Spiritual Connections

While I was in India, I think the disparate citizens of DRC found unity in the fact that I was literally too fat and too single to be left to my own devices.  Thus, dear friends have taken it upon themselves to tell me that the weight I've gained is directly proportional to the loneliness I should feel. 

To be clear, this is not a teasing announcement from one friend – no - it comes from teammates, coworkers, and churchgoers alike. 

Even Butters' developing sense of humour (he'll thank me one day) is unable to cope with it; in as much as he is able to bring himself to care about my weight, he says I'm skinny (as to my civil status, I'm not sure he's noticed that I'm female, much less that I'm single).  

I recently learned that, in this culture, a man watches the woman he'd like to marry before asking her out – not in a frightening way (hopefully), but to see how she comports herself, whether they would be compatible, whether she would fit into his family.  While I, personally, doubt the availability of patience and intelligence (not to mention blood in the brain) necessary for this practice, I am willing to concede that I do not have a very high idea of most men. 

Unfortunately, some of my friends have picked up on this little quirk of mine.  After the memorial service, when we were out for a dinner to celerate Timbit's birthday, I was expressly invited into a conversation with the birthday girl.

Cinderella:  You.  Come here.  Stay away from [Timbit.]

Me:  ...Wha--

Cinderella:  Stay away from her.

Me:  ...But you just calle--

Cinderella:  Just stay away from her!

Me:  ...But we live togeth-- 

Cinderella:  I don't want her to be not dating when she is your age.

Me:  ...But I'm happ--

Cinderella:  I don't want her to be happy!

And therein lies the crux.  Clearly, Cinderalla didn't mean exactly what she said, but I found it to be such an apt description of what I'm currently going through:  You cannot be happy to be single, thus you must not be happy.  And no matter my protestations – that my second-hand experience of marriage has not been ideal, that I can count on one hand the number of couples I admire, that I'd rather be single with peace of mind than married and miserable, that even Paul said that celibacy was preferable but impossible for some – I must be miserable. 

I thought I'd escape the worst of it since I lived outside of India.  I also thought my sistren who'd complained about this pressure had experienced transference - it wasn't that everyone expected us to be married and pregnant by 30; it was that we subconsciously wanted it for ourselves. 

This is untrue. 

I can honestly say that I am satisfied, but the people around me seem to be getting more and more frustrated.  I understand their concern, but after being unwittingly cast in the role of the other woman on Friday, and then as a bridge between Timbit and a possible stalker on Sunday, I think my patience is nearly at an end. 

I've explained about my stalker as much as I'd care to – let's move on to Timbit's.  The Lord's day started out fairly normal: after a wonderful sermon (incidentally about taking the time to make a good decision – say, for marriage or becoming a disciple of Christ), I hurried home to do laundry, make lunches for the coming week, and sing for the few hours I could count on being blissfully alone while Butters and Timbit went out for lunch. 

Butters came home first and tried to ask my advice about handing out money (no); I turned up the volume on my music, huffed hair and flour off my face, and continued desperately rolling chapatis.  Timbit strolled in as I was on my way out to our church's evening service, thanking God that I hadn't kept my ride (Pastor) waiting.  As soon as I stepped out of our alleyway, I was approached by a quiet, well-dressed young man.

“Hi.  I'm a friend of the muzungu who lives here.  Can I just talk to her?”

After getting his name and ascertaining that he'd met Timbit a few weeks before, I decided to rush upstairs so she could deal with what I assumed would be a run-of-the-mill request for money.  On the way, I was stopped by a few mamans.

Maman 1:  Don't!  He was bothering that girl before and I was the one who yelled and helped her get away.  I told her to call the police!  You can't all be so humble and quiet!

Me:  P-police?!  Humble and quiet?  What are you--

Stranger:  Um, aren't you going to go get her?  Listen, I have a spiritual connection with her, and maybe I don't know her name, but...

Me:  Jesus, take the wheel and the gearshift. 

It was at this point that the whole situation started disappearing into the Twilight Zone.  We were quickly surrounded by neighbours and passers-by who crowded in the alleyway to helpfully point and laugh at this man, who'd by now progressed to announcing his plans for his presidency and his hope that this muzungu (or, incidentally, any other) could help him with clothing, food, financially, physically...

The crowd burst into laughter while I fought to remember I couldn't blush.  Even the guy was laughing at his own audacity by then, and children took the cover of madness to pet my hair.  To keep from screaming, I gently tried thanking them and suggesting that they all go home. 

One maman, who'd pulled out her smartphone and began interviewing him as though this was BBC World News, seamlessly transmitted my message:  “See, she wants you to go home.  Go home!  So what is your presidential platform?”

“Well, I'm glad you asked...”

I took this opportunity to walk to the road and watch for Pastor, who, along with the second coming of Jesus, might be the only juggernauts to stop this fiasco. 

As soon as the poor man drove up, I explained and watched with bated breath as he gently sent off the young presidential candidate and a tipsy older man in a suit who was trying to get physical with the youth.  Not that I was afraid he couldn't do it – rather out of fear that if he was hurt in any way, his wife, sister, and congregation (including BFG and Carrottop) would have put a bounty on my head. 

I later learned that Timbit had done her part by shouting at this guy to stop following her and giving him money (which may have constituted mixed signals), but I really don’t think anything short of avoidance would’ve dissuaded him from his fundraising mission.  Unfortunately, as a young, very white female who walks at a normal speed, I foresee this as Timbit’s greatest challenge in this city. 

After a peaceful service, I went to yet another birthday celebration for Timbit (under the same principle that it's always Happy Hour somewhere, we've been eating and singing for the past three days) with Grandma, Grandpa, their Australian doppelgangers (who have found the Holy Grail of chocolate cake recipes), and Butters.  Though I had to bite my tongue multiple times to keep from shouting Crikey, that's a good / big / bad one, I thought we were going to make it through the night without incident.  Until Timbit blew out all the candles on her cake, clapped her hands, and excitedly said, “No boyfriends!”

I nearly had a stroke.  What about this situation puts you in mind of boyfriends?!  Are these the only words I'm going to hear for the next 5-10 years?!

It turns out the number of candles you leave burning indicates the number of boyfriends you'll have that year – don't you know about that?  It sounded suspicious to me, but my nose was buried in chocolate cake and peanut butter ice cream by then; you could have asked me anything and I would've said I do.