Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

I asked my family if I can cook for them soon. This weekend. Mom said Sunday. Now I am committed and completely worried. (Mom, I just might have to call you during a gravy-making crisis, I've decided. Pretend I am Winnie, calling mid-morning, but please be tolerant). :)

This place is full of surprises. I found out recently that Huntington has a daughter (I'd like to know these things, really). I also found out that Irene, our cousin who lives down the hill but spends the evenings with us, is the head of the household. She can't be much older than me, yet she is raising 3 younger sisters, managing a garden, a chicken coup, and a bay of annoying pigs. She also attends UCU with me. Dang.
Now that I think about it, I was touched when she came over a few weeks ago to lament her younger sister's trouble in school. They were probably going to hold her back a year. I noticed she looked for distraught than a sister would, but more like a mother would. And now it makes sense.

This morning I remembered a past conversation that happened during Ally McBeal night. Jackie asked me, "So what is the fuss about being blonde?" It took me some time to understand that she was saying "fuss," but I finally tried to explain.
"Well, a lot of people think blondes are prettier than brunettes and redheads and all other hair colors."
"Is this true?"
"It depends on the person. It's more of an opinion."
"But why are they always shown here (the TV), and in jokes, as (makes an imitation of flipping hair and looking dumb)?"
"As ditzes?"
"Yes."
"It's not like they're stupid. But maybe it's the brunettes and redheads being jealous and taking revenge."
It was an amusing conversation.

Speaking of all things amusing, I was in a Luganda kick last night. Asking how to say milk, sugar, spoon, cup (we were drinking tea). This went on for awhile, until it was time for devotions. And this is what they dictated for me to write:
Rebecca: Leelo. Today.
Me: Leelo. Today.
Rebecca: Ogenda. You are going.
Me: Ogenda. You are going.
Rebecca: To read.
Me: To read.
Rebecca: the Luganda Bible.
Me: the Lugan...(looks up, laughs nervously).
Next thing I know, Rebecca places the Luganda Bible in front of me, I give her my English one, and I am reading Proverbs 21. Somewhere around the time I read that it is better to live alone in a desert or something, than to live with a quarrelsome wife, they busted into applause. Aida yelled, "Wonderful! Wonderful!" and Mom made the normal noise most African women make during church, or when Stella and Peter gave their ceremonial hug at the wedding.

I've never been clapped at in such close proximity. During piano recitals, Mom doesn't sit next to you and clap in your ear. In baseball, cheering Dad is in the bleachers after your triple. The only hands-on applause could be from the third-base coach. And even then, he rarely looks enthused. "Two outs. You know what to do. On contact."
But here, sitting at the kitchen table, looking across at Aida, I don't know: I can't really describe what I felt. Other than, "Dr. Lo is so right."
There is something about learning someone's language that goes deeper than most other things and ways to know another culture, another people. Because they are involved, too, in the process. (Rebecca looked at me sarcastically and asked, "Who taught you?", for she is mainly responsible). :) And their pride isn't just by association. They are personally pleased, honored, as I pronounce their words the way they are supposed to be pronounced. "Better than even some Ugandans pronounce," is what my Mom said.

The most important phrase I learned yesterday? During the African Cup of Nations, Egypt vs. Angola?:
"Lwaki toyagala Egypt?"
"Why don't you like Egypt?"
Rebecca thought it was funny to make me guess. I found it has nothing to do with her not liking the letter E, the song "Walk like an Egyptian," or a possible poisoning of the waterhole. When they score goals, on the field or in life in general, they pray to Allah. Period. Rebecca doesn't like Egypt.