Meeting Mona

You know how when you meet someone for the first time and they ask you to marry them? Well, in keeping with my promise to say yes to all propositions post-Honduras, I embraced the power of Sim on one chilly September night in Maputo.

It all commenced when some random bum tried to kill me. Okay, perhaps “kill” is an overstatement. All I know is that this disheveled city-dweller popped out of an alleyway and chased my hostel mate and I with a rock raised over his graying head while yelling at me in the language of inebriation, despite the fact I had done nada to provoke him. Perhaps my friend and I were mistaken for evil spirits – being quasi translucent, and all.

My initial reaction was to run, which is what I did across Samora Machel boulevard from the corner of the 24th of July Avenue. The angry bum followed suit, thus obligating my friend and I to take refuge at Gil Vicente – a Jazz club across the street from Independence Square.

I had been at the film festival all day and after watching two feature length films that night I was exhausted and prepared to head back to the hostel on Rua Lumumba. My friend and I had just masticated a light dinner at the café Continental and had no plans to get swept up in nightlife. However, our unexpected encounter with a louco man forced us to shirt gears. As it was, we had no choice, so we paid 100 Meticais cover charge and slipped through the red curtains of Gil Vicente. The small, bohemian space was occupied by local and international young people who sipped bottles of Lourentina – Mozambique’s prize-winning beer, while watching sets of Afro Jazz Jam sessions.

My friend and I quickly found our groove on the scant dance floor, responding to the demands of the drummer’s polyrhythmic hand slaps.

We sat for a break at one of the small tables in the foreground and I took in the surroundings. If ever a place exuded cool, this was it. The red walls were occupied with the painted portraits of local and internationally respected musicians who had played at Gil Vicente on one occasion or another. The intimate space created a dazzling dynamic between the local musicians and the crowd.

As the night folded in on itself, my friend and I decided to brave the emptied streets once again in the hopes that our bedeviled opponent would have found another walker to throw stones at by this time. Thus, we paid the Meticais we owned for the Lourentinas and Cuba Libres and passed through the red velvet threshold onto the street.

Outside the club door there were a group of young people, some of whom had previously been on stage. They talked while a few smoked cigarettes or herb. As we said goodnight to the individuals we passed, one asked in Portuguese, “You’re not going home, are you?” The one who posed the question was sitting on a drum while holding the ends of a guitar case that he propped up on the pavement. I turned around and saw him posted on snare top, smiling. I began to tell him that we were tired and in unison the crowd said, “Tired? No, the night is still early, don’t go!” It was only 1 a.m., which on a weekend in most countries with any sense, is the height at which a party lights its flame. Seeing as how this was a Lusophone nation, previous experience in Brazil and Iberia had prepared me for such a culture, though my friend and I were equally tired but we decided to chat for a while.

When I introduced myself to Mona he asked if I was married. When I demonstrated my jewelryless hand, he proposed that we wed one another. He posited the question with the quotidian calmness that one might use in requesting a movie ticket or a cup of coffee. In the past during my travels in Europe and Latin America I had tried to kindly decline such offers from strange men, although I learned that, while in Zanzibar, a simple, “Labda. Je, mahari yangu iko wapi? (Maybe. Where is my dowry?)“ Caused such a chuckling response that I was able to sidetrack my potential husbands with laughter. However, on this particular night at 1 am in Mozambique I decided to go for it, so I responded, “Sure, why not?” After all this was the first time a stranger who was the same age as me and quite fascinatingly artistic had asked me to marry him before knowing anything beyond my title.

We stood there amid the artists and talked about politics and Brazil, the country everyone had to learn I wasn’t from despite the fact that I spoke their language like the characters on the famous novelas aired daily on Mozambican television. We readjusted to the mild winter air after exiting the heated atmosphere of Gil Vicente. There on asphalt we exchanged ideas about music, about life in Mozambique and in the world. We bought chips from the kids who carried trays of South African imported treats and shared these qualudes outside until we exhausted our vocal chords.

As there were no taxis around we still had to walk a few miles back up the hill to our temporary abode. Our new friends disapproved of us scouring the ruas solo, and thus walked us all the way back to The Base. Along the way, we paused on Karl Marx avenue, where Mona took the guitar out of his case as my friend and he began to sing on the street corner in English, Portuguese, Dutch and whatever other language the two decided to toss in. Passerby’s smiled as we occupied the corner of Lumumba and Marx with a short set of multilingual exaltation.

You never realize what a blessing it is for someone to try to inflict bodily harm on you, until you can retrospectively see how that action directly affected the making of a new fascinating friend. Among the group of musicians I befriended that night at Gil Vicente, Mona proved to be the best. We used to ride the Chapas around town and he’d introduce me to people as his wife which I just thought was funny. One night when we were at a suburb outside the city we got on a Chapa and while waiting for it to fill up with passengers, the bus driver asked Mona a question about me. I never learned Shangana, but I did understand the word for "mine", which sounded like the same word in Swahili. Mona had told the driver that I was his wife, and instead of saying that we were just friends I agreed with the statement. The other people on the Chapa got into the conversation and were pleased that I spoke Portuguese. Then they said that since I knew Portuguese, I had to learn Shangana and people in the van began to teach me greetings and were overly enthusiastic about my questionable pronunciation.

As Mona and I hung out with one another we strangely referred to each other as husband and wife, though beyond these linguistic flirtations, he never made any moves to jeopardize our friendship. I still don’t know why so many people ask you to marry them when all we really want is a friend. Although thankfully, I made a good one.

The same thing happened to me in Zanzibar, when I met a guy one afternoon while trying fresh made peanut candy from a group of women who were studying culinary arts and where selling their cuisine along the waterfront. Their younger brother was there to enthusiastically explain to me the different foods for sale. After I introduced myself as Ashura he asked me if I wanted to marry him so I said yes and we became best friends.


I have a friend who really gets irritated with all the requests for marriage. It's much easier to not say no, as a negation only incites more arguments in the proposers favor. Thus, yes becomes the magic word, to which one can always discuss it later. Really, I say, Bring it on. Hey, if you want to join my colony of polyandry, then you are more than welcome…