“You know, you’re not so white as when you first came to Kenya. You were as white as paper!”  I laughed, but was secretly proud to have noticeably moved from paper white to any shade less ghostly.

Where will you go when you leave?”  I told him I was  looking at jobs in both America and Africa.

“You have to work and make money?”

“Yep.  Gotta pay the bills, even in America.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

“Eventually I do.”

“Marriage is not so complicated you know.”

“Oh no?  It’s a pretty big commitment.  Spending you’re whole life with someone…”

“No! Not a big commitment.  You people, you just plan and wait and hope that you’ll find someone.   But maybe when you’re old you never get married.  We just get married and never think about it.  It’s not so complicated.”

Well, I guess that’s one way to look at it.

“You should come back to Kenya.  We’ll give you dual citizenship.  You can find a husband.”

“Oh, you’ll accept my paper white-skin?  I had to tease him for his earlier comment.  Amos smiled.

“Yes, because you’re not white like paper anymore.  You got Africa sun.  Now you’re red.”


Crushed.  Eight months in Kenya and I am still not tan.

But good to know I have a back-up plan.