The Safari
We’re on Safari, Ayitey and I, observing women in their natural habitats. First I scope them out while they groom, which is a necessary bonding ritual for mammals.
Earlier in the day I spent some time at the hair salon. I haven’t been in a long while, not since I started my dreadlocks. It was around the same time I started my baking business and to save money I decided to fix my hair myself. Even when I used to frequent the salon to braid my hair, it was an in and out operation, no chatting with the hairdressers, no waiting around to gossip with strangers; just fix my hair, pay and get out.
At this visit, the salon owner smiles and tells me how long it’s been since she last saw me. I force a smile back and give some vague excuse and tell her I’m here to wash, interlock and curl my dreadlocks.
While they wash and interlock my hair, I notice a woman walk in, her natural hair newly washed from home holding hair extension in a pack that was emblazoned with “100% Human Hair”. The minute she walks in, the busy salon staff take time out to hail her. She’s wearing a pair of tights busily designed with Aztec symbols in bright colours and a loose, white tank top, flip flops, huge sunglasses which she takes off when she gets in. I notice her nails, obviously acrylic, painted a garish neon orange. Most of the women in the saloon are wearing similar colours. She catwalks to the waiting couch.
While she sits there waiting her turn, she doesn’t shut up once; talking about this person who got divorced and that person who had a baby, the ever increasing price of exotic hair extensions, what she’ll wear to so-and-so’s wedding what her fiancée did for her birthday, blah, blah, blah.
Some of the clients who know something about some of the things she’s talking about chime in and very soon it’s a veritable forum of story swapping. As usual I feel like an island; but it’s ok, I’m on a mission. An hour and half later my stylist finishes with me.
I pay for it and everyone in the salon tells me how pretty I look. I’ve always found that unnerving; I feel like they are just being polite. A quick inspection of my reflection in the huge mirror as I pass it to leave, shows me that whether they mean it or not, I actually do look very pretty in my new curly locks all pinned to one side of my head and cascading down to my shoulder blade.
Safari discovery number one: be open and willing to chat to total strangers about matters of vanity. This means I have to be more concerned about matters of vanity.
Discovery number two: tune in to the fashion fad of the day. I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Why change? This is timeless fashion.
Ayitey is coming to get me; we’re going to a lounge for the next phase of my Safari – the watering hole.
It’s one of the places where the normal unattached female goes on the prowl to seek out unattached males or attached males (depending on the female).
He’s late, as usual. I’m all dressed and ready to go. I needed to polish up so I borrowed my mother’s make up and she even offered to help me with it. She did a very good job. I hardly recognise myself in the mirror. She is very feminine, my mother; she’s my antithesis.
Sitting down waiting for Ayitey to show up, I ponder over that. How my mother being who she is, was able to raise me to be who I am the fact that I practically raised myself, notwithstanding (she was there for school fees and food on the table and so forth but no actual hands on parenting). I’ve spent all of my life in proximity to her; I should have picked something of normal female behaviour up, shouldn’t I? Even now at age 60 with the lines of years of worry showing on her brow, she still has many male admirers (why she hasn't just chosen one to settle with is beyond me). She is lively and has friends she spends time with. I notice, however, when she comes home after these meetings that she seems sadder than when she left the house.
I have a feeling that if I could talk to her about it she would tell me that being with them only reminds her that they are only hers for fleeting moments and that no matter how long she spends with them, she still comes home to an empty bed.
She walks into the living room. “Ayitey is not here yet?” She asks.
I shake my head no. She stands there and smiles at me. I kept the hairstyle from the salon earlier that day and I’m wearing a flirty baby blue number Mansa had bought for my birthday a few years ago and Mama Dearest let me borrow her fake crystal stud strapped heels.
“Now you look like an eligible young lady. All those jeans and t-shirts need to go.”
I roll my eyes. So I like to wear clothes I’m comfortable in, what’s wrong with that?
She sits next to me. “Are you and Ayitey serious now?” she asks.
Naturally she doesn’t know the real reason why I’m going out all dressed up like this. She has also always assumed that Ayitey is courting me and I am playing hard to get.
