Love in Lesotho (Or: The Playground Never Changed)

Kamrin Hooks
22 hours ago
5 min read

Content Note:

This piece discusses harassment, manipulation, and unwanted romantic attention. Reader discretion advised.

When I was a little girl, if boys liked you, they chased you on the playground. If you didn’t return their affection, they were mean to you.

That was 2006.

It’s now 2026, and as an adult, I’ve learned that the rules of the game haven’t changed as much as we pretend they have.

My experiences with men in Lesotho are not fundamentally different from my experiences with men in America. What is different is the infrastructure surrounding those experiences. In the United States, we rely on laws and social norms that are meant to protect women — though they are often inconsistently enforced and selectively applied. The protection exists, at least in theory.

In Lesotho, there is far less pretense.

Here, the power dynamics are more visible. The expectations are understood. The consequences — especially for women — are immediate. What is often obscured in America is simply out in the open.

So far, I’ve been chased, harassed, proposed to, grabbed, and — my personal favorite — ran game on (African American Vernacular English for romantic manipulation).

That one is my favorite not because it’s harmless, but because it was familiar to my nervous system. I knew the rhythm. I knew the tactics. I knew how to respond without fear.

After the interaction I’m about to describe, I called my mom and told her that in the three months I’ve lived in Lesotho, that moment was — paradoxically — the most American experience I’ve had yet.

December 31, 2025

I was sitting outside my home washing clothes and sheets in preparation for the New Year. The sun was bright. My little brothers were running around screaming. Everything felt calm.

Then my eight-year-old cousin mentioned, casually, that a visitor had stopped by the day before while I was in town — and that he planned to return.

I knew immediately who it was, and I prepared myself to execute a swift, kind rejection that would keep me safe.

About thirty minutes later, he arrived.

Once he sat down, I asked plainly:

Why did you want to talk to me? Why did you come to my home?

His answer was direct: You’re beautiful, and I like you.

I told him clearly that I did not come to Lesotho for marriage, dating, flirting, or romance of any kind. I came to be an educator. If his intention was romantic, I wasn’t interested — at all.

He responded quickly: I’m not here for that. I just want to be friends.

Men often assume I’m unintelligent — and therefore easily manipulated. The speed of his response told me the game had begun.

So I replied calmly:

Friendship sounds fine, but from what we’ve learned from Peace Corps staff, men and women here are not typically platonic friends — especially in rural villages. If a man is seen repeatedly talking to a woman or showing up at her home, the assumption is romantic involvement. Always.

He immediately told me I was wrong and launched into an elaborate story about his beautiful girlfriend in South Africa — a university student he claimed to see every weekend.

Then he accused me of not believing he could have a girlfriend or female friends at all. I told him I had no reason to assume he was lying.

That’s when the unraveling began.

He admitted he was tired of hearing that I wasn’t in Lesotho to find a mate. Apparently, my neighbor had already warned him off after noticing him lingering around me. He ignored her.

He berated my position. I let him speak.

When he finished, I asked a single question:

Why are you so offended if you have no inappropriate intentions?

Knight to King–3.

The Pattern

I. Pity.

A fabricated story about his mother being hospitalized. Attempted tears. Minimal response from me. Unsuccessful.

II. Anger (DARVO).

Deny. Attack. Reverse Victim and Offender.

He insisted he would never betray his girlfriend because he’s a Christian. He accused me of projecting past hurt onto all men.

As I stared at him, I thought: remarkable confidence.

I told him it was interesting how his instinct was to attack rather than reflect — an odd response for someone claiming moral superiority.

He smiled and asked if I was offended.

I told him I wasn’t emotionally invested enough in him or the situation to be offended. I was simply naming what I observed.

I pointed out the obvious:

If he truly had a possessive girlfriend, why would he put me in danger to satisfy his desire to “practice English” and gain a friend? If she confronted me, it wouldn’t end well for anyone. Peace Corps would remove me from site. My purpose here would be disrupted.

That isn’t friendship I want to be apart of.

After a brief silence, the truth surfaced.

III. Truth / Distortion.

He admitted he made up the girlfriend to make me feel more comfortable speaking with him. His mother was fine. Yes, the village would assume we were involved. Yes, Peace Corps staff were correct.

IV. Gaslighting.

He compared me to a white American volunteer from years prior who allowed people to visit her home freely and was “fine.”

For context: she was financially taken advantage of the whole time she was in the village.

I told him plainly that volunteers are not interchangeable. We come from different cultural, ethical, and social contexts. In this case, African courtship norms align closely with African American ones.

She may have accepted behaviors she didn’t recognize as inappropriate.

I will not.

Checkmate.

The End

Another villager arrived and immediately said — in Sesotho — “I’m surprised you’re here talking to the American. Why is she talking to you?”

He lit up. Proud.

That was the moment the disgust settled in.

When he returned, I told him I was finished and going inside.

He asked, without hesitation, if he could come back another day.

I said, Probably not. I’ll say hello if I see you in the village. Goodbye.

I think I handled the situation well. My only wish is that I had said no instead of probably not — a reminder that clarity is a skill sharpened through repetition.

Reflection

This experience clarified that safety isn’t just about physical boundaries — it’s also about narrative control.

The most dangerous part wasn’t the attention. It was the attempt to rewrite reality in a way that benefited him while placing me at risk. The assumption that politeness could be mistaken for permission. That persistence could be reframed as sincerity. That lies could pass as truth.

Sometimes I still feel like I’m standing on that playground in 2006.

Only now it’s 2026 — and while the setting has changed, the game hasn’t.