“today if i go home,” writes my Facebook friend, “i will tell my mum about you sarah you are so nice to me”. Which surprises me because a) I haven’t been nice to him and b) I’d have a tough time distinguishing between him and a bar of Lux. In response to all of his declarations of love (sample: “sarah you know that love come from the heart i love you do u love me too so that i can be happy”) I have been either bemused, indifferent or actively hostile.
It’s always a bit of a surprise to discover that one has an apparently lovestruck admirer of which one was hitherto blissfully unaware. This individual had been attempting to chat to me for weeks. Months, possibly; I never paid too much attention to him — I have no actual recollection of accepting his friend request — so I can’t be sure. He’d always pop up in my Facebook window with the words “Hello my friend”, which is why I ignored him: calling someone “my friend” is usually a sure sign that they aren’t.
For some reason, this time I felt bad about ignoring him, so this afternoon I finally deigned to respond. Mistake (why do I never learn? It’s not like I haven’t had unpleasant experiences with creepy Facebook stalkers before). He immediately tells me how much he “loves my pics”. First little red flag. Oh, and that he wants to chat. More specifically, he wants me to see his face on camera. Second little red flag. When I tell him I am uncomfortable with this, he cannot understand why. He swears he is not talking like this to any other women. It occurs to me then that, not having ever bothered to look at his profile, I know nothing about him. He could be anywhere in the world, so I ask where he’s from. The Gambia, he says.
Third little red flag.
Oh, stereotypes are terrible, I know. We should dispense with them forthwith. But they’re there, so one might as well acknowledge them. Certain African countries have, shall we say, image problems. The Nigerians are known (unjustly or not) for 419 scams and general dodginess. The Somalis are pirates. The Gambians? They’re famous for sex tourism. Specifically, the sugar mommy market.
The Gambia, if you have never heard of it, is a tiny sliver of a country inserted incongruously into the midst of Senegal — a colonial quirk if you will. It has a rich and in many ways tragic history closely associated with the slave trade and is the setting for Alex Haley’s famous novel Roots. The mildly phallic symbolism of its geography seems apt, because The Gambia has long been a favoured destination for middle-aged women from Europe — usually divorced or widowed — looking to enjoy a romance with a lithe young man who, more often than not, is unemployed. Romances may be fleeting, but sometimes women will set their lovers up in business, or even take them home; years ago I read a story in The Guardian about a wealthy widow from the north of England who married her much younger Gambian boyfriend, much to the horror of her adult children.
I tell my faintly creepy Facebook admirer that this is my perception of his country. He is unfazed. “sarah,” he writes (he appears to bear an unreasonable grudge against capital letters) “if you see i am telling you all this i love you that is why and do u know gambia or you have a friend b4 me in the gambia and sarah what did you say about that i love you”. So much for waiting three months to say the L word then. Uptight South African men aren’t nearly so free and easy with it.
Sex tourism in The Gambia is driven — as sex tourism of any kind — by poverty. It appears that one of the reasons that older women are favoured, according to this article, is that they are beyond their child-bearing years, so there is little risk of having to support a family. It’s a classic situation where youth trades sexual desirability for the wealth offered by a much older partner, only here the roles are reversed, with a culture that is focused on the stereotypical sugar mommy rather than the dirty old man. (It’s interesting that the writer of this article should observe that many young men are subservient to their older lovers, calling them “Boss Lady”; the author also notes that female tourists are pestered by young men gifted in the art of flattery.)
I suppose my situation is a reversal of the typical scenario, which is more like russianbrides.com. I ask my Facebook friend how old he is (26) and what he does for a living (plays for the Gambian national football team; they are known as The Scorpions). Then he asks me what I do and I tell him. “oh you have a nice job sarah,” he writes, “i like football do u like that or you dont today if i go home i will tell my mum about you sarah you are so nice to me”.
Not only does he love me, he’s telling his mother about me, and all of this in one afternoon.
I know only too well that it’s my fault for being friends with this man in the first place. I’m happy to admit that my Facebook standards are flush with the floorboards, so I should hardly be surprised when these things happen. The sensible thing to do would be to unfriend him immediately, as I have done with other creepy stalker types. But part of me is tempted to string him along, if only for the entertainment value. It didn’t escape my notice that this situation presented the intriguing possibility of becoming a footballer’s wife (boob jobs! champagne! fake tan!). So it’s rather sad that according to the Wikipedia entry on the Gambian football team, my Facebook friend doesn’t play for them. So typical of the internet, isn’t it, to destroy dreams even as it magics them into being when you least expect it.
A prince with dignity and determination
Prince Ngarambe’s goals are to become Rwanda’s first transgender model and to uplift the country’s youth
The EFF’s principles are unshakeable
Unlike the ANC, the core values of the freedom fighters do not change with each leader it elects
