A typical Maga marriage proposal
on Mischa in Cameroon (Cameroon), 07/Apr/2010 19:33, 34 days ago
Yesterday evening I was sitting chatting in my tailor’s hut next to the market, where she and two other women have their pedal sewing machines. My tailor is about my age with two daughters (“Like Barack Obama,” she tells me proudly), but was divorced because she didn’t give birth to a son. It is five in the afternoon, but still swelteringly hot. When the boss comes to say hello we joke that he should install air conditioning (only the Sous-Prefet, the Doctor, the Inspector and the riziculture headquarters have air-conditioning in Maga). If he does, I promise, I will come and work for him and he will have the only white tailor in Cameroonin his shop. Two young men see me through the doorway of the hut and come over,“Bonsoir, ma cherie,” they say.“Don’t call me ma cherie,” I tell them. “Say ‘bonsoir mademoiselle’. You need to learn some respect.”The tailors all cheer my response and we shake each others' hands (the Cameroonian version of the high five).“If you are mademoiselle, does that mean you are not married?” the men ask hopefully.“I’m too young to get married. I’m only twenty-one.” The tailors nod supportively but the men shake their heads.“No, no. You are old already. Thirteen or fourteen is a good age to get married.”“Well, I would make a bad wife for you. I am a terrible cook, I’m not very good at cleaning, I don’t know how to chop wood or pound the millet.” The tailors are all giggling wildly at this catalogue of my failures.One of the men suggests,“Perhaps she could work in the rice fields?”“I can’t do that either.”His friend is unconcerned,“When you marry me,” he announces, “you will not have to do this work. You will sit all day and eat and become fat” (the ultimate promise a Cameroonian man can make).“If this is how you will treat your wife,” I reply, “then I am sure you will have no trouble finding one. Go and look somewhere else.”“What if we wait till next year to marry you,” they ask as they leave. “Will you be old enough then?” I say goodbye to the tailors and after buying mangoes and powdered milk in the market I carry on to visit my friend the baker, who works in the bakery in the morning and has a stall selling tea, coffee, bread and eggs in the evenings. He’s nineteen and is always ready to teach me Fulfulde street slang or to fill me in on the latest stories of Nigerian body part smuggling (as everyone knows in Cameroon, all problems are either caused by the Chadians or the Nigerians). He’s also engaged to marry the daughter of a family friend later this year, so is one of the few males in Maga who has never tried to propose to me.When I arrive he is delighted to see me, as I’ve been away in Maroua for a few days, and offers to make me a cup of coffee. While I’m drinking it three of his friends come over and join me on the bench. One of them has two wives, one has one, and the other is engaged. We discuss Europe, whether it’s better than Cameroon, and how easy itis to travel there. The man with two wives tells me that he would like to go there and earn lots of money.“What about your wives and children?” I ask. “Will you take them with you?”“Oh no. I wouldn’t take them with me. They wouldn’t like that at all. I will leave them here and find a white wife in Europe.”“Don’t you think that she will mind that you already have two wives and two children?” The man looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Why would I tell her that?”