8 COWS
THE GUESTS: POETRY ROOM
Love. I'm a sap for a good love story. For thirty years, my failed matchmaking attempts haven't dampened my enthusiasm, either. I just can’t stop believing, I’m cupid! Furthering this failed side passion, I’m driven by relentless curiosity about how couples meet. Whether married for fifty years or dating for a few months, the intrigue of their meet-cute never fades, especially among my house guests. Sometimes, my foolish romantic thirst seasoned with a touch of midwestern hospitality does blur my rose hued vision that life isn’t always a RomCom for couples, but a sad made-for-tv movie on the Lifetime channel.
One spring morning a dashing couple, Rodger and Daphne, brought something special to my home: Different continents, unique cultures, and the specter of an age-old tradition made their love story deeply alluring, to me. Rodger, with his tall, muscular build and tailored attire, could have easily been mistaken for an European aristocrat, even though his roots traced back to the warm shores of Jamaica. Daphne, on the other hand, possessed a delicate beauty, radiating an airy serenity that made her appear timeless, despite being a decade older than Rodger. Her Botswana heritage added an intriguing depth to her personality, something that resonated in her genuine smiles.
After exchanging pleasantries, they requested an old-fashioned “coffee klatsch,” a term that immediately endeared them to me. As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, cascading into the coziness of that Cleveland Spring morning, I couldn’t resist diving into the undercurrents of their relationship, asking the quintessential question, “How did you two meet?”
Daphne’s eyes lit up with a mixture of nostalgia and joy as she recounted their serendipitous meeting in New York City—a sprawling travel convention where, amidst the buzz of international tourism talks and business exchanges, their paths had crossed. “Rodger was there too, and we just hit it off,” she said with a smile that hinted at the magic of that encounter. It had been over a year since then, a year filled with travels back to Africa, visits, and the bittersweet realization that her tourist visa was nearing its expiration.
“Rodger, you should just marry Daphne so she can stay in the US!” I suggested, quite sure that my pragmatic proposal would win unanimous approval.
Rodger’s brow furrowed, and his voice carried an undertone of resignation, “Can’t afford that.”
“Why? Just get a marriage license and go to the courthouse.”
“The cows. Can’t afford them.”
Perplexed, I stared at him, trying to process the bovine non-sequitur. Daphne, with a soft laugh, clarified, “My bride price. Rodger must pay my father—eight cows.”
The idea was so bucolic and fantastical that my entrepreneurial brain had an immediate kaleidoscopic vision of cow ownership. Eight cows could lead to endless possibilities—a dairy farm, organic milk, cheese, fresh beef, and maybe even selling cowhides for bespoke leather goods. My temporary flight of fancy ended when the reality of the bride price crystallized.
"You mean to tell me, Rodger can’t marry you unless he pays your father eight cows? You can’t marry without them?”
Daphne’s smile didn’t falter. “No. It’s custom in my area. And I need the blessing of my family.”
My initial shock gave way to admiration. Here was a grown woman, appearing independent, adhering firmly to the traditions of her homeland, willing to wait until Rodger could fulfill this significant cultural obligation.
With my coffee cup refilled, a wave of determination surged through me. “Rodger, how do you buy the cows in Botswana? Is there a cow broker? And do the cows need to be a certain breed and sex? Or can you just give Daphne’s father the USD amount for the cows?”
Rodger wasn’t thrilled with my practical enthusiasm. He gave a quick, dismissive response, “It’s eight cows. I’m not interested in that right now.”
I sensed I had stepped beyond my bounds, but my curiosity and desire to help them couldn’t be quelled. I often overextend my role as just an Airbnb host, letting my matchmaking instincts get the best of me. However, a part of me couldn’t let go of the dream of seeing these two together, officially because of eight cows.
The number eight has significance in many cultures. In the Chinese culture the number eight brings fortune, wealth and success. In Christianity “the eighth day” represents a new beginning. I like the number eight. My own home’s address, according to numerology, is an “8” house.
Over the next few years, Rodger and Daphne became repeat guests. Rodger’s father lived in Boston, and Cleveland was a convenient waypoint on their frequent trips back and forth from his new job in Upper Michigan. Each visit brought a momentary pang in me, as I inquired about the cows and received the now predictable answer, “No cows.”
One particularly frigid winter passed without a sighting of Rodger or Daphne. It was almost a year later when Rodger reached out via Airbnb, requesting to stay at my house over Valentine’s Day weekend. There was a twist, too compelling to ignore—Rodger mentioned Daphne had given birth. Unable to resist their story and swayed by the romantic symbolism of Valentine’s Day, I bent my usual rules of accepting children under two years-old, closed off other guest bookings, and welcomed them with their new baby, Chloe.
