Passport, Polygamy & Public Health

A three-part reflection on love, culture, and autonomy from the field

Written by Joni Roberts

Traveler, storyteller, and public health advocate

Part 1 — The Journey to Finding a Suitor

When you travel solo long enough, people start trying to set you up. Malawi was no exception.

When you travel solo like I do, people will try to find you a husband. It’s almost guaranteed. It’s like an unspoken global rule: “Welcome! We hope you enjoy our country — also, have you considered marriage?”

So, Malawi was no exception.

My house mother — who I affectionately call Grandma — is a devout Muslim woman, just a few years older than my own mother, with the kind of warmth that fills a room and the kind of authority that makes you listen, whether you want to or not.

When she found out I’d be in-country for a year — single and childless — she looked at me with the seriousness of someone taking on a sacred mission.

“I will find you a husband,” she declared.

I laughed. “Okay,” I said, “I could use all the help I can get.”

And that’s how my Malawian matchmaking journey began.

Grandma took her role seriously. She started her “dating inquiry” right away — asking what kind of man I wanted, my non-negotiables, even teasing that she might call one of the regional dating shows and enter me as a contestant.

It was all fun and games until she asked the question.

“So,” she said, tilting her head, “do you want children?”

I smiled. I’d been waiting for this one. I knew how rare it was across much of Africa — Malawi included — to find a man who didn’t want children. And even if he did, the pressure from his family, village, or community would change that quickly.

“No,” I said plainly.

She gasped. “No? What do you mean no? You don’t like children?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then why don’t you want children?”

“I like children just fine,” I said. “In fact, what I like most about them is the ability to return to sender.”

She stared at me in disbelief before shaking her head. “Ah, no. This can’t be right. You can have only one,” she bargained.

“I can have none,” I replied.

“But your parents will want grandchildren from you!”

“No,” I said, “they have other children for that.”

Then she sighed deeply. “God will judge you.”

I smiled. “He will not. He made me this way.”

She frowned, then chuckled. I grew up around these conversations — where love and judgment blur into care and concern. I knew she meant well. As much as I could have been offended, I wasn’t. I was enamored by her sincerity.

Still, she pressed on. “If you don’t want children, you’ll never find a husband. You might

as well stay single.”

“Grandma,” I said, “are you finding me a man with money?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because who’s paying for these kids you want me to have?”

She laughed.

“I want to travel,” I continued, “so he needs money and a passport.”

She looked confused. “Why? You want to travel, so you can pay.”

I shook my head. “No. He wants me, and I want to travel — so he should pay. That’s the price of being with me.”

That’s when she hit me with the Uno reverse.

“You want a husband, and he wants kids,” she said. “So you should have them.”

I laughed. “Wait — what is he doing? Because it sounds like I’ll be taking care of him, the children, the home, and working. What exactly is he contributing?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “Giving you children.”

We both broke into laughter, tears in our eyes from the absurdity and honesty of it all.

Conversations like these are why I love living and working abroad. They remind me how culture, faith, and family shape the most personal parts of our lives — love, marriage, parenthood — and how different those expectations can be.

As someone working in public health, I’m often reminded that the personal is political — and cultural. Health decisions, family planning, and women’s autonomy aren’t just policies on paper; they’re living, breathing conversations around kitchen tables, shaped by faith and affection.

Travel keeps me curious and grounded. It shows me that even when we don’t agree, we can laugh together, learn from each other, and love across the lines of difference.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real journey — not just finding a suitor, but finding understanding.