Enamored

Damn you, Africa. First you gave me malaria. Then you gave me septicemia. I have never been this frustrated in my life nor so constantly confused. I have a continuous layer of dust on my body at all times, and my hair has never been quite so unbecoming. But to top it all off, you made me fall in love with you.

I had had a tedious morning and was walking through town. After about five children called “BYE MZUNGU” to me, one grabbed my arm to test whether my skin was magically different, and twelve boda boda drivers asked me “sister, sister, where are you going,” I was mildly annoyed. All of a sudden, I hear someone yelling, “Nakiwala, Nakiwala!” (one of my Luganda names that I use to introduce myself since Hilary is a bit hard to say and a man’s name here.) Upon turning around, a boda boda driver I took a few days ago waved to me and asked how I was doing.

But now not only do boda boda drivers recognize me but also my neighbors. One man came up to me and welcomed me back as I was walking home. Even better, a few weeks ago, I was at a training session for teachers; students from a nearby school saw me and asked the headmistress to introduce me to them. Next thing I know, I am standing in a room with over 200 children being asked questions like “what is science?” and “what are the names of your parents?” A week later, I showed back up at the school, turns out this is the second school piloting my project. I stood up and introduced myself as Hilary. Since so many people have problems pronouncing my name, I asked them to repeat it back to me. My question was met with 130 blank stares. Finally, one brave boy raised his hand and told me my name was Nakiwala. I squealed a little, clasped my hands together happily, said yes, and sat back down. They remembered me.

Instead of watching the World Cup final the whole way through, I decided it would be more fun to chill out with my family at home. I caught a boda boda, something I can now do completely in Luganda. Here is the problem with my newfound Luganda skills, the drivers try having conversations with me in Luganda. Here and there I can hold my own, but in general, I normally end up laughing and saying “sitegedde” (I don’t understand.) Well, this time, I got home and paid the boda driver. But as I was taking out some shillings, he grabbed my phone and put his number in. Next, he flashed himself so he could have my number. I grabbed my phone back and scrambled into my house after saying good night. He is now in my phone as “boda boda = NO!” Next, I changed into my pajamas and ended up watching a soap opera called Passions with two of the women a little older than me that work for my family’s catering business. Next thing I know, we are cracking up as a talking baby doll was thrown over the dock after kicking a seven-year-old girl.

I have a morning routine. Wake up, stretch, wash face, brush my teeth, listen to music as I dance around my room putting on make-up, drink some tea, greet my family and workers, then head off to work. When I get home, sometimes, I help the workers for our catering business peel potatoes. They all try to talk to be in Luganda, and I attempt to string together simple sentences. They laugh at me, and I just clumsily keep at the potatoes or whatever else they think I can handle.

If I am not helping out, Tosha and I try to bond over our mutual love of Disney movies. I sing along and she laughs at me. If we aren’t watching movies sometimes we take photos on my computer or tuzina (we dance) to random music videos or the radio. Once again, my family laughs as I twirl her around or try to teach her the twist.

I have even become better at walking over the pothole-ridden roads. We all know my coordination leaves much to be desired. One day, I was walking down a hill to work and trying to figure out the best placing for my feet; a lady said good morning as she passed. I lost my concentration as I turned back to say hello and ended up falling on my butt. She threw out her hands exclaiming, “sorry sorry!” Meanwhile, I sat there laughing. The first few weeks I was here, I would trip and fall a good ten times a week. Now I have it down to only about five and can cover it up so much better.

The place that is building the ballot boxes for my project is called Masaka Vocational and Rehabilitation Center. This organization trains disabled students in things like knitting, carpentry, and computers. Last semester, I took a sign language class and can pull out some random phrases and sentences. The man building my boxes is mute and an absolute sweetheart. Literally, I just want to hug him. Anyways, I really wanted to show him how thankful I was for the amazing work he was doing so I signed thank you. He asked my name, something I am still competent enough to be able to sign. After that, I was far out of my league. But the way he smiled when I tried to sign to him…

Last weekend, Laura, Lyndsie, and I went to Kampala for some shopping, sight seeing, and relaxation. On Friday evening, we went out to meet some friends of Laura. It wasn’t until five o’clock in the morning that we got home. That alone should alert you to how good of a time we had. I am the girl who goes to bed by ten o’clock on weekends in college.

It is little moments, tiny things here and there, that make it so hard for me to consider I only have two weeks left. I am not only comfortable here but enjoying the haggling with vendors, the calls of mzungu in octaves only audible to canines, falling on my ass because I step in potholes, chowing down on banana chips, spending time with my family, and meeting truly amazing and lovely people. Damn Uganda. There is such a soft place in my heart for this country now.