This piece includes graphic depictions of sexual violence that some readers may find distressing.

June in Mauritius is cool and pleasant. The pace of life slows down. It’s the time many Mauritians come down from the high of summer parties, endless beach days and scrumptious apéro nights for the most affluent or simple – but tasty – gadjacks for the rest. It’s also ‘cuffing season’ or the time for singles to find a romantic partner for the cooler months ahead. It’s on one of these June evenings that Isabelle visited her long-time friend, Karine, in her Rose Hill flat. Karine was once again supporting Isabelle through a breakup.  

More than coddling, Isabelle relied on Karine’s pragmatism to move forward this time.  

‘What am I doing wrong, eh?’ Isabelle asked Karine. To Karine, the problem was simple: Isabelle’s track record suggested that she was unable to gauge if someone was truly into her, resulting in Isabelle giving shitty men too many chances. Tired of mending a heart she didn’t break, Karine was pacing up and down her living room strategising to find durable solutions for Isabelle. 

Isabelle, lying slanted on the sofa, watched Karine in silence. ‘That girl’s too nice. Why does she let those dumbasses dump her like that? Can’t she spot the red flags?’ a frowning Karine wondered before blurting out a solution.  

‘Ayo! I know! Just watch He’s Just Not That Into You! That’ll teach you a thing or two on how to spot if someone’s genuine.’ Karine continued, ‘Umm … dunno, but I think it could help. If the guy doesn’t make time for you, he’s just not that into you. If he shows no interest in your life, your job, your hobbies, your political views … he’s just not that into you. If he’s not envisioning a future with you – cos, God forbid, you’re a such a catch – within a month or two, he’s just not that into you!’ 

Karine sighed dramatically before concluding, ‘When you see red flags – run. For. The. Hills … and move on with your life.’  

‘It’s a bit extreme, non?’ asked Isabelle. A bit too formulaic, perhaps. Wasn’t love supposed to be a feeling? Should it really be based on some value calculus model? And worse! How could the solution to her love problems be found in some B-list movie which she was supposed to use as some new playbook?   

Karine sucked her teeth before adding with exasperation, ‘Listen, how many more times do you need to have your heart broken to change the way you approach love?’ 

Karine added that Isabelle should watch that film ‘on a regular basis’. She wanted Isabelle to ‘hammer its message into her psyche’. Learning how to spot the red flags early in the game would save her time. This is how she could rapidly filter out men who were there for a good time – not a long time. 

‘Ugh, how reductive!’ scoffed Isabelle. ‘So, just like that, you can determine if someone just isn’t into you? Isn’t there more to it?’  

Like many women her age, Isabelle found dating depressing. She was nearly 33 and found herself trapped in abusive relationships, clinging to situationships, giving chances to empty-headed, but very handsome, men. Dating had been exceptionally boring, disappointing or straight-up heart-wrenching for her, who had now turned to the self-help books, blogs, podcasts, reels, dating apps and now romantic comedies to learn how to find love and be loved.  

There, she found modern-day love gurus urging singles to work on themselves, realign their chakras, tap into their divine feminine, keep swiping on dating apps to manifest ‘the one’ – that one individual the universe had crafted for them. On this intimacy marketplace was a similar rhetoric: to find your soulmate, you must first know ‘your type’. Broadly defined, the ‘type’ is the coming together of physical, emotional, religious or political characteristics, to name a few, provoking romantic resonance with someone else. Having a ‘type’ was apparently a given, a relatively stable and inherent proclivity that each and every one of us simply possessed.   

Being someone’s type had never been on the cards for Isabelle. At least that’s what she told herself growing up. She was the eldest daughter of a Black-Creole family living in a lower middle-class neighbourhood in Beau-Bassin. She was one of the most reserved girls at school, and there was nothing spectacular about her looks. Isabelle was dark-skinned, with long dark curly hair always tied up in a neat plat. As a child, she wore round-framed glasses which had been forced upon her due to early signs of strabismus. She had no physical attribute that made her good at sports or anything, no light skin that would bump her up the social ladder, no generational wealth. That was reserved for her Asian friends. They would show up post holidays with brand new, shiny stationery, and their eyes sparkled as they told her about British Christmas celebrations, their British-born cousins or the snowman they had built during their British white Christmas holidays. Listening intently, Isabelle wondered if she’d ever travel out of Mauritius. She wondered if in those places, people like her – Black and unexceptional – existed. Probably not. They sounded cool. She was not cool.  

Perfectly unremarkable, Isabelle came up with explanations for why she spent recess alone; why the boys weren’t teasing her; why their fifth-grade class teacher, Mr. Mootoosamy, paid her no mind, unless to correct her, while excessively praising her pretty milat classmates for their averageness. She watched intently as he gently tucked those pretty girls’ soft, straight hair behind their ear, an excuse to caress their perfect, rosy cheeks. Isabelle couldn’t help but feel a smidge of envy for these girls. She longed to be seen. To be made to feel special. 

