Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Bitter

The best thing about life in Gulu is that I can have weekly massages, at a cost of about 9 dollars each.

The worst thing about life in Gulu is that those massages will probably be the only form of intimate human contact I’ll have the whole time I’m in Uganda. This past weekend, I became depressingly convinced I’ll be spending a lot of time alone in my comfy little cottage. A lot more time than I had bargained for.

Why am I musing on solitude these days? Because both The Intern AND Akiiki spent the weekend exploring their carnal natures, while I spent that time staring at a laptop screen. I was either agonizing over our planning budget for the rest of the program, or watching Columbo DVD’s with Dutch subtitles. Akiiki’s wife surprised him with a late night visit Saturday (I’m convinced the sister was trying to catch him up to no good), and The Intern is having a merry old time with his new girlfriend, a languid-eyed young Indian woman named Lisa.

I’m happy for both of them. Really. Come on, you guys……I mean it!! Akiiki works incredibly hard, and spends weeks on end away from his wife Diana and two young daughters in Kampala. I know that has to be emotionally exhausting and frustrating. Diana is a lovely woman, and you could see the absolute pride and delight on Akiiki’s face the whole time she was here. And The Intern is rebounding from a break-up during the past month. When he told his American sweetie he wanted to stay in Uganda for another year, she called it quits. I’m sure Lisa is just the remedy for what ails him, with her exotic looks and excellent Indian cooking.

Problem is, there AIN’T no remedy for what ails me, at least not in Gulu. I’ve been here 5 months now, and haven’t seen a single dating prospect. As I’ve written before, most of the aid workers and other expats here are in their 20’s, and for them, socializing involves ear-splitting music and mass quantities of liquor. Been there, done that, got the loss of short-term memory to prove it. Basically, I am at least 20 years beyond that rather pointlessly repetitious phase of human development.

And then there’s the issue I’ve been tap-dancing around….whether I would date an African man. Truth be told, doing so would almost be penance for the past decade of dating white American men who’ve all treated me with a level of off-handed disregard that makes me cringe when I think about it. I mean, there was The Numb-nut Norwegian, the Asshole Attorney, the Anal Archivist….the list is long and troubled, but let’s just leave it there, in the interest of time.

The Numb-nut Norwegian was the first, and probably the most damaging of my “skiing” expeditions. He was a newspaper editor who absolutely beguiled me with his passion for journalism….and, well, just his passion. He was earnest, tall, lean and lanky, and quite athletic, if you get my drift. We had a whirlwind affair for about 6 months, and then he decided to get married. To somebody else. Without telling me OUR relationship was over. WITHIN 3 WEEKS OF MEETING THIS OTHER WOMAN.

My only comfort is that she turned out to be a total wack-job.

The Asshole Attorney was one of my first online-dating escapades. I’m sorry, but I gave Match.com a good 4 years of my time, money and effort, and all I got was eyestrain from staring at computer screens. Still, the Asshole Attorney’s first e-mail to me was so eloquent and sincere, and intriguing. Even though he was about 15 years older than me, I fell for his charm, wit, and boyish nature. And he said he chose me because at age 55, he was ready to settle down with a “quality woman.”

He neglected to tell me that he was juggling quite a few “quality women” online, spreading God knows what kind of diseases in his wake. I was crushed, but determined not to waste time with a 55 year old Peter Pan who saw Match as his own personal cookie jar.

The Anal Archivist was possibly the strangest encounter of all. I mean if you looked up the phrase “neurotic mess”, his picture would stare back at you. Now, I ain’t saying I don’t have my own emotional issues, but this guy was textbook. Filled with fear, of life, happiness, success. Great sense of humor, amazingly intelligent, but totally stingy with his time and attention. (And here’s the thing…he was LOUSY in bed!!!!) Still, for some mind-bogglingly pitiful reason, the more he pulled away, the more I vowed to make him want me. I’m talking gourmet meals, hot lingerie, anything to tempt him….to make him WANT to spend time with me.

