The year was 2007. I went on a doctoral fieldwork in Johannesburg where I shared a house with an interesting fellow from Bloemfontein, Free State. Things were going well for him. Wits graduate. Chattered accountant. Lucrative profession. Bright future ahead. Worlds to be conquered. Money to be made. Pleasures to be enjoyed. And women to be impressed. Quite clearly, a perfect case of a “Black Diamond”. We shared meals and had conversations on various questions of life. Among these conversations, one in particular left such a lasting impression on my mind.
We were in the middle of such a wonderful conversation about love affairs and mixed-up relationships between local women and foreign men. I was happy to keep the conversation safe — abstract, academic, theoretical, detached, cold, impersonal, unemotional. And why not? Was I not pursuing an excellent PhD in sociology? But then he ruined it all, including my comfort. Suddenly he made the conversation personal. Damn! He implicated me directly. Can you imagine!
“Man, I want to introduce you to my sister”, he said.
“Really? Would you do that?” I asked.
“Yes, you and my sister should hook up.”
I could not believe my ears. I looked at him to see if I could spot any bodily sign that he was pulling my leg. Nothing of the sort. He looked back at me, studying my reaction. I wondered why he would bestow such an honour on me, trusting a stranger with his own sister’s life. We had known each other only for a few weeks.
“To what do I owe such an honour?” I asked
“Because you are a foreigner”, he said. “Our sisters love you guys, the foreigners”, he added.
I hate the word foreigner. I have my reasons for that. My hair stands. I feel a rush of goosebumps on my body. Cold shivers down my spine. When I hear the word, especially in South Africa. The word is emotionally and politically charged. It can have, and has had, deadly consequences. It’s part of human evolution to experience chilling emotions when faced with threatening situations. In any case, my companion went on to explain how marrying a foreigner had been his sister’s romantic dream. She had been waiting for that type of prince charming to sweep her under her feet. And that prince charming was me, the African foreigner. He sensed I wasn’t buying it, so he went on:
“Especially you. She would love you to pieces man. You are such a nice guy. You are educated. You’re almost a doctor. Practically, to me you’re a doctor already. You are well traveled. You will have an excellent job. My sister would kill to have you. It’s hard for you to believe. But the truth is that our sisters always talk about marrying foreigners like you.”
It was a flattering proposition. I mean, here was a guy offering his sister to makwerekwere within the context of a public culture that says “Woe to makwerekwere!” In the middle of a hostile public discourse against non-nationals, especially those from the greater continent, I stood before an outlier, an exception of a man, going against the grain, doing something too good to be true. While the public opinion court charged makwerekwere as thieves, pimps and exploiters of local women, here was a local man matchmaking his own sister, his own flesh and blood, with makwerekwere.
You are probably wondering whether I took the deal. Whether, in fact, I did meet the Sotho girl. According to the north American popular wisdom, if something sounds too good to be true, it most likely is. I still can’t tell whether this wisdom was an appropriate approach on this one. Somehow I had mixed feelings about the deal. For how could I possibly be this man’s sister’s dream? The prospect didn’t seem realistic. So I passed on the pleasure. With a grudge, of course.
Really enjoyed reading this. So well written.
Thank, JulyWrites, for visiting my blob and for your kind comment. Best, DMM
Ah you could have at least met her 🙂
Yeah, I suppose I could have at least met her. It just seemed to be a door opening unexpectedly, to expose me to all sorts of unknowns. The idea of walking through was frightening. I didn’t have the guts, I guess. Or perhaps I over-analysed the door.
The unknown can be full of wonderful suprises. Still people tell me it pays to be prudent. I like “over-analysed the door” 🙂
You’re right. Yeah it’s just that once you’ve walked through that door, often there’s no return. Just like the infamous Door of No Return.
Very well written piece..it kept me glued to the screen as I was eagerly waiting to find out what happened in the end..
Thanks, Ezethu, for visiting, reading and commenting on my blog. Who knows, could have had a Sotho makoti from the Free State. I don’t know how freeing that would have been 🙂
Very interesting Dr Matsinhe, although you should’nt have passed it up! My future wife is Sotho.
Thanks, Tshepang, for your comment. Congrats on securing Sotho love for yourself 🙂 I suppose you’re right I should have agreed to meet her. But you see, unlike you, I couldn’t see the diamonds on the acreage
I still believe some ‘meaty stuff’ is left out in this story David…expantiate! Lol
Eish, Edith… I wish there was. Any way, why you wanna spoil story like that 🙂
Oh well Dr D, an alternative to doing away with doubt in such cases is to let the person go, if they come back then it was mean’t to be. In your case she didn’t didn’t come back so you can be at peace about not seeing the diamonds on the acreage.