Expired, Intercontinental love & COVID-19
She sees his WhatsApp status updates. Spreading fear, hate, inaccurate information about COVID-19. She keeps checking his status, like an itch she can’t satisfyingly scratch. He’s been quiet lately, they haven’t engaged in their usual check-ins. She’s worried about him, his heart, he isn’t one to spread racism or hate, so why is he doing it now?
He is her ex. He lives in Eswatini and is a 6’4 tall, dark, handsome African man. She is a 5’6 blonde hair, blue-eyed American woman. They fell in reckless, rapid, raw love. He was there for her when she needed safety. Comfort. Boundaries. Respect. Friendship. It started as a safe friendship; it ended as breathtaking, heartbreaking love.
She is called by friends “makewaskwama (mother of the bags)” because she is always running around with a million big bags. He is dubbed “babewaskwama (father of the bags)”
Together, to those that know them, they are “mother and father of the bags.”
Her unapologetically, open, emotional American self is sobbing in the airport. He, fighting all his Swazi instinct to not engage in public displays of affection, grasps her face between his hands, looking down at her, staring into her soul. “I love you,” he says and presses his lips to hers. People stare. They don’t care. It’s been 6 months since he first said those words to her.
They don’t know when they will see each other again. They whisper noncommittal phrases like “Let’s see what happens.” Both too afraid to speak the truth, that this is over. “Ngiyakutsandza. I love you. Ngiyakutsandza.” She alternates frantically between siSwati and English, hoping that in one of the languages her message will touch his heart and somehow their love won’t end.
In the first couple of months, they talk daily. Hopeful, optimistic, not willing to admit that this won’t work. They send long love notes in email form. Risque photos. Videos of their respective holiday parties. He takes videos, careful to introduce her to his family, speaking only in siSwati and not answering the question “ngubani lokhulumako (Who is this that we are speaking to)!?” because his family would not approve of her. They fight about this. She knows that the reality is that she can not provide what a Swazi woman could to this man and his family. She knows that she would be forcing him to choose between his family and her. So, she lives in denial. They still say “nami ngiyakutsandza” and she takes comfort in knowing that at least his cousins know about her.
He tries to come to the States. It’s been 6 months since she has been back and they are hanging on by a thread. She’s starting to feel insecure. He is starting to feel insecure. He’s distancing himself. She feels her biological clock ticking. She is sick and tired of long-distance. He is denied a VISA to travel to the U.S because he is “an unmarried, young male with no children.” In other words, we, in the United States, are just that egotistical and ethnocentric to believe that this man presents as a “risk” to the U.S. He’s told he “has nothing holding him back to Eswatini.” (Minus his whole, entire life and family, mind you) But no, we in the U.S think that we are just that good that no one could resist trying to stay with us forever.
He tells his Dad about her. “Dad, I have an American girlfriend,” he says one day. His dad thought it was a joke. “Sure son, tell her to come over and she can prepare us dinner one day.” He laughs never once thinking his son is telling the truth.
She tries to go to Eswatini. It’s been 11 months. At the airport, checking her luggage, they start to whisper. “Excuse us,” the lady at the ticket counter politely states and walks away with her passport. Returning, “Ma’am you are currently on the no-fly list and banned from South Africa.”
To get to Eswatini, she must go through South Africa. Due to human error, or the universe giving yet another sign, when crossing the Eswatini border into South Africa 11 months earlier her passport was stamped in such a way that made it appear she had then been in South Africa illegally. She still has a valid VISA to live in Eswatini, but there are no direct flights to Eswatini. She calls him, “I’m not coming.”
They get it. It’s time. They break up, see other people. She dates, he dates. They go through phases of checking in monthly, sometimes more frequently. Whenever they talk, he challenges her to take care of herself and to make sure that she’s not just focusing on what others need, but that she is focusing on her needs. “Be selfish,” he says. “How are you?” he asks. He speaks and the walls she carefully constructed break down. They talk about people they’ve dated. They talk about their hopes. dreams. fears. families.
She comments on his status about COVID-19. He calls her and they spend an hour on the phone. He is resistant to open up, wanting to “be a man” and says his typical “I will sort it out. I always do.” She is used to this. About the third time pushing, he breaks down. It’s a continuous stream from there. She is mostly silent as he expresses anxiety, anger, fear, frustration. He speaks about the two french doctors who suggested using Africa as the testing location for the COVID-19 vaccine. He talks about the DRC, colonization, and the history of child labor in mining cobalt. He talks about his fear and distrust of the nonprofits claiming to be in battle against HIV/AIDS and provide ARVs in his country. He is angry for his country, fearful for his country. Untrusting. She listens. She feels her white fragility rear its ugly head in moments and she wants to defend herself- why? Why white people, do we always want to defend ourselves? He’s not speaking about her, but he is speaking about systems in which she participates. She can continue to fight these systems by regulating her own damn emotions. She doesn’t interject or break down crying, like she wants to, because then her white fragility wins. She won’t let it win. She acknowledges it, waves hello “oh hey, white fragility, there you are” and continues listening. Connecting.
He pauses. Breathes. She hears a small slice of peace back in his voice. Thank you for listening, he says. Thank you for not judging.
They are both quarantined in their respective countries. COVID-19 has locked down Eswatini. COVID-19 has socially distanced all of the U.S. “Remember when..” and he begins describing their first sexual encounter. “Yes, and remember when….” she continues. WhatsApp video is turned on and their deep, real, exhilarating cross-cultural exchange continues between the sheets.
They finish. He laughs, she laughs. In a time of crisis, he is safety to her again. In a time of insecurity and doubt, she is there to listen. “Kubonga mine” he whispers. “No, kubonga mine,” she says back. This is...was…their signature expression of love. It loosely translates to “no, I am the one that is thankful, I thank you.” Battling to be the most thankful one for the other person, battling to express that gratitude. Battling to hold on to what has…expired.
