How to Meet a Man in Malawi

Stand on the side of the road. Go to the market. Run around your neighborhood.  All of these are sure ways to meet a man. In fact, it's possible to meet many men in one day, all of whom are happy to stare, fumble for words, look you up and down, stare some more, call you sistah, demand you get in their car, invite you for "coffee," and other fun things.  However, finding a suitable man -- or (gasp!) a really good catch -- is an entirely different story.

Yesterday, prompted by one of my Malawian sisters (yes, I'm the adopted sister, in case you were wondering about the pigmentation difference) who told me a slightly disturbing story  involving a man interested in her, I shouted loudly in my office at work, "What is wrong with men?!" and then turned to look at the only man in the room. With the two of us glaring at him, demanding a response, he immediately looked like a trapped animal and started stammering, "Oh, guys...you know...I mean...it's not me, you know..."

This, in turn, led to a discussion about dating possibilities here. Sadly, we determined that the pool of potentials is so small that, in order not to become severely depressed about it, we needed to add to the pool by re-evaluating those men who had been nixed initially.  Yes, if you can believe it, we were combing through the trash for the least offensive of the cast offs, in order to make the pool at least swimmable. 

It's not as if there are no suitable men, but those who are suitable have: 1. wives, 2. girlfriends, or 3. enough baggage to fit me and all my baggage inside with plenty of room to spare. A portion of those who are then left know their status as suitable single hottie and work it with as many women as possible. Thus, after dismissing those who have wives, girlfriends, crates of luggage, and exaggerated egos, the dearth of potentials is dismal.

So, what are single women to do? For now, I think we're pretty content laughing at incidences that happen to us (Mr. Audi is the source of ongoing jokes) and teasing married men about the laughable actions of other men. Juvenile? Absolutely. But I'm reminded of the Sandra Cisneros short story "Eleven," in which the eleven-year-old narrator realizes that we are still all those other past ages underneath our current age: "Maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay."  Exactly. Or maybe I will need to vent about boys as if I'm fifteen. And that's okay.