The news of a 64-year-old woman from the Marche region who, upon retirement, treated herself to a husband in Watamu who is half her age is causing quite a stir in Italy, not only on social media but also in many newspapers, which have become parrots caged by the same (when it should be the other way around, but it's too late now).

This is a topic that is difficult to address without:

A - Falling into clichés and scratching your elbows

B - Transforming yourself from a lion into other, more voracious and less noble keyboard animals

C - Launching into fantasies as narrow as a Marechiaro coffee, imagining the reasons behind it

Having dealt with these topics for 35 years (and I'm not exactly proud of it) these topics for 35 years, I would be more qualified than other know-it-alls or takeaway Africanists to comment on Simona's parable, who from Cartoceto, a small village in the hills of Pesaro, landed in Watamu for a vacation with friends and returned to acquire a husband, her daughter, probably her wife, and other pretenders to the polygamy of interests that governs part of the tourist-romantic life of this country. With the participation of his safari agency. From this, we can assume that good old Jonathan is not an expert guide with KPSGA certification, but a career beach boy (but maybe we're wrong, who knows).
What's wrong with that?
Ah, in Watamu in particular, as in Malindi and probably also in Zanzibar, I would say nothing.
It would be rather scandalous, if anything, the opposite! A pretty 22-year-old from Vicenza who marries a 60-year-old ‘mzee’ (a title of respect for wise African elders), who was a tuk-tuk driver before retiring.

In Italy, at 64, they recommend gentle exercise, relaxing herbal teas, and if you are lucky enough to have grandchildren, a little extra effort rewarded with innocent kisses full of saliva.
In Kenya, on the other hand, you might meet the love of your new life on the beach, making you forget about rosehip and chamomile tea, as well as your age.

Unfortunately, sprightly Italian grandmothers have no choice. Imagine if, instead of meeting the beach boy in Watamu, they brought him home. In the apartment building, the first time they see him leaving, they call the police because they think he has taken the silverware after tying the pensioner to the radiator. And when she reveals to her neighbors that she is in love and that he will soon be her husband, they look up the number for the emergency doctor and already recommend the ward.
If she turns out to be of sound mind and insists, they force her to move to another neighborhood.
Am I exaggerating?

The beauty of the Kenyan coast, as we have said many times, is that you are truly free to do whatever you want. And perhaps romanticism in exchange for economic security, the passion of the elixir of youth, the volunteering of biceps, and the environmental activism of protecting six-pack abs is the lesser evil compared to those who interpret this freedom as not paying taxes in a foreign country, working without a work permit, fueling corruption, and risking venereal diseases by frequenting casual partners.
We are talking about cohabitation, marriage.
So, from my point of view, I have no objection.
Except that...
The disease of the new millennium, the damn need to show off, caused by who knows what absurd syndrome: a sense of revenge, frustration, a quixotic battle against aesthetic decline?
A syndrome that has always existed, especially in Italy, but which has found its natural outlet in social media and selfies.
It reminds me of the famous joke about the provincial Italian with a pot belly who is shipwrecked and finds himself on a desert island with Claudia Schiffer (20 years ago...) and after killing boredom and the fear of having to grow old alone with fish and coconuts, making love countless times, in the end the Italian feels a sadness, a despondency that even moves the supermodel.
“What's wrong, don't you like me anymore? Are you tired of me?” she says.
“Of course not, darling, you're beautiful, a dream... unlike you, I would have signed up for a life like this... but”
“But?”
“Will you grant me a favor?”
“Sure, tell me.”
“Can I make you a moustache with leaves?”
Claudia starts thinking about the sun on her head, dehydration, the effects of Robinsonism.
“If that's all...”
The Italian prepares the moustache, asks her to stand next to him and then suddenly pats her on the shoulder.
“Oh, Michè... you won't believe it... did you know that I've been doing the Schiffer every day for a year?”

Well, with all due respect, it's not Simona's story that surprises me, but rather the need to amplify her story on social media and tell it to the newspapers in her province, only to provoke a predictable uproar of haters, lovers, and cojoners in that virtual courtroom where everyone is a judge, jury, and executioner.
Is this what the informative grandmother wanted, or was she just so happy that she wanted to share her love, her African effusions, and the joy of a rebirth with the whole world?
Well, I always think that true happiness is such an intimate thing that when you put it on display, there's always a problem...
And then there's the inevitable flurry of animalistic verses: some accuse her of being a living ATM, others talk about sex tourism, even bringing ‘taxpayers’ money' into the equation because one day her husband might even get her survivor's pension...
Because in Italy, as we know, love can blossom in Ulan Bator or New York, but if it blossoms in Watamu, then it is automatically suspicious. Who knows, maybe because you can see the age difference better in a swimsuit.
Simona, who never had children, now feels like the mother of a five-year-old girl and declared without hesitation: “I feel like a girl, never ridiculous, always young.” Heresy, for those who think that after fifty you should just queue up at the health center and maybe never indulge in a movie, a book, or any passion. But that's how it is.
The real safari, after all, is on social media: a territory infested with moral hyenas, hate buffaloes, and gossip vultures, as well as the well-known keyboard lions. Simona did not let them tear her apart. Let's hope she doesn't end up like some of her peers (and even younger women) who have written to us in recent years, desperate and plundered, often unnecessarily enriching lawyers and police officers, and returning home poisoned and more racist than their neighbors.
Dear Italian pensioner, I wish you all the best, and above all, I hope you never need not only a lawyer, but also to put a mustache on Jonathan.