As an insufferable bachelor, I seldom cease to arouse the wrath of righteousness of well-meaning relatives and friends who take it upon themselves to remind me that I should procreate to expand my branch of the family�s genealogical tree �Wealth and offspring�s are the ornaments of life on earth� would say a close relative who seldom ceases to cite a Kor�aanic verse, or the prophet�s hadeeth (sayings) to drive a point. OK. Point taken. If you are still single and past your presumed age of marrying, way past in my case, you will be put in a pressure cooker, like dry fava beans, placed on a social furnace to be slowly heated until you are tenderized to taste. Marathon bachelors tend to develop alligators� skin that shields them from the onslaught of verbal weapons of persuasion designed to lure them to tie the knot. They will go the distance without relenting to peer pressure. Eventually their armor will soften up to yield to the mother of all forces of persuasion: mortality.

We live in inflationary times where the value of a calendar year is worth seven weeks. It feels that way. The body seems to conspire with the fast-paced time clock to demote our placement from above ground to six feet under. It never fails to wave visible signs to remind us of where we stand in the chronology of things. A strand of gray hair sprouts somewhere in the head to invite a violent reaction leading to it�s uprooting. If you suffer from phalacrophobia (fear from getting bald) you will choose the masking magic of hair coloring agent. Where your body once displayed the firmness of a rubber tire, it will wilt from the softening effect of a long mileage of aging. If the signs within will not alert you to the realities of mortality, then indicators around will.  A nephew you once held in your lap will send you a picture with the same pose. It is his baby daughter in his laps. A little girl you once wished you had for a daughter has blossomed in to a sultry femme arousing your libido. Slowly you will come to realize the following: as sure as the rising of the morning sun, marriage will set on your life to seal your fate to a mate or two, or three, or even four, in a matrimonial jar filled with life of bliss or misery. At least this is true for most people. It appears it will be the case for this writer too. Sorry, one mate is one too many for this geezer. And so I have began in earnest the arduous journey of netting that yet unknown mate who will be an intricate part of my future life and living.

I do not know why I consciously chose to remain single for such a long time. Part of it has to do with been content with the status quo, free from the shackles of matrimonial responsibility.  Bachelorhood also has an aura of promise and possibility that makes one constantly blink on the radar for eligible prospects. I�d rather have potential than experience. I have heard one too many married friends who quietly disclosed their longing for the bygone days of bachelorhood. Hardly anyone has dared to act on it. The price of breaking up a family to rejoin the club of singles is too hefty for their timid spirit. Fear of been excommunicated from one�s children is a strong deterrent against acting up on any extramarital fantasies. It is perhaps this very fear that compels marathon bachelors to postpone marriage excessively.

The idea of terminating the ramification of a family tree branch only induces a feeling of nothingness, a discontinuity of one�s legacy. Mind you, I am cognizant of the oft-ignored disadvantages of letting the branch take its natural growth. There is always a possibility of a passing on one�s genes to a future dumb or dumber, or a psychopathic murderer like Hannibal Lechter, or even an egomaniac power monger like Isias Afeworki. Few would desire having their genetic code in the body of anyone with an IQ of a moron, or another one who would eat the tongue of his victims which he regards as a prize, or yet another one who is a proven loser who drove his nation to the gutter by waging a senseless war. But then, there is always the other prospect, the obvious, the desired aspect of fathering a jock like Muhammad Ali, or the next Nobel Prize winner, or a spirited champion of the struggle for freedom like Nelson Mandela.  It is this optimism that catalyzes our innate drive to procreate and spread ourselves to future generations the way our forefathers have spread themselves unto us.

Contemplation about my choice to excessively delay marriage often generates a mixed bag of regrets and righteous affirmation. Visits to the households of my productive sibling brothers and sisters triggers in me an innate sense of fatherhood towards my nephews and nieces who never fail to address me by the patriarchal title of  �uncle�. I am often embarrassed by the inordinate respect and attention accorded to me by default for simply been the brother of their mother, or father. A request to fetch me a glass of water, or cup of tea, is too eagerly met. Any advice dispensed is listened to with heightened awareness, and at times respectfully heeded as if were a divine truth.  That is the sort of power reserved to a small circle of familial patriarchs where uncles and aunts occupy peripheral seats. Our desire to offspring is partly driven by our selfish need for attention. Garnering the attention of anyone puts us in a position of power we crave for. After all, power is a state of been able to influence a subject to act. But make no mistake. Parental power is not static. It can only be maintained by one�s ability to clear a recurring debt incurred in the process of providing basic needs and emotional support. Power also comes from applying wisdom to guide immature minds to blossom in to productive adults. Fail to provide this, and thou shall be swiftly stripped of your authority and left to freely fall in to the abyss of depression. It is precisely this very fear of losing power that drives irreconcilable parents to stake it all in the courts of law to retain child custody.  Lawyers prey on this emotional imbalance to scavenge on the carcass of a dead and decaying family. 

