was weighed down with four kilograms of rice, three litres of milk, a jar of peanut butter, and four packs of chocolate-chocolate chip cookies, so I couldn’t escape.  My friendly shopkeeper also engaged me in conversation (despite the ever-present danger of having to give me a freebie due to my clumsiness):

“Yeah, I know - you do some Christian thing.”

That’s me – Doing Some Christian Thing (With Mixed Success) Since 2004.

I’m thankful for generalized kindness, believe me, but sometimes it can get overwhelming.  I found it difficult enough to have this discussion while he quietly judged my Single Ladies Care Pack; it’ll be even harder to chat about my Christianity over a bag of regular overnight with wings and an optional sunroof.   

And the interrogation doesn’t end when I get home... 


Part II