‘Above all, humility is what makes us “good girls”’, Isabelle often told herself, rehashing what she heard in church – an attempt to justify her place in the world. Yet, she couldn’t escape the underlying feeling of unworthiness. So, she kept to herself, cultivating quiet pleasures and interests. Her favourite thing to do was to imagine herself as an adult. ‘First things first’, she thought. ‘I’ll straighten my hair.’ This would open the gates to everything else, including a man’s love. In her mind, his love would unlock her best, most desired and beautiful self. Together, they would travel the world and indulge in whatever the adult equivalent of new and shiny stationery was. Then, and only then, she would find her right place in the world. 

By the time she was 24, Isabelle had completed a degree in management and worked for a local bank built on wealth generated from enslavement. ‘Did you know’, she often retorted during lunch breaks, ‘this bank was built on the back of my ancestors, eh!’ This made some of her colleagues giggle while others urged her to stop. Isabelle had finally entered adulthood. She had a salary – not quite enough to afford her own place, but enough for her regular Kératine treatment at the hairdresser, manicures and the little luxury of contact lenses. She learned that, coupled with her new look, her witty comments made her somewhat likeable. Attractive even. 

So, when a handsome stranger sent Isabelle a friend request on Facebook, she was not surprised. His name was Neil. They met and immediately hit it off. Neil was half-English, born and bred in London and moved to Port-Louis when he was 14.  He had taken the best features of his Indo-Mauritian mother and white English father. He was tall, had dark features and a lightly tanned skin. What Isabelle particularly liked about Neil was that he was a self-made businessman. ‘He’s just like me’, she thought; ‘he knows what it’s like to not rely on family money or nepotism to build wealth all on your own.’ But unlike Isabelle, Neil was white passing. ‘Race was no longer a thing’, Neil would say, followed by ‘we live in a world where everyone has equal chances.’ As a mixed-raced child coming from a broken home, he was the living proof of this. But as much as Isabelle wanted to believe him, there was something about this statement that irked her. She said nothing. She didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for either of them.  

Without Facebook, Neil and Isabelle would have never met. She was a bank teller from Beau Bassin, and he was a relatively wealthy young man living in a gated complex, Grand-Bay, where he and his expatriate friends downed expensive whiskies every weekend. Isabelle and Neil decidedly belonged to different worlds, but, thanks to some algorithmic magic, their paths had crossed! Besides, they looked good together, and Isabelle relished at watching people take them both in. 

After a few dates, she was smitten. They shared the same curiosity for the world and a similar disposition for soul music. They loved the same film directors and artists. They even laughed at the same silly jokes. Neil was always generous, treating her to dinners in fancy places, sharing stories of his childhood in the UK and of his travels across the world. For the young woman whose travels had been limited to bus rides within the perimeters of Mauritius, she felt as if she was travelling with him. Neil relished in the way she fawned at him, and she loved the sweetness of his teasing. Isabelle felt seen and dignified. After each date, her heart raced as she told herself that he was the one. The one that made her feel more beautiful, more intelligent, more herself.  

Two months into their relationship, Neil introduced Isabelle to his mother, Anida. Anida, who preferred to be called ‘Anne’, was born in Mauritius of Indian descent. Anne had studied in the best local schools before heading to Kent to study law. There, she met and married Marc before becoming pregnant with Neil. She left university with a family but without a degree, so Neil became her pride and joy, and the last connection to her dream of living the London life. 

Isabelle, hoping to make a good impression, waited with Neil in a nice restaurant in Black River to meet Anne. Upon arrival, Anne greeted her son with a warm hug and welcomed Isabelle by kissing her on both cheeks.  

‘It’s great to finally meet you, Isabelle. I heard so much about you’, she said with a faint smile. 

Isabelle was elated.  

Despite her apprehensions, Anne appeared friendly. They quickly ordered Prosecco for the table and toasted to the occasion. Soon, Anne was asking Isabelle about her background, where she lived, her last name, her parents’ last names, their professions and so on. She gladly engaged with Anne’s questions, positively surprised by the interest she showed.  

Leaning over table, Anne looked closer at Isabelle.  

‘Isabelle, you’re …’ Anne paused to find the words; ‘well, well-spoken. I had imagined you more like Colette, if I’m honest.’ Anne said. 

‘Colette?’ 

‘Yes, Colette. Our maid. She lives in Case Noyale. She can barely speak French or English.’ Anne continued, ‘But, you know, she’s clean. At least! Must be thanks to years of working for me, ha!’ She nodded in Isabelle’s direction without looking at her. ‘It’s nice to see that some Creoles are getting an education. They might even do something with themselves one day.’ Anne sniggered, sipping on her glass of bubbly.  

Both Isabelle and Neil remained silent. Isabelle was too uncomfortable to say anything, and Neil didn’t want to challenge his mother.   

