Where Courtship Looks Like Stalking

About a month ago, Shula (my new roommate, no relation to Thula) and I were walking back home and a car pulled up and offered us a lift. As a rule, I tend to reject unsolicited rides, but Shula knew the guy and she was carrying a lot of stuff so we got in. Mohammed is her former neighbor, a young Egyptian guy who sells rugs, leather jackets and mirrors out of his car. Later on, Shula pointed out that it was strange that we hadn’t needed to give Mohammed directions to where we live.

The next day he shows up at our organization trying to sell stuff to employees during lunch time. I pass by on my way to town and greet him. Halfway down the road to Sibasa, he rolls up and asks me if I’d like a lift. So we’re off to ShopRite (all my stories take place in a ShopRite – it’s the place to see and be seen).

Mohammed has African game. African game generally involves rolling up on a woman uninvited, showering her with “I love yous” and pleading for her telephone number. If a guy is not from around here or if I’m traveling, I like to give him the benefit of the doubt. But.

The third thing he says to me is “are you married?” I take a lengthy pause to respond as I process my disappointment at having to extinguish another uncomfortable social situation. The pause is difficult to account for so I tell him I have a boyfriend. Big mistake. A man interested in a married woman won’t hesitate in his pursuit; having a boyfriend is about as relevant to the issue as having a goldfish.

He continues: “I am searching for a wife, I listen to only love songs, my life has been boring here until I moved to Sibasa 2 months ago and started seeing you walking around.” And then when we leave the car, the awkward declaration, “Sonia, I like you very much.”

After that, he is pretty much intrudes on every facet of my life. He shows up at my home, finds my office at work, passes me in his car when I walk to town. “Enjoying being single” or “not being compatible” are not grounds for a woman to deny a man. After a year here, I still can’t help but try the subtlety angle: when he asks for my phone number, I tell him I don’t own a phone. But he just offers to buy me one.

Finally he shows up at my office. He is telling me he loves me and wants to marry me. Summoning the WASP within, I tell him that I am flattered but remind him that I am in a relationship and am very much committed. Quoth Mohammed: “well, I’ll have to go kill the love in my heart. I loved you since I first saw you.” Boy’s been watching too many movies.

So he stops showing up at my home and work. We still see each other pretty regularly, being that we live in the same town. On my way to the post office, I pass him wrapping up a sale. It’s 105 degrees and when he offers me a ride, I accept. He drops me off at the post office and hands me his car keys so I can let myself in when I’m through. I arrive at the car first, open his car door for him when he gets there, and hand him his bundle of keys. He gives me a Coke that he picked up at – where else? – ShopRite. After he drops me off at work, I realize I had accidentally handed him the keys to the TVEP post office box.

So I spend half of Sunday looking for him with only a previous address to guide me. This area has a sizable Muslim population so you can imagine what it looks like to approach a total stranger and ask “do you know where Mohammed lives?” The conversations go like this:
“What’s his surname?”
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of car does he drive?”
“It’s either navy or red.” Yes, I have seen his car on numerous occasions and ridden in it twice and still don’t know its make, model or color. My brain has this critical deficiency for vehicles: each one looks like a generic clipart vehicle to me.
“Why do you need to find him?”
“He has my office post office box keys.”
“I think I might know someone who knows him.”

I get referred from one place to the next until I arrive at a house where I am told definitively, “We know someone who knows him and they’ll come to pick you up and take you there. In the meantime, please sit.” In this house is a multiracial group of five kids my age recovering from a collective hangover. Wearing baggy pajamas that effect a genuine and self-confident insouciance, they sprawl out on pillows on the floor and swing legs over sofa arms. Those that haven’t spent the morning puking are occasionally marshaled to clean up the kitchen. Two puppies roam around the room, rotating from person to person for affection.

I expect this scene will seem really mundane to anyone reading this – and it probably would to me too a year and a half ago. I don’t even know how to put a name to what I was seeing, but it’s something I’ve been without for so long I sat through a two hour Lil Bow-Wow movie to be part of it. It was a social unit of peers making no demands on one another. No agendas, no judgments: black and white together, men not harassing women, men cleaning up after themselves and cooking, dogs not being beaten with sticks, casual attire welcome. And here.

It made me reflect on how little I socialize and why. It is not for lack of invitations or interest. It’s the exasperation at having to deal with men and politely negotiate obnoxious come-ons. Even men with whom I have strictly platonic relationships will hit on me every once in a while and in a couple cases, start rumors that they have hooked up with me or that I came on to them. With women, I risk having my number distributed to male friends and no social gathering is entirely female anyway. It’s enough to discourage a person from ever leaving her house.

After the movie ends, I excuse myself. They are on the verge of feeding me, I’ve been there so long. So I leave my phone number and tell them to contact me if the ride shows up or if they get Mohammed’s number. It never does, but the ironic twist is the guy to whom I gave my number has been SMSing me nonstop. Last night I got one that went: “good night and sweet dreams, if the bed bugs bite, tell them you have an Angel looking after you that will beat them up if they mess with you.” So not quite the picture of social tranquility I had first imagined.

Sigh.

I've implied this, but for clarity's sake: this happens all the time. I get phone calls from men I've never met asking me to be their girlfriend; I am followed in the street and harassed on transport; someone I thought was a friend makes an inappropriate comment or holds my hand. I can't even get an ego-boost out of it, because it has nothing to do with me. This is just how a man acts in the presence of a woman. I've read transcripts of focus group discussions with community members for some research I've been doing here. In group after group, participants confirm: a man cannot be just friends with a woman.