I’m naked. I’m just about to get in the shower. It is the furthest point from the phone in the whole house and the least convenient time in the whole day for somebody to call. It’s pretty obvious what is coming next. Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring. Its’ battle cry remains the same, a francophone country or not.
I clutch a towel and dart down the stairs, through the living room and into my bedroom. Before I moved into Vizavi it had simply been the phone room; a desk with a phone on it and something to sit on for phone calls. I quickly changed that. Answering in my best Mauritian accent I could instantly tell that the woman on the other end knew what she wanted. ‘Allo?’ I repeated. She proceeded to ask me questions as I quietly tried to work out who she was and how she got my telephone number; neither question was rewarded with an answer. Yet, after about 7 minutes of discussion in reasonable French it became clear that I did not know her.
She asked who lived in my house. I hesitated. Three girls. She asked our ages. Confidently I rattled them off. Eighteen, eighteen and seventeen.
I was slightly confused as to why she wanted to know this. She began her next sentence…
‘I’m looking to find my son a young wife’.
Was I interested? Could she come and meet me? Startled, I responded calmly with deep regret. I did not want to marry her son; that was out of the question. However, I did feel bad as she had clearly thought that she was onto a winner and her disappointment was carried quite clearly in her voice.
‘Ah. Ok. Desolé. Allée Bye.’
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