There are too many stories of men and women who have miserably failed to accomplish their aspiration because of family necessities for the very resources they needed to achieve personal and professional goals. This is perhaps the single most important factor that deters a large number of modern day professionals from raising families. The demands of been a provider and caregiver are so excessive that one is left with little alternative to do something else. And then there is, in the words of noted French psychologist Diderot, the �criminal� element in children that may dissuade many adults from raising children. He stated that a child�s mind is essentially a criminal one. But it is unable to act on its destructiveness for lack of physical powers. I am certain these strong pronouncements have raised the ire of many a sentimental parent who only sees a child through a �cute as a button� mirror that reflects a picture of a toddler that is enhanced by brushing off any spots of lawlessness and anarchic blemishes. What a child does at home is at times fit to send an adult to jail. We all have heard about some unstable young children who are such a disruptive force that they threaten to tear a family�s social fabric. In extreme cases, children are known to physically and emotionally abuse their parents who are hopelessly attached to them. Many an expatriate parent living in the developed world has realized that their children, even while in their most helpless of life stage, seem to have a certain degree of control on them enforced by the strong-arm of the state�s child laws. Dare you raise your hand on children, and never should you I may add, lest you risk been caged like a wild animal in jail lose your offspring to the custody of Social Services. This obviously comes as a shock to some parents who were born and raised in an atmosphere where corporeal punishment was not only tolerated, but also considered to be essential for a healthy upbringing of a child. I am sure you had your share of lashes, slaps, ear pinches, and clubbing by a thick stir-stick of mokes. It is ironic that the mokes is used as a tool for feeding and punishing. There you go. You got a carrot and stick bundled in one instrument. But the risk of experiencing a burden and the perennial loss of freedom need not temper one�s desire to plunge in to the territory of fatherhood. In fact, one must take it as a challenge, as an impetus to constantly grow and differentiate oneself from an immature child who needs a grown up mind for a manager. Only a mature mind can understand, and accordingly deal with, an immature one.

My most forceful advocate for marriage, who passionately reminds me of the void in bachelorhood, is a customer-turned-friend who is half his age my junior. He is a prolific breeder who is apparently extracting a lot of satisfaction from life by helping maintain the phenomenal productivity rates of his wife�s biological factory. He has thus far fathered seven intriguing children, with an eighth one currently negotiating its release from the confines of its mother�s belly.  Eight is not enough for this young stud who expects to top his father�s record of thirteen before he turns fifty. He must have such a high sperm count, that most of them get trampled to death during a nightly stampede along Womb Street. But a fortified mansion where the Cinderella Egg resides up the hill has a gate only wide enough for the admission of one tiny sperm per fertilization attempt. Just imagine the odds of been the chosen one to go past the gate. Have you ever won lotto 6/49? There is no spirit of sharing here. Only one sperm is chosen to fertilize an egg a hundred times its size. The plight of been the one to successfully deliver the most complex genetic code in existence must be daunting and burdensome.  And thankless task I may add. Do you know which sperm, or egg for that matter, were fused to make you who you are? I think my avid advocate and his spouse ought to donate their reproductive organs to research to allow able minds to seek a dignified solution for the infertiles of the world who have to endure humiliating ordeals of conceiving in test tubes, or surrogating the functions of pregnancy to a stranger for hire.

