White Life

“Where you going?”
I kept walking, stepping up the pace as I dodged in and out of other people walking on the sidewalk.
“My friend,” he panted after me, “I said, where you going?”
“Somewhere,” I half-heartedly mumbled, not making sure that he would be able to understand or hear me. He had that look about him that suggested he wanted to know more than just where I was going, my name, phone number, and where I was living. Once we got to where we were going, I dodged into the store and quickly hid myself amongst the shelves of goods. Was that necessary? Was I unsafe? No, not at all. I just didn’t like it.

People often hear about white people going to Africa and being stared and marveled at constantly due to the fact that they’re white. In Malawi it isn’t that bad, but it definitely doesn’t stop random people from rubbing your arm, staring, or hitting on you in the street.
I’ve been here for six months, so I am definitely used to being hit on, but I don’t like it. Not at all. I’m tired of being asked for my number by men I don’t know. I’m tired of being asked where I live, and no, I am not going home with you!

Another day, I was walking down the street and a mini bus passed by me. One man was hanging out the window and as the mini bus passed by, this man called out to me, “I want you to be my wife!” In not my proudest moment, I looked up with a disgusted expression and replied, equally disgustedly, “NO!!!”

Before we departed on our Christmas travels, I got extensions braided into my hair. After it was done, man who works in the same building as the beauty salon where I got it done came over to me and told me that my hair looked much better than it did before. Then a waiter at some restaurant told me that my hair was very nice. And I kept on getting more and more compliments on my hair and even more attention overall - it's one thing to be white, but it's another to be white with an African hair-do. I took the braids out a few days later… 

There are things that I have come to appreciate about Malawian culture, such as not rushing through everything in life and always asking how somebody is, whether or not you’re staying to talk. But being hit on is not something I have begun to appreciate, and I highly doubt I ever will. My white skin advertises me as a rich American, and compared to all the people who hit on me, I am rich. So very, very rich. I have food, clothes, a house to live in with air conditioning and heat. I have shoes that are replaced once they break. I have electricity, I don’t have to carry my water, and I’ve been to many places outside my hometown. I have an education. All of these are supplied by money. I don’t grow vegetables in my garden to sell so I can afford to survive. Yes, I work, but my situation in life is not severe. Though that’s not true of every American, it probably is for most who find themselves in poor, third-world countries, such as Malawi. I find it annoying to be walking down the street and be followed by people asking for money. I’m tired of everybody thinking I can pay a lot more than the actual price for something because I’m so rich. But at the same time, I don’t mind it so much. I reminds me of how blessed I am, with everything that I have and all the things I am getting to experience and learn from here on the continent of Africa. God is so incredibly Good and I am so incredibly blessed.

In case you haven't seen this already... Me with the extensions braided into my hair, and
me after I took them out. What I am holding in my hands is all the extension hair.