My sister gives me science lessons as we cook. Banana leaves are a good conduct (?) of heat.

It’s currently storming, and the rain smells fantastic. I don’t know what it reminds me of, just like jackfruit—I had jackfruit from our backyard yesterday; it tastes like candy, but I can’t remember what kind.

Everything is so inexpensive here. As in, for lunch today, I had a chipote (fried tortilla-like bread), 2 samosas (mini fried triangles), and a banana smoothie, all for less than 2 dollars. We went out to eat a few days ago; my meal, again, less than 2 dollars, tip included. I could get used to this. Frugal living.

My banana the other day cost like 5 cents; but it’s just plain awkward to buy a banana. I’ve tried pawning it off on others: “Who wants to have an intercultural experience and go buy me a banana?” It doesn’t work so well.

This minority thing takes some getting used to; it is more difficult than I would’ve guessed. (The power just went out: sweet). Anyway, I swear these four ten-year-olds were ready to jump me yesterday. I’ve noticed, thus far, they are the only group of kids who make their body language and vocal tones match the fact that they don’t approve of me. The other “Hi Mzungu!s” have been friendly enough. But these certain kids on my street do it in a taunting fashion, making faces, feigned-nice voices. On my walk home yesterday, they weren’t in their yard as usual. They were carrying their water cans home. They circled me, much like the hyenas circle Simba, and boasted their names at me. Hands on hips, smirks. The little boy went behind me, and I was waiting for him to snatch my bag; but he only pulled my water bottle out from the side. I smiled, told them to have a nice day, and retrieved my water bottle.

I’m not afraid of 10-year-olds, really, but even if they would try something, I don’t think I could ever defend myself in such a situation. Who would hit or shove a preteen? I just couldn’t.

My New Testament professor also reminded me this morning that I was the only white person in the room. He was simply telling a metaphor, a Mzungu being his main character, and she being a ditzy woman worried about money. Rows ahead of me, people turned and stared, to see how the Mzungu was taking it. I was suddenly feeling what the few-and-far-between black students from my high school must’ve been feeling, when the teacher wants to know their opinion on Jim Crow, etc. It wasn’t marvelous.

My sister Rebecca and I sat outside last night for a good two hours; we even missed tea time. She was peeling matoke, and I was picking the bad rice from the good. We watched the stars and talked about marriage. That morning she had told me, “My problem is, I don’t like black men.” I took it for a jovial remark; but she explained last night. I listened, dumbfounded and depressed, as she explained African marriage to me. How the wife has the same rank as the child. How the man pursues her before marriage, loving her, wooing her, treating her like, yes, how Christ loves the church, but once they get home, door closed, everything changes. Physical abuse is more than common, she said. “It comes easy, like breathing,” she told me. The women won’t divorce because, here, it is basically taboo. Humiliating—and still the woman would be blamed, for not being a good wife, and leaving her husband one option: abuse. Rebecca told me this is why she wasn’t yet married, why she didn’t want to get married, unless she married a Christian American man. She said even the Christian men here put their manhood before the church, before Christ and His guidelines. The pastors speak of the well-behaved wife, their submission, but don’t touch on the rest of what Paul said. Men loving their wives as Christ loves the church. I told her that not all white men were angels; our culture has those guys too. But she assured me that this was the rule in Africa. Engrained in the culture. And she would rather be single.

As she talked, I was imagining and planning future ministry here for the first time. I have been listening, looking, for direction. I want to know if God has been placing Uganda on my heart for the sake of these four months alone, or if He wants me to come back. So I’ve been asking, waiting. So as Rebecca talked, I longed for African, Ugandan, Mukono-an? men to understand what marriage means. I imagined a small group, growing larger, of African men being mentored by a Christian man who wouldn’t step on their culture, but would lead and disciple these men into humility, regardless of what their culture tells them. I was imagining my missionary family in Uganda. That’s not to say God is telling me to return—but it was a good feeling.

On a lighter note, we kept watching the stars, and saw a plane. She told me she used to think the planes were travelling stars, stopping by all the other ones for a visit.

On an even lighter note, I’m going to share some of my friend Betsy’s experiences. Her homestay experience has been, well, interesting. Her family seems much different than everyone else’s. The poor girl. But: recently she’s been collecting some great stories. Such as, watching her goat give birth; sharing a couch with a rat yesterday, no one saying a word except, “Do you know what that is, Betsy?”; staring upwards last night at the top of her mosquito net, seeing the rat chill right above her, making its own hammock; waking up to three lizards in the same hammock. And the best of all: last night she returned from school, went into her room, and her host-sister (age 19) was busy throwing metal spoons on the ground and laughing hysterically. When Betsy asked what she was doing, she said her high school teacher had told her, “This is how Chinese people name their children.” She kept throwing the spoon, shouting Chinese-sounding words, and laughing. Amazing.

Aida roasted some g-nuts for us last night. And Dad, I thought of you—told them you eat peanuts every night. I recommend heating them, shells and all, over the stove. They were so warm, soft, fantastic. After the marriage conversation, Aida joined us with the g-nuts, and Rebecca asked me how many children I wanted. When it came to Aida’s turn, I found out she has a child already! A little boy named Ibrahim. I never knew. Aida lives with us; she is our housegirl. Now I’m wondering, desperately, sadly, if she has a family elsewhere, and this is merely her profession. I can’t imagine when she would ever see her son; maybe while I am at school.

I thought I was done, but Becca just reminded me of Community Worship (chapel) today. My goodness. The music, very African, the beautiful voices, the excitement: it was what I was imagining when I thought of African church (that’s not to say I’m not enjoying my more traditional, Anglican one). I think the two American girls in front of me were crying; you wouldn’t blame them.

Waking up to my alarm is useless. Really, I have no excuse. I get an average of 8 hours of sleep, which is double my norm at IWU. (This semester seems it will be a breeze. A breeze that smells like a mix of manure and palm trees). But this morning was another pathetic thread in my waking pattern: my watch goes off at 6:30. I shut it off. Wake up at 7:05 with the rooster.

An agricultural sort of snooze; I think I’ll bring one back with me.