And so I have ventured on a journey seeking to fill my jar with marital bliss, or come what may. I have embarked in earnest on a tour that is taking me to places, real and virtual, in pursuit of that elusive mate who has to overcome the hurdles of my prejudices of what a wife ought to be.  Assuredly, the hurdle will be more difficult to clear considering that I too will have to fit my prospective mate�s preconceived notions of what her ideal better half should be. Enter in to the world of matchmaking where the quest for finding that suitable other significant has turned in to an art form. I have become an avid member of a popular Internet matchmaking club that provides me with access to thousands of women from all corners of the globe, women of different shapes, sizes, colors and minds who share a similar pursuit. Alas, the list does not include Eritreans. Even the familiar faces of women from our more populous Hameto-Kushitic neighbors of Ethiopia and Somalia rarely grace the cyber pages of the matchmaking service. The presence of eligible bachelorettes from our Afro-Arab neighbors of the Sudan is just as scarce. Thus, one is left to scan an endless list of exotic women from the balance of the world, some of whom would probably guess that an Eritrean, like a Martian, is an outer space being from the planet of Eritrus.

It seems no one in the Ethiopian or Eritrean communities has taken a business initiative to create a functional meeting place of eligible bachelors seeking courtship opportunities. I am certain that any a bachelor living in Diaspora is a coveted �catch� for many a suitable mate residing at the home country under severely limited economic opportunities. Although statistics are not readily available, it is easy to deduce that there exists a glaring imbalance between the number of males and females living in North America�s East African communities in favor of the latter. Any visit to a dance party, or a wedding ceremony must remind every woman about the popular disco song �hallelujah it is raining men�. I long to see raindrops of the female sex storm party grounds. But that has as good a chance of happening as monsoon rains sweeping the Sahara Desert. And so it is that one is left to rely on the help of parents and relatives at the home country and elsewhere to find a match.

Long distance matchmaking is distinctly inconvenient and costly to undertake. Furthermore, depending on the degree of familiarity one requires before �popping the question�, it could be a time-consuming affair. Those delegated to find a mate often rely on their own prejudices, which often do not address the desires and aspirations of the suitor. �Walat ma sha�Allah girrim wa kay�yah ta� (the girl is pretty and light skinned) they would say dispensing age-old traditions of associating lighter-colored skin with beauty. �Abuha min ad filan tu� (her father is from this family) they would point out approvingly, or otherwise.  And then there is the element of invoking a guilty verdict by association. A socially or legally disapproved act is seldom attributed to the perpetrator only. Instead the same brush is wantonly used to paint all members of immediate family, and in extreme cases close relatives, on the same canvas of guilt. Little credence is given to the personal traits of the prospect, regardless how stellar be they may.  �Walat aglat wa illimit ta. Lakin hitta wad haram waldat ta� (the girl is smart and educated. But her sister gave birth to an illegitimate child). No mother wants to have grandchildren whose cousins were born out of wedlock.

Marriages between those in Diaspora and the home country sometimes ends in spectacular failure due to unreasonable fears of the husband or ridiculously high expectations of a na�ve wife who thinks she could fair better from freedom. When I was in college, I used to have a homeboy neighbor who loved telling stories about a friend he had in Asmara who was a successful pigeon breeder. My neighbor slaved in menial jobs long and hard for half a decade before accumulating enough wealth to pay for a dowry and travel expenses of a bride he brought from Mendefera. His marriage ended in a miserable failure after Gual Mendefera summoned enough courage to leave the den. He blamed Oprah for the breakup of his marriage. His wife could not bear the suffocation she felt while living with him due to his propensity to excessively control her life. Those who knew him well concurred with his wife�s version of story. It is sad to note that he could not benefit from the knowledge of his pigeon breeder friend. Every bird knows that in the presence of freedom, home is where there is food, shelter and security.

Despite a healthy prospect of failing in marriage, few get deterred from pursuing a suitable mate.  The rigors of hitting a mark will demand from one a great deal of fortitude and resilience. Our distant relatives in the wilderness have simplified the process of choosing a suitable mate. Like flowers, peacocks display a dazzling kaleidoscope of bright colors in their feathers to woo a hen. Mammals tend to duke it in fitness and strength duels to prove their worthiness. Powerful moose bulls at the foothills of Alberta could be seen butting their heads and tangling sharp antlers during rut season in an effort to down a challenger for the privilege to be the one and only stud of a harem of moose cows. These rumbles are long and exhausting, often leaving the fighters to be weakened and vulnerable to predation by wolves and bears. But that is nature�s tried and true process of qualification designed to pass on the genes of the fittest that will meet the survival challenges of tomorrow. And so will be my fate. I have started in earnest to prune my feathers and sharpen my antlers in preparation for many a head butting duel against my competitors for the privilege of passing my genes to the next generation of toddlers. Success is definitely not an option. It is a must.

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