My neighbours have gotten accustomed to me. Particularly
entertaining are the high-school girls across the street from where I
walk every morning (who will always practice their English on me as I
practice my Swahili on them). My favourite, though, is the young
child who runs up to me and hugs me whenever she sees me, calling
out, Mzungu!
(White Person
). She sometimes says my
actual name, Adamu
, as an afterthought.
Everybody knows my name. Almost two months ago, I was invited to sit with somebody who called me by name and seemed to know everything about me. He bought me a soda. I assumed I had met him but just forgotten; and so, as I am wont to do, I pretended I knew him while trying to place his face. Ten minutes later, he introduced himself to me: indeed, I had never met him in my life.
Very recently, I have started to vaguely understand the side of
Swahili which is rarely translated into English. I was told by a
co-worker, nimekumisi
. Succinctly put, the nimeku
part
means I have done X to you
, where X in this case is whatever
misi
means. I had a suspicion, but I had to ask to
double-check. Indeed, misi
is just a Swahili-esque slang
pronunciation of miss
. And so, nimekumisi
translates to
I've missed you!
I am evidently failing Flirting 101.
Last weekend I went to a fancy hotel with Rebecca and Caitlin for pastries and cappuccino-related beverages. They were delicious. We went back the next day and had more.
We also rode on a dala-dala ride where a full five people were hanging out of the doorway. When boarding at one stop, with many people crowded outside attempting to enter, the conductor actually just got behind somebody's back and shoved him towards the doorway, causing a domino effect which got everybody's feet off the pavement (the only real necessity for the dala-dala to start rolling). From my vantage point above, I asked Caitlin, who was lucky enough to be sitting in the front seat directly beside the door, if she saw that. She did not: her view of the scene two feet in front of her was blocked by bodies.
Yesterday, in my drive home from work, a tire blew. A helpful stranger appeared out of nowhere, jacked up the car, and replaced the wheel with our spare. We drove him along the road a kilometre and gave him 1000 shillings (less than $1) as thanks. Everybody was happy.
And as I was walking the final stretch home, that child called me
mzungu wangu
(my mzungu
) and danced with me a bit.
The mama in my surrogate family here has discovered my undying love for chapati. Every once in a while, she prepares it as a special treat. I need to brace my stomach: chapati is rough on the intestines, and I am always offered more.
And yesterday, I received maple fudge from my mama back home. Maple syrup has never tasted so sweet, though that might be because I am so unused to sugar nowadays. I spent the day explaining snow and maple syrup and Montreal to anybody who would listen. I zoomed in on my old home with Google Earth (the maps took hours to download). I showed off my pictures of maple trees on my computer.
Is home
my daily hodi / karibu / asante, chikamoo /
marahaba, habari za kazi / ...
dialogue? Or is home
maple
fudge? This morning, I ate maple fudge for breakfast in an endearing
cross-cultural confusion with my family; I hugged my little admirer
on my way to work; and I decided: for the time being, I can settle
for a little of both.