I’ve felt like an anorexic model
to meet them. Restaurant is their favourite place.
They may meet you anywhere
in restaurants, book stores, malls or coffee shops
wearing crisp, neatly ironed clothing
buttoned up to their protruding Adam’s apple,
most remind me of young boys dancing
their way to school. Others look like businessmen
waiting to hit on a favourable deal.
On some days, they look like rag pickers
who hate to bathe or clean, stinking like
piles of garbage left unattended
in the corner of your colony.
They try and appear confident
when they hit on a conversation
gulping down glasses of water
Their eyes fixated on the legs of the chair
you are propped on like a kitten.
They market their worth to you, selling their fancy degrees
and yearly income, flexing their muscles
giving points to themselves on a skin colour shade card.
While they mouth sweet nothings to you, twinkling their eyes
like a love-smitten teenager, beware!
Inside their dirty heads muddled with selfish expectations
they will be giving you points, on a scale of one to ten
You will be judged on the light that your face can emit,
to the stupid talk that barfs from your mouth,
being thrashed for intelligent opinions you may dare to have.
Some may want you to be a donkey, carrying your own burden
and that of theirs. Some may think of you as baby makers,
considering your body as a machine that plops out babies
when their semen gets lost in your womb, much like your mind.
Some may want you to be a guinea pig
with whom they can practice the various “Kama sutra” poses
or may think of you as an ATM machine
your money will buy their happiness.
It’s a million dollar industry, this arranged marriage market
where daughters every year are trained to be arm candies
or trophy wives that men can show around to a society
that loves to poke its nose in other’s business
blinded by the big fat log in their eye.