I was speaking with the Manager of the Ethiopian hotel down the corner from work. I go there at lunchtime sometimes to eat.
We’d begun talking a few weeks ago, after I’d asked for one of the Ethiopian dishes on the menu. It arrived without cutlery, leaving my Virgo soul offended to the very core. He passed over a spoon, when he saw the waitress observing my anguish without budging.
In the ensuing conversation, he explained he was Eritrean, married with two children, had studied English at university and was looking for conversation practice. This relaxed my guard and for the past few lunches, I’d been explaining terms like ‘that’s another kettle of fish’ and ‘no rest for the wicked’ over my tibbs (goat meat) and rice.
But when I sat down at my usual table last week, he asked me into his office for a private conversation. My sleeze antennae bristled and I braced myself for an uncomfortable few minutes.
Then it came out: he was looking to marry an English or European woman so he could leave Juba to go overseas. He had tried other ways of finding work outside Africa, but to no avail.
“I’m strong,” he said, “and happy to work.”
Then eyeing the grey roots in my hair that I’d not had time to colour during my latest RnR in Rome, “I don’t mind about her age. I like older women,” he continued magnanimously.
So relieved this wasn’t a frontal attack, I let the age reference – and the apparent disappearance of his wife and children- go.
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone.”
He persisted: “Can you ask your sister or your mother?”
I fumbled for a reply. It’s difficult to explain that I haven’t even told my mother I am in Juba. The woman is a champion worrier. For weeks, during the height of the Italian financial crisis, she had sent panicked emails telling me to take my money out of my Italian bank account. I can’t even imagine how the conversation would go:
“Hi Mum. I’ve got a job in Juba. Yes, South Sudan. Where the war is. Yes, that South Sudan. I’m fine. By the way, do you know anyone who might want to marry a 27-year-old Eritrean here in Juba? He speaks English and doesn’t mind an older woman.”
I fobbed him off with promises that I would contact her and thought that would be the end of it.
But no, I was wrong. I’d reckoned without this young man’s determination. Each time I go to the restaurant – ever more rarely since this subject was broached – he asks, ‘Have you heard from your Mam?”
I’ve replied with various vague explanations. My mother is technologically challenged and can’t use the email. She hasn’t worked out Skype and I can’t call her.
But soon it will be unavoidable. I’m going to have to key myself up to say, ‘No. I’m sorry. My mother can’t find you a European bride. Neither can my sister. Nor my friends. I don’t know anyone who wants to come to Juba or bring anyone home from Juba’.
I feel sorry for him. I do. But I’m pretty sure that when I say this, his attention may turn to the person in front of him. And the restaurant has been so convenient. It’s a pity not to be able to go there again.
©Jean Di Marino 2012
