Bent knees, arthritic tendencies

Countless circumstances in Mauritania threaten my bachelorhood. I am white, unmarried, young and friendly. The first is enough to merit daily attention from would-be suitors who barely manage to stammer “m-m-m-madame, m-m-m-uh, m-m-m-marriage?” The second is icing on the third’s cake; who could pass up a girl, never hitched and ripe for the picking? The last: nails in my marriage proposal coffin. Since smiling comes more naturally than hissing, I am hopelessly doomed.

As a result, men ask for my hand in marriage every day. Without fail. Every. Day. I have incorporated these potential mates into a typical 24-hour period, right next to veiled women urinating in the public square, small children bounding down the street without pants, and grown men picking their nose as they dodge goats in rusted taxis. I have come to expect it. And accept the question for what it is. “M-m-m-marriage?” simply translates to “you’re a novelty, not too hard on the eyes, and since you don’t show outright disgust, perhaps I could hit you up for money, a visa, or at least some attention, later I might brag to my friends, what do you think?” My response varies, from “eynte” (when?), “wallahi” (but of course!), to feigned incredulity.

Last night, I received a real proposal. The first in my life. It was from a young man I consider an intimate friend. And his was an offer of neither opportunity nor novelty. “I will make you my fiancé,” he whispered. “I’ll follow you anywhere.” Deafening silence, I assure you, is not so cliché that it never happens. My incredulity was not feigned.

I launched into a lengthy explanation of why I was not ready for marriage, why I may never be, why it wasn’t him – cough, cliché – it was me. “But I’m in love with you.” It made me sad to think how little he knew of love, to say such a thing. Insult to injury, he cried when I refused. Layers of justifications followed, on his part and mine, but finally he accepted that I could not. Awkward does not begin to describe what will inevitably follow.

For having suffered proposals daily for almost seventeen months, I feel silly to be so rattled by his question so earnestly popped. My principal reaction is shock. It is immediately followed by feelings of pity, sadness, disgust, in that order. For whom, I don’t yet know.