“Angifuni”: A How-to Guide for those persistent marriage proposals

This is going to be a several part series...
 
Sometimes it takes a lot for me to muster up the energy to meander into town…only a few things really push my need to go more than twice a week… those being the acknowledgement of having not enough of the right ingredients for “no bakes” and having no food in general once I’ve exhausted all of my leftovers and ate a meal that could have been a prize winner in “Chopped” for creatively throwing ingredients together.  This isn’t because town is miles away. Comparatively, I probably walk less than most other volunteers, nor do I have the task of hulling water from a borehole or a river. It’s not even the extreme heat… living on a plateau still means that summer is blazing hot… but it also means that I am graced with the soft breezes of the Moz. Ocean.  No, it’s the fact that I never know what conversations I’ll have, or people I’ll meet in my hour or so in town.  This isn’t so much a reflection on the characters of men (or people) in this country so much as it is merely a narration of some of the more trying experiences I’ve had here in terms of testing my patience, or requiring me to be good-humored more than is humanly possible.  For the most part, I honestly think the comments are the basis of a joke… “I wonder how she’ll react” sort of provocation. There’s only been a couple instances where I felt like it was really harassment.  But I thought it would be funny to compile a list of responses I’ve come up with, or have heard from other volunteers when “angifuni” (I don’t want) just isn’t enough. 

1.     Make them laugh.  Scenario: I was walking back from town toting some groceries (why I always manage to buy milk AND eggs at the same time, I’ll never really understand), and I was feeling good about making it through the busrank without any scarring experiences… when I noticed a cluster of guys communicating, briefly looking over their shoulder and pointing in my direction.  Well this should be interesting… nevertheless, I trudged on.  As could be expected, just as I passed them one began to frolic towards me, with the most ineffective, yet most-used pick-up line in all of Swaziland…”Mlungu, iyahpi? Ngiyatsandza” Which roughly translates to “Where are you going foreigner, I love you.” I know, I know, I’m crazy for wanting to run away.  Meanwhile, his friends were moving significantly slower, and were a good few feet behind him, watching this scene unfold as though it were from an episode of Generations. I was anticipating them to reach into their bags and start munching on some popcorn. All-the-while, it appeared as though they were doing the best they could to sustain any great bursts of laughter. I smiled knowingly at them, and questioned “ninjani?” How are you? Thus, letting on that I new ample enough SiSwati to entertain their hopefully brief conversation. As I trudged onward, the man persisted to tell me that we were going to get married and live in one of those houses conveniently sitting on my left, as I persisted to contrast everything he said… then a few school girls approached us, and they too were taking in the scene with relative looks of amusement plastered on their faces. I realized then that I could let myself in on the joke with a little help from some unexpected studio audience members. As they got within “whispering” distance I cupped my hand around my mouth like I was letting them in on a secret and lightly said “Inyanzelayo!” which in dire situations could amass an army, but for this particular purpose just simply means “help”.  The girls began to giggle, and then my man friend, caught so off-guard by the fact that I knew even that word actually stopped, and LOLed in a way I’d never seen anyone laugh like here before.  I continued on my merry way, and once he’d caught his breathe matched his strides with mine, but this time just left it at “Well, if you change your mind, I live over there”, I said “Hambani kahle” (go well), waved, and we went our separate ways. End scene.