“I’ve told you, Ayitey and I are just friends.”
“But why won’t you accept his proposal?”
“He’s not proposing, Ma,” I’m raising my voice now – we’ve been down this road so many times it’s getting frustrating.
Ayitey knocks and walks in then. I leap up and go to him grab his hand and pull him out the door. He throws a quick greeting at my mother and stumbles out behind me as I yank on his arm.
We get to the lounge and suddenly I’m not in my element anymore. I thought I was all dressed up but seeing the extent of costuming going on at the popular hangout, I had to literally shrink unto Ayitey’s arm.
First of all, I would never go to a place like this; it’s too loud and full of posers. Secondly, when I am wearing my comfortable clothes I don’t give two shakes about the way my fellow women look, no matter where I am, but as it is now, I am uncomfortable in my dress which I now see is at least two seasons past.
It’s crowded, people have to stand about – most standing in groups not saying much to each other but cradling glasses of alcohol and looking around seeing and being seen. As we walk in, I notice people turn to stare at me. The females look me over and raise an eyebrow, the males look me over and raise eyebrows too albeit for different reasons.
Even though I don’t like to flaunt it, I know I have quite the attractive figure; a small waist, wide hips and beautiful legs. It is because I know this that I like to hide it. I think that if a man approaches you because of the way you look then whatever follows can’t be deep. I would rather a man is attracted to me because he spent time with me and found me interesting enough to stay with. I always assumed that made a deeper connection but my failed relationships have proved me wrong. I’m quickly beginning to learn that they need the whole package. I have work to do on one side of the package; I have the role of fascinating conversationalist down to an art.
Ayitey had called to reserve a table and it was waiting for us. It was in one corner of the lounge where we could see most of the dimly lit space. We can’t possibly have a conversation over the din so we order some drinks and sit quietly to observe mating rituals at the watering hole.
I notice two young ladies at the bar, dressed to kill in mini cut out dresses and 6 inch platform stilettos. They have system going where they take turns in scoping out the pickings and when one notices a particularly desirable one she alerts the other who flips her fake hair over her shoulder and tries to discreetly check him out. It must be part of ritual because the men they are looking at know they are watching and they seem to be watching them too. It’s not long before the guys make their way to them. Thereafter, there supervenes a comical dance where they try to have a conversation above the loud music. They give up after a little while and settle on buying drinks for the young women who are smiling sweetly, pretending like they can’t see the men lustfully eyeing their exposed cleavage and bare skin peeking through the cut outs.
There is no way on earth I would ever wear something like that but I drink in their mannerisms; the slight jutting out of the chest which in turn causes the behind to protrude. The high heels help a great deal in that regard but I would never put myself though that much work, I don’t care that the male snagging benefits outweigh the level of discomfort.
I look around, this is happening all over the place. There seems to be an unspoken code to this flirting. It comes so naturally to them, goods on display, buyers surveying the produce at the end of the night sales are made, numbers are exchanged and the braver ones leave together with total strangers. One of my few female friends met her husband at a bar just like this.
I’m startled when Ayitey places a cold hand on my shoulder. I am so wrapped up in my observations and thoughts that I forget he is with me. He shows me his phone; he’s typed a message for me on it. It reads “You should probably smile, there’s a guy standing there eyeing you. He’ll come over if you smile.”
I look over at the guy he’s talking about. He’s average height, attractive face but he has a pot belly. He sees the disapproval on my face and types another message, “Too picky.”
The quartet I was observing before leave the bar together. It’s only 10pm so I assume they are going somewhere to get to know each other better.
Ayitey points down to ask if I want another drink. I nod. Why not, I’m already here and I really do want one. I’m disheartened to say the least. If this is the way to get a man then I might as well quit now because I don’t see how I’m going to pull off this charade. This behaviour is something one is raised and groomed with, it’s not something I can pick up in a week or two.
After a little Dutch Courage I tell myself that I’m not one to back down from a project until it’s finished. We move on to our next phase of safari; the hardest phase – hunting - dating.
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