Rite of Passage

For those of you worried that at 30, my marriage prospects are waning, fear no more. Emmanuel has stepped in the gap. Or something.

Emmanuel teaches African drumming with his friend at my hostel on Thursday evenings, and last night I took his class. By the way, when the other drummers are drunk British guys, it doesn't take much to be the standout of the group. Anyway, I go, because I am all about blending in with the local culture. (On the local culture note, someone said to me the other day, in tones of genuine consternation, "You really don't speak any Afrikaans?" I was like mmm, you do realize it's basically a Dutch patois used exclusively in this nation? I mean, it's not like I don't speak the lingua franca. Which, in fact, I do, because it's English.)

Anyway, back to Emmanuel. Turns out he is from Congo. I tell him about Phenias. He gets really enthusiastic about this and insists that I tell him more, because the Muhimbaras might be long-lost family. Seems unlikely to me, but what do I know. Then he asks if I have children with Phenias. No, I say, I would be in jail were that the case, and explain again, painstakingly, that Phen is 11. He watches wrestling and wears my pajamas when it is cold. He is my heart, but he is not a marriage prospect.

This apparently opens the door for Emmanuel, though at this point I am unsuspecting. He tells me he wants to know more about his potentially long-lost relatives and asks if I'll go for a beer with him on Long Street, which is basically Cape Town's Bourbon Street and is a block or two from the hostel. What the hell, it's Africa, take a chance, I reason. Besides, I'm carrying Mace in case it goes left on me.

We end up at a place called Dubliners--because when you're in South Africa, you should totally hang out at an Irish pub. Better yet, an Irish pub with a one-man band covering '80s hits. This is when Emmanuel decides to profess his undying love for me. I must stay in Africa, he implores. We will get married and MOVE BACK TO CONGO and help rebuild it! Congo needs young, bright people who are tired of the fighting to rebuild it, he says enthusiastically. I agree, but I don't think I should help rebuild it by living in a failed state rapidly approaching the Hobbesian existence in which life is "nasty, brutish and short." I think I should rebuild it by sending money to aid agencies and conscientiously reading the foreign coverage in the New York Times.

So he is pressing his suit, and I am giving brush-off answers and trying to make it clear that I am far more interested in the soccer match on TV between Japan and Germany, which I am regarding as a referendum on the respective success of the Axis powers. (Japan won narrowly, 2-1, which seems about right. But it was Germany's B side. When Germany brings its A-game, everyone else can just leave the field. I am just using soccer as a metaphor here, people.) All this against the backdrop of the one man band playing Billy Joel songs and "I Shot the Sheriff," while donning a Rasta wig and hat. I am drinking my beer as quickly as possible--and you guys know how I feel about beer, I'd as soon drink cold pee--and of course because it's an Irish pub, the drinks are twice as large as anywhere else. Damn alcoholic Irishmen. I then insist I have to get back to the hostel because I have a mythical early morning appointment. We part only when I assure him I will come to hear him play at Zula's on Monday night. I don't know where I'll be on Monday night, but I know where I won't be--Zula's.

I'm kind of annoyed too, because I really just wanted to talk about the Congo with him. Really I just wanted to talk about Phen. Do you hear that, Cheeky Monkey? I talk about you to everyone! You're a legend here!