So, I got a boyfriend a month ago. Don’t ask me how. Don’t ask me why. I just found him on Tinder and he kept buying me dinner. What was I supposed to do?
After a month of him visiting my bedchambers, he still hadn’t said anything about keeping it casual or not wanting to put labels on human relationships. This puzzled me greatly. How has he not yet fled my boudoir in terror? Where are the excuses, the prolonged periods of no contact, the palpable fear of commitment? Why is he showing genuine interest in my opinions and beliefs after he’s expressed himself biologically?
Oh I see, he likes me.
When I confirmed that he wanted to stick around for reasons other than amorous romps, I then proceeded to acquiring Facebook’s blessing; I changed my relationship status.
Considering that all of this was blossoming in the heart of London, nobody within my outer circle of Maltese friends or my not-so-immediate family had any idea what was going on. I don’t do selfies, I don’t do hashtags or digital fabrications of a seemingly fabulous life. I do Lord of the Rings and cat memes.
But this new addition merited an announcement, which spread like wildfire through the kerosene-soaked Maltese grapevine. Needless to say, the beau was shocked. He had never experienced the true force of the island tribe before, save for my swearing and Havana in Paceville when he was out on rugby tour. If truth be told, I was quite bowled over myself. Here’s how it went:
I had made the declaration on a Wednesday at 11.30am. By 11.45am, all my second cousins in Australia knew. Why? Because my cousin told your mum who told her aunt who told her sister who told my mum who told your mum…
The status got 167 likes in just under 48 hours. I’m not exactly sure if people are happy that I’m finally off the shelf…
… Or that I’ve quashed the rumours that I’m a lesbian.
Maybe they think that now that I have a boyfriend, I don’t have to be an angry irate feminist any more.
And then the congratulations started coming in. Or rather, the ‘good lucks’ and ‘all dij best’, which somewhat frightened the beau. He wasn’t sure if they were referring to my very Maltese father…
… or my own fiery disposition, and we all know what that’s like.
Then, the news reached my long list of male admirers…
… and also some of my exes.
Well, one can dream.
Then came the questions from the prying but well-meaning relatives; ‘Kemm għandu żmien?’ (How old is he?), ‘X’jagħmel?’ (What does he do?) Familtu x’tivvota? (Who does he vote for?)
And my personal favourite from daddy himself, ‘Ommu mazza?’ (Is his mum hot?) Well, he is from Marsa.
Another classic was posed by my nanna: Iħobbha l-festa? (Does he like feasts?)
I then had to explain that, guess what, there are no such things as festas in London, or indeed Labour and PN.
Then, they put two and two together and realised that we are, most of the time, living in sin. Again:
They are of course now offering hours of rużarju in the hope that he’ll leave me so I’ll be able to go back and find a good Maltese husband.
It’s not all bad, of course. Virtual high-fives have been shared with my homies back home for snapping up a mazza who has equally mazza friends for when they come over to visit.
And of course, everyone’s Facebook stalked him to examine his Aryan exoticism…
And have inquired as to when I’ll be bringing him home. And we all know what that means:
I’m a Maltese girl in a relationship with a barrani. May God have mercy on my soul.