After months of playing that stoopid game, The Archivist finally told me that he wanted to try and re-connect with a former girlfriend, an Argentinian named Isis. After days of ignoring my e-mails and phone calls, he was thoughtful enough to come over to my place to break the news to me in person. I suggested he leave my apartment immediately before I stabbed him in the eye with a spoon. Then I wailed and moaned about why men never seemed to choose me. Then I fell into a fitful sleep. The next morning, my mother died.

You see where I’m going with this?? White men ain’t brought me nothing but heartache. My friend Jamila and I were Skyping about this the other day—the “dilemma” of successful, intellectual, well-traveled black women who can’t find a black man to share some of their aesthetic interests. As mercurial as white men can be, it just seems like you’ll have more luck finding a white guy who’ll go see an Ingmar Bergman film, or a Van Gogh exhibition, than you would a brother.

I know that sounds totally racist--a thought you should automatically dismiss because I’m black myself. I’m just keepin’ it real, y’all. Trust me, I am an equal opportunity dater, and have been holding open auditions for my Soulmate the past several decades. Is it just a coincidence that most of the men I’ve dated have been white? Do I have some self-hating, subconscious desire to be ravished by the Oppressor? Am I a castrating bitch who’s just trying to keep the black man down---just like the rest of the world?

Nope. I’m just a sister trying to get some lovin’. And if it was hard in the U.S., it is downright impossible in Gulu. Not only am I keepin’ it real in Gulu, I’m also keepin’ my legs crossed. We’re all adults here….people are dropping like flies from HIV/AIDS in Africa, and the pervasively sexist, oppressive nature of many African cultures means that men get to sleep with as many women as they want.

Now, don’t get it twisted….I’m not just using that as an excuse to avoid going up against the younger, firmer competition out there. I mean, Princess Rachella still got it goin’ on, ya’ll. I mean, if I do say so myself, I’m pretty hot these days. There’s something about being a boss--and subsisting largely on rice, tilapia and veggie samosas--that turns a woman into a lean, mean fighting machine. My clothes really look good on me these days….or at least I’ve just started noticing they do. I’ve just never really been “into” measuring my physical attractiveness before, I guess.

Oh, and then there’s the small fortune I spent on fancy undies while I was in the States, which only heightens my nascent sense of smoldering sensuality. As I type these words, a lime green pair of Vicky’s Secret drawers are cutting off circulation in my waist. But I’m STILL smokin’!!!

It’s so crazy……I’ve never really considered myself sexy, until now, when I’m 46 years old and living in Satan’s Buttcrack, Uganda.

I am not entirely without options. Verily, several young Ugandan men have expressed a more than healthy interest in me, but first off, they’re in their late 20’s, an age-range I’m not totally averse to. I just won’t tread there lightly. Second, I’ve found I’m just not attracted to Ugandan men……more of the self-hating stuff, I guess. After all these years of wooing white devils, maybe African features just don’t float my boat.

For me, though, it always gets back to the HIV/AIDS in Africa thing. I think even if I met an age-appropriate African man who totally turned me on, I’d still decline the opportunity get my freak on with him. Not only because of the risk of death, but because I’ve grown tired of using sex as a recreational tool. I want commitment, connection, intellectual stimulation, wit…….and a drunk-assed, pimply-faced UN volunteer just can’t bring the noise in that department. Neither can a strapping young African man who’s mainly looking for a Sugar Mama and a way to get the hell out of Northern Uganda.

So, I’m going all zen on myself. I gotta embrace celibacy as the cost of the ticket for having this amazing mid-life adventure. I gotta smile and be friendly to wives and girlfriends, when in reality, my heart is fairly boiling with the acrid stew of resentment and jealousy. I gotta wait patiently on the Universe to send me my Divine Right Partner, the man I’ve been waiting for all my life.

Hell, who am I kidding with that psychobabble shit?? I can’t catch a break no kind of way. Even my massage therapist is a woman.