5 february 2010
It's a Friday night and being the wild 22 year old that I am, I thought that I ought to get out of the house and socialize. Socializing in Kagogo, Rwanda is not exactly a typical American's night out on the town. There are no adult beverages involved or bad American hiphop. No dancing on bars or flashy heels. Instead of the Peanut Barrel or the Riv, i set out on my Friday night to my - social destination - the E.S. Kagogo's girl's dormitory.
The doors were hardly cracked open but i could hear the screams and laughter boiling over inside from a mile away. Once I graced the doorway, the excitement only escalated into even stronger clapping and singing. The girls quickly huddled around me and asked me to sing the one Rwandan song I happen to know at best two or three lines of; Ese Rambona (by Meddy - whose phone number I have saved in my cell, it's a long story involving paradise, a cute waiter and a couple of even cuter American girls - me being one of them of course). So the girls hush one another until my fragile voice can be heard as I pronounce the words I know neither the meaning of nor how to write. The girls lose it, so thrilled, they join in and we have a choir of choruses, rehearsing the same 4 lines over and over again.
The girls beg me to sing an English song.. when I struggle to find one that's both appropriate and singable, they suggest that I sing a church song. The perky "You have been baptized in Christ" and vision of Father Michael at St. William's fills my mind, but it is not exactly in the top 10 on my itunes, so racing for ideas I recall a few nights spent at KP '09 with a lady called Princess Pat.
And there I am, stretching my back, hands cupped around my mouth:
THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG.
Yes, we repeat.
No, no. Repeat! THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG!
???
THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG!!
thisarepedefermison.
Close enough - we move on.
The Princess Pat (Egyptian arm motions)
theprinizpa
Lived in a tree (Guess the Princess Pat and I have more in common than I realized)
Livinatre
and on it went.
After the Princess Pat?
Obviously that song needs to be followed up with a tall glass of..
Don't give me no pop, no pop!
Don't give me no tea, no tea!
Just give me that milk
Moo Moo Moo Moo
That Irish milk! (milking thumb utters)
Moo Moo Moo Moo
Being that this is a co-ed boarding school, with wide-open fields that lift your spirits to the mountain tops and a moat-like lake surrounding all sides, I was kind of hoping that in some way my life at E.S. Kagogo would resemble that of summer camp. A dormitory full of girls piled on bunk-beds, singing fire-side songs, while others touch my golden mess of hair asking if it's natural, and pulling it back checking my ears and nose for holes that do not belong, come on. That's a little like camp.
So the time comes for everyone to gather in a room that doubles both as their church and dining hall and one girl drags me across the volleyball court to join them in prayer. As we walk in, a group of young students stands at the front of the room, singing with such coordination and grace, their voices a perfect Kinyarwandan blend, tall, extra rich with a little dollop of cool-whip on top. And so it goes. One after another, groups or brave solos make their way to the front, before hundreds of classmates, to spill out their love for Umwana in song. Even the young women, who can appear so timid in class find their voice within when it comes celebrating their relationship with God.
And as they sing their choreographed songs, I recall class this past week, the first week of school, when I had my students introduce themselves before everyone, and how so many of them said that their favorite sport was praying or that when they grow up, they want to help with the development of their country. Whereas in America, a land so skeptical and superstitious, here, these students, and nearly every individual I have come across in Rwanda, has a blind devotion to God Almighty. For the first time I see that He gives them hope, prayer gives them hope, hope for their people, hope for their country. And I ask myself if hope through unquestioned belief in something isn't maybe more healthful and productive than pessimism and doubt. Considering Rwanda's history of genocide, I think that if they are able to come together, for their love of Jesus, no matter what their ethnic identity may be, and to let a past - that in other parts of the world would brew self-destructive bitterness, to let it go, seeking reconciliation together, through God - No wonder their passion so often brings them dancing on their tiptoes. Their God given hope is pulling this country back to their feet.
And so when one of the students approaches me to ask if I'd come to the front of the room to make a speech, I decline. Both because I am afraid to speak in front of a large group (ironic because I will be doing that 4 days a week for the next two years) but also because this is God time, it is not Nicole or Umunezero time, not time for the muzungu to introduce herself or use her Kinyarwanda to get a cute laugh. It's God time and that is a part of their culture that I want to respect.
So I continue to sit on the wooden benches that I think are defying gravity by withstanding such weight as the dozen or so of us test its strength and I quickly grow tired - because let's face it, when the neighbors wake up at 5, I wake up at five, so i begin to yawn uncontrollably. The children around me give me concerned looks and assume that I am starving "you do not take food?" "No no, nda haze" I tell them (I am satisfied = I am full), and I explain that when I yawn, making exaggerated arm motions, in my culture, that does not mean that I am hungry, as it does here, but rather that I am tired. In my sleep-like state, the children then ask me my birthday. July 22nd I tell them. Of what year, they want to know? I respond 1977, thinking for one reason or another that that will put me at 30 years old, as I have been telling my classes all week. Nope. That makes 32. Oops.
So I hold out for as long as I can.. frozen to my seat out of both respect for their prayer time and for a fear that as soon as I move, it will be all - and I mean all eyes on me, if I trip, if I stumble, even just the fact that I am leaving before the service has ended, is enough reason to start gossip. But as a couple of the boys tell me it could be another 40 minutes (holding up 3 fingers) I realize that I just can not stay any longer. I stand up, as I approach the front, the crowd, even the speaker goes silent. So much for not wanting to make a scene.
Damn muzungu getting her cute little Kinyarwanda moment after all.
"I'm sorry" I tell them. "I am tired, I'm going to sleep. Good night" I say in Kinyarwanda.
Laughs. Giggles.
There's only so much you can do.
Earlier today though, sitting on my front step with my plate of beans and potatoes - just like nearly every other meal - and then again tonight, sitting amongst the crowd of children sharing their love for God, I was nearly moved to tears.
This was my dream.
This dream got me through my senior year of college.
I wanted to join the Peace Corps.
I wanted to live in Africa.
And here I am.
I know that for some, squat pots, no running water, shady electricity and jumbo spiders might not seem like the dream, but I'm living the dream. My dream.
And I am so grateful for the opportunity.
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