I was four years old when we arrived to America. Every other summer my mother and I would go to visit her parents, my grandparents, in Ramat Gan, Israel. My mother, having left the country in her 30s still had all her childhood friends there. In Israel, as in many Mediterranean countries, one of the favorite pastimes is to sit at an outdoor cafe sipping iced coffee and indulging in pastries. My mom and her friends would do that at least twice to three times a week, and they weren’t keen on having me join them all the time, as I’d cramp their style – understandable. So, the solution was to occupy my time with some other activity. And the easiest way to distract me was to put me on tours. This was an educational solution as well. My mother’s childhood friend, neighbor and surrogate brother grew up to own one of the largest bus tour companies in Israel. So, off she went for her iced coffee outings, and off I went on a bus tour. Since these outings were often last minute, I didn’t have the luxury of choosing which tour, much less who would be on the tour with me. That day’s tour was to Masada National Park – with my companions for the day – a Nigerian tribe. Israel is a HOT country. I was in my early teens at the time. Comfort is everything when hiking and climbing around the Holy Land. My hair was in two pigtails on either side of my head, I had short shorts on, a tank top, and the strappy leather walking sandals that adorn many natives’ feet. The scene was pretty comical. Every tribe member was clad in traditional white cotton embroidered kaftans. The women wore Nigerian gele head ties (exquisite btw), and some of the younger men wore traditional fila hats. Of course every tribe has a chief. This particular tribe’s chief was a man in his mid to late 80s who seemed to be at the beginning stages of dementia. Either that, or he just had a terrible sense of direction, poor hearing, or possibly all three. Every time the tour group made a right, the tribe chief made a left. The tour guides were constantly shouting out, “Chief! Chief! Where are you?”. Either he popped his head out from some hill top, rock, or cave, or one of the guides had to set out to find him. The air-conditioned roomy tour bus with the comfy plush seats was a welcomed respite between stops, and the Chief could not get lost while we were inside the coach. During one of these in-between site stops, the tribe and I were relaxing, napping, snacking, and peering out the oversized windows at the surrounding beauty. Suddenly, I sensed one of the lovely tribe women gently taking the seat next to mine. Apparently she was one of the wives of our beloved, albeit confused Chief. He had brought about 6 of his wives on this particular trip – all different ages. She looked me in the eyes, and gently stroked my thigh. She said, “white skin”. I looked down at my still white thigh, despite the burning sun hitting it all day, and I agreed. It was still white. Then she got right to the point. She was delivering a message from the Chief. The message was that the Chief wanted to make me his 9th wife. My eyes went wide. If I agreed, then they would take me to Nigeria, at the tribe’s expense. My eyes went wider. If I agreed, I would get gowns, furs, diamonds, and a new car. My eyes went even wider, as I thought, “Why would I need a fur in Nigeria?” I politely declined, but was very flattered for the offer.
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