‘Still, I am counting on Neil to make me blue-eyed grandkids! He will be the best father, you know?’ Anne added, ‘He’ll make one beautiful girl a very lucky wife one day.’ She paused before mumbling under her breath, ‘Unlike that poor excuse of a man who was his father. That cheating pig.’  

That night, back at Neil’s apartment, Isabelle and Neil lay in bed. They were laughing at Anne’s old ways, both of them minimising and excusing her views. But deep down, Isabelle was not amused. She felt that her Black-Creoleness was, yet again, getting in the way. Whatever she did, she couldn’t escape it. 

Soon, Isabelle began to drift. Neil slowly wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her stomach. Though she was half-asleep, she knew the subtle signal. Feeling exhausted from the day, she whispered, ‘Not tonight, boo.’ He kept going. She felt his bulge grazing her behind. She repeated, ‘I’m tired, Neil. Not tonight.’  

Neil had dwelt in unspoken discomfort throughout the afternoon. Letting this turn into pleasure and then into rage and guilt, he let his thoughts race in his head. In that moment, Neil wanted Isabelle to disappear – she embodied all the things he wanted but could not have. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers dig into her waist.  

The pain shook Isabelle awake, and amidst her confusion, Neil was straddling her.  He wanted to fuck. But this time was without the tenderness they were used to. Silently, he reached for her throat and started to choke her. The fear in her eyes awoke something animal in Neil. He pushed himself inside her and started thrusting violently. His hands were still around her throat. He heard her muffled pleading and felt the warmth of her tears running onto his hands. He felt her hands clawing at his, but he did not care.  

In shock, Isabelle lay motionless. She attempted to rationalise what was happening. Her first thoughts were that he loved her despite his mother’s words, that this was a grotesque way of him demonstrating that. She thought that if she didn’t struggle, it could just be over. Isabelle’s mind slowly left her body. She became an audience to a most lurid film.   

After he finished, Neil gave her a peck on the forehead before walking straight to the shower. Isabelle lay quiet on the bed, her body a dry harbour lost in the pain between her legs, her cheeks still washed with tears. She felt revulsion. Shame. Guilt. Disgust. Rage. Here she was again, this little girl begging for love, care and dignity, only to be met with violent repudiation.  

When Neil returned, Isabelle pretended to be asleep – her back turned. Without checking on her or speaking, Neil lay down and soon fell asleep.  

In the early hours of the morning, Isabelle left in silence. 

*

‘Hey, Iz! Are you okay? Did you hear what I just said?’ Karine’s voice brought Isabelle back to the present.  

Years later, seated in Karine’s sofa, Isabelle could still feel Neil’s hands on her skin. She quivered.  

Maybe it was the idea of someone like Neil seeing her. Did he really see her though?  Clearly not, if he was happy to use her knowing they could never be together.   

Isabelle then wondered if she was, in fact, no one’s type. Equally, she wondered if the ways in which we learn how, and who, to love began long before she had met Neil. Before Anida sacrificed her career to marry a dashing, young and blue-eyed British man, before the (un)spoken rules of modern dating were agreed upon. Before dating apps even existed.   

Perhaps it all began when the French colonisers categorised enslaved peoples as chattel. When successive colonial settlement saw Black women’s bodies as sites to be used – and abused – to quench sexual compulsions, as mules and breeding grounds for the production of enslaved labour in the sugarcane plantations. Maybe some parts today still see them as wombs for the reproduction of labour for benefit of those who still reap the fruits of colonial violence. 

Perhaps it all began when the disenfranchisement of Black Mauritians continued under British administration and in the afterlives of enslavement. It could be argued that the laws directing who we love, how much we love and for how long we love were not so much a question of being one’s type or not. But a matter of historical legacy.  

Perhaps the laws of love were intimately intertwined with Mauritian history and the systematic dehumanisation of Black women globally. How could these laws be different in a society that often labelled them as beastly, ugly and undesirable? What if individuals weren’t solely responsible for their romantic successes and failures? What if this narrative dispelled the discrimination deeply rooted in Mauritius’ Anti-Black history? 

On her way home from Karine’s place, Isabelle wondered why nobody seemed to be talking about these things. Why didn’t anyone speak about the fact that the ‘ideal type’ was more often than not a subjective construction sedimented over time in given historical, social and cultural contexts?  

And this was notably absent from most conversations around modern dating, particularly in Mauritius. Isabelle was acutely frustrated when she remembered the time she wasted delving into all sorts of surface-level, hyper-individualistic explanations of why she was single. While she could learn to identify the red flags, she didn’t know if she could push back against the structural forces which shaped modern Mauritian dating.    

Nevertheless, she reminded herself that she did not have to passively accept empty acts disguised as love just because she’d experienced lovelessness before. Her own personal revolution could start there. And while she could not change those heavy laws of love, she could alchemise her own and accept nothing less than she deserved.  

No more self-abandonment. 

From now on she would decide her own matches. 

Island Writings