Dating a white guy wasn’t something I aspired to do. As I hardly interacted with many of them, I never considered being with one until I met William. I had started working on the side of the city where I frequently interacted with them. As I settled into the new job, I discovered a lovely joint where I would pass by for an evening meal, a drink or sometimes finish some of my work from there.

Now, I’ll confess something. Interacting with people from a different culture is interesting because it exposes your ignorance and inherent biases. For example, we fondly refer to all white people as mzungu or people of Asian descent as Mchinku(Chinese), regardless of their origin. It’s interesting, too, that you might think they are all similar until you have closer interactions. You start noticing differences in body structures, cultural practices and beliefs, adding a layer to your interaction.

When I met William, I had been single for about a year. It was a nasty breakup, and I needed a break from men. William says he noticed I frequented the joint and finally decided to make his acquaintance with me. He says my hair was outstanding. I was in a phase where I felt experimental with my hair, and the new company wasn’t strict with formal dressing.

Honestly, I hadn’t noticed William until the day he joined me at my table. Again, I attribute this to the ignorance I mentioned because all the white guys at the joint looked the same. He worked in the same field as I, so we quickly became friends.

William wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and he expressed his desire to date me early on. I was still unsure about becoming close with another man, the constant flower deliveries to my office, fine dining and enjoyable activities left me no room to resist him. I hadn’t experienced such thoughtfulness before. It was just like I had seen in the movies.

We got serious, and I even told my mum about him. When at that age where everybody is looking forward to you settling down, any whiff of a boyfriend excites the family. My mum wasted no time telling her sisters, who told their children, and soon conversations with family always included, “When are you bringing the Mzungu?”

At first, it felt flattering, but I began to hear the connotations that came with such statements. There was the assumption that I was suddenly rich, given that I was dating a white man, evidenced by the sudden surge of people who needed my financial help. Others brought up issues of having a ‘pointee’ (mixed-race) child, while others assumed I was going to move abroad.

Then came the battalion of girls interested in being hooked up with his friends. Some were acquaintances, like a friend of a friend or an old colleague who saw my post on social media. I quickly learnt I needed to stop posting my business out there.

Meanwhile, the joy I once experienced from going out with William on dates had shrunk significantly. There weren’t too many places where we’d go, and I didn’t get a particular look. In the beginning, I was oblivious until I realised that people often associated mixed-race relationships with a ‘certain dynamic’. I found myself focusing on my choice of clothes as though I needed to convince them that I was actually in love with William. It was exhausting.

The complications of dating William didn’t end there. The cultural differences became more prominent the longer we stayed together. We planned to go visit my family in the countryside. Like many Kenyan families, other family members lived close by, so one often took the opportunity to see them all at once.

“It’s customary to go with some shopping while visiting people’s homes,” I informed William.

“So, Baby, you’re telling me that we need to do house shopping for four homes?” William asked in disbelief.

“Yes. Just a few things like packets of sugar, maize flour, wheat flour, cooking oil, bread, rice and such items,” I explained.

“That’s basically buying them food. Haven’t they already bought that for themselves?” William asked.

“Yes, they have, but that’s how people do it here,” I told him.

“But you don’t even know what brands they prefer. Food preference is such a personal thing,” William argued.

“People don’t typically fuss about brands when someone shops for them,” I explained.

I had to explain to him that showing up with flowers and wine wasn’t generally as appreciated as the food shopping. In fact, there weren’t many people of the older generation who would want that. Then I told him about giving the host family a little token of money after the visit. He went crazy.

“Baby, how often do you go to the village?” He asked.

“I try to go once every three months,” I replied.

“So you do shopping for four families and give them money four times a year? How much are you giving them? Is that even in your budget? Is this the black tax I have heard about?” William asked.

I know I should have been patient explaining it to him, but it felt like an attack on my people. It felt like he was calling them a burden, and I wasn’t having any of that. Meanwhile, his presence in my life came with financial expectations, and I feared telling them his feelings about such matters would portray him in a bad light.

Given my attitude towards his refusal to compromise on my cultural beliefs, translating some of the things said in Kiswahili and my mother tongue felt like such a bothersome task. I didn’t feel like he bonded with my family; it mattered.

With time, it also became clear that he expected me to assimilate into his cultural practices but made little effort to understand mine. Sometimes the superiority complex manifested in simple discussions with some of his friends, and I could tell that some of their stands stemmed from stereotypes about Africans.

Initially, I would take the time to point it out, but I quickly got tired. Who wants to keep fighting for people to see you as equal humans before passing judgment? The illusion of a fairy tale with William eventually faded, and we broke up. Luckily, he was transferred to a different country during the same period, so I moved on easily.

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