Kenya dating and marrige
When I told my mother I was dating a white guy, she did not seem bothered, but then my mother is great at hiding her innermost feelings when she does not want to offend.
I knew she had been seriously worried when I saw the relief on her face after she had talked to him, both communicating in broken English and Swahili.
A brown child with a cleft lip, tears streaming down their face.
Messages such as, “A dollar a day will make a difference,” “Buy a goat and change her life,” were common.
Any news from Africa was famine, war, backwardness.
Every other charity raising money for Africa had a weeping, nose dripping, black child with flies all over the face as a cover poster.
One of my brothers said, ‘Finally, you have a guy who makes sense.’ Clearly, I had dated a few oddballs in the past, so the family seemed more than pleased.
Some of our friends bet among themselves about how long it would last.
When we visited home, my mother and her friends were thrilled that my husband was taking good care of me. My Kenyan friends’ eyes almost popped out of their faces when they saw me “Aiii Tabs, you are fat! They’d approach with a perplexed look and I’d be forced to jog their memories that it was really me. well.” I am still not sure which of the two I prefer.
But if my white man was by my side, it was all “Yes, sir,” ‘Welcome, sir.” I have never ceased to feel embarrassed by these behaviours.
A mix of resentfulness and reverence, wrapped together in a twisted knot.
The waiters would ask my husband what it was that I was going to eat. I was invisible to them; he had to keep telling them to ask me what I wanted.
Unfortunately, I am not quick with words in a face-to-face confrontation, and it was only afterwards that I would imagine in my mind all the words I would have thrown back at the waiters. Another that still baffles me to this day is the amount of, for lack of a better word, respect, that a white person enjoys in this country and what they get away with simply because they are white.