Valentine’s Day is usually good money for the house. Over the years, all five of the guest rooms are typically booked. My decision to block the other four rooms so I could make the house more appealing for a two-month-old baby and her parents was fiscally foolish of me. The room Rodger booked was $58 for one night. On the flip side, I had been renovating a house for a client, during this time, so I justified to myself that I’d have more time to work on the renovations that weekend, while this little family could have a cute get-away in my home.
I was surprised when Rodger and his family arrived. He was still driving his red, two-door sportscar. “How does the baby’s car seat fit in your car?” “Oh, Daphne just holds Chloe. We don’t have a car seat.” I was shocked by this. I decided not to voice my concern to him that it is a law in the US for a baby to be securely and properly placed in an infant seat while driving. I am certain he knew. He just didn’t want to give-up his car for a more family-safe vehicle. And possibly it is not a standard safety requirement in Jamaica or Africa when you travel with an infant...
After checking them in the house, holding adorable baby Chloe for a few minutes, I explained that I would be away from the house for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, working at my other job. “Enjoy the house. You have the entire house. No other guests are arriving today.”
Outside of Airbnb host and real estate agent, I work as a Project Manager on full-house renovations for one client. Just one house a year. I rarely get a chance to work alone in his investment houses during the week because the other trades people are there. On the weekends no one is working on renovations, and I am usually too busy at my own house being a host—cleaning, making beds, suggesting restaurants to guests, et cetera. So, this one Saturday, I was happy to be alone blasting my classical music while I was refinishing a fireplace. During my wood staining to Mozart, my phone pinged.
“Heather! Would you please babysit Chloe so I can take Daphne out for a special dinner? PLEEASE.”
I didn’t know how to answer. I was working at my other job. And, I had already made a nice gesture of allowing a baby in the house, blocking all of the other rooms so that their little family could have the home to themselves. Asking me to babysit was more than I was willing to do as a host. I also realized that the reason Rodger booked my home in Cleveland was because he thought I would also babysit, for free. I responded, “As much as I love children, babysitting is not my thing.”
When I arrived back home that night, Rodger had ordered Chinese food for himself and was watching a movie in the living room alone. I made my way to the kitchen. A few moments later, Daphne entered.
“Hey, Daphne. Are you having a relaxing time? How’s the baby?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Are and Roger watching a romantic film?”
“No. He’s doing his own thing, right now.”
It wasn’t long before the underlying complexity of Daphne’s situation became evident. Chloe was a pandemic baby, born amidst the chaos of Covid restrictions, which had forced Daphne to stay in the US. Her newest visa had expired, making her presence here undocumented. Moreover, the separation from her ten-year-old son back in Botswana weighed heavily on her heart. Her eyes held unshed tears as she spoke of the painful distance, the unforgotten hugs, and the birthday wishes sent across the ocean. Here was a proud mother, caught in the uncertain winds of love and fate.
Rodger seemed content with the status quo. For the first time, I refrained from bringing up the cows. Daphne’s palpable struggle rendered a feeling I had had a long time ago. Stuck.
I had no education, no job, and was a mother of two children not even in grade school. My husband provided for us, and for that, I was eternally grateful. Embracing my role as a dedicated mother and loving wife, I upheld my duties with an unwavering spirit. My life seemed framed in a perfect picture of the white-picket-fence dream. But, as time slipped through my fingers, cracks began to show. The dream's luster faded under the relentless weight of my husband's addictions, turning our haven into a fragile facade. It took me a very long time, to figure-out how to be unstuck. How to leave with only my children. How to support them on my own. Looking at Daphne that moment, I felt the creeping sense of helplessness, reminiscent of an unsettling, forgotten emotion I had buried long ago. Stuck. I had no counsel for Daphne. My own odyssey of entrapment and ascension, followed by countless failures in various forms and subsequent recoveries, was not something I felt would help her situation. Her journey was distinct and more intricate. She found herself in a foreign land with an infant. Rodger had a prosperous career, and I was fairly certain he didn't grapple with addictions. He simply enjoyed their current existence. Unmarried provider. I understand that. Truly.
Those eight cows seemed like a perfect plot from a romantic novella, to me, until the pragmatic realities dropped a thud on my matchmaking heart years later. Realizing, I was blinded by the exotic idea of bovine and not clearly seeing the actual romance was nada. Rodger and Daphne never came back to my home after that weekend
However, reality wrapped itself in my unspoken kinship with Daphne: The similarity of being caught between a rock and a hard place, enveloped in a convoluted spectrum of love. Motherhood.