Because they ask me if I've ever seen a donkey before.

My African mom and I crash weddings. I’ve always wanted to—and I still want to, because this instance wasn’t as exhilarating as anticipated. Even though my mom kept leaning over to me and saying, “We’re going to be in the videos, and they have no idea who we are.” And then we’d laugh.

What happened was: this is Africa. So things don’t start on time. If you go to the church on Saturday morning to give thanks for a recent graduation, they will say it starts at 10. And you’ll get there at 10. But no one will even start trickling in until 10:45. Which doesn’t work when there is a wedding scheduled at 11. My mom said, “Oh, well, we’ll just have to stay for the wedding then.” Hah.

The wedding was between a Mzungu from England and some Ugandan man. A very interesting wedding. I wanted to take on a British accent and give a speech, pretending to be a sister of the woman—but I knew I couldn’t fool the bride, and as much as Mom laughed about it, she didn’t think it was a good idea. So I didn’t.

But: what is hilariously awkward is how long the priest waited for someone to object to the wedding. Usually that part is glossed over, passed quickly. But he asked if anyone had a reason they shouldn’t marry, he waited, he waited some more, he translated it in Luganda (the only time he used Luganda in the service), and finally moved on. Oh man. Too much.

And if I couldn’t help stifling giggles for that, it was the bride’s tattoo that showed through the back of her dress. Because her spinal cord said “Josh” though her groom’s name was Jesse. Yikes. Yikes times seven. I started to point it out to my mom, stopped half way, and said Nevermind, because I knew I would lose it, right in the middle of the vows. Neither is her laughter quiet; we must be careful.

I really don’t mean to make fun of this wedding, but another thing: it was a we-got-special-permission wedding, because it is now rainy season, and normally no one gets married during rainy season. But the bishop said yes.

I think they made the program rather quickly, because they didn’t have the man’s last name printed in the program, with an obvious white space where it should have been. So it kept reading “Mrs. Jesse.” Hah. And at one point, it read:

Rose says:

“I Kayleigh take you Jesse…” Oh, Rose. Always interfering. Which reminds me of the last Ugandan wedding I went to, the one we were invited to. The priest called the girl by the wrong name for awhile, until someone corrected him.

The moral: Don’t get married in Uganda.

I was given a name by one of the priests/provosts/vicars/I have no idea on Sunday. And apparently he chose a name from the correct tribe—Mom said it was perfect, because it was from the monkey clan, and her daughters are from the monkey clan. So I’m Namuli now, which means Flower. Which reminds me of skunks and Bambi, but I won’t say anything.

Rebecca still calls me “Ohio” and “Steadman”, so I’m not upset.

We watched Notting Hill on Sunday. What a beautiful movie. And what a fun movie to watch with Africans. I don’t even know why. But it was better than the time we watched Pride and Prejudice.

Sunday night was a good time at dinner. They get such a kick out of our pet habits in America. So I humored them, told them about Blade and Spanky and Molly and Hans. The most ridiculous stories I could think of, like the full day last summer I spent with my dog, even making a list of the things we’d do together. Like share ice cream. My mom kept saying, “But really. That is weird” in the most amazing accent you can imagine.

Rebecca just stared at me with a sarcastic, straight face, repeating what I said, very matter-of-factly. “You sang to your dog.” “You let your pig climb into your sleeve.” So funny.

Last night was pretty hilarious too; I don’t even know why. But Mom, Jackie, Rebecca, and I spent twenty minutes in our separate rooms and beds, yelling to each other and laughing. It’s mainly the Luganda usage, and when and how I use it. My favorites have been “BaNAnge,” which is an exasperated sort of “Oh my gosh,” but it means “My friends,” and then there’s “Tuswala,” which means “You are shaming us.” It’s fun to say, repeatedly, during our favorite Spanish soap opera.

I talked with Hannington last night for a good while about careers and talents and risky whites, all the usual jazz. He was telling me how I will be some famous writer some day, making it rich, while he finds my books in libraries. I told him no, that probably won’t be the case, and went on to explain why it is someone would want to major in something that will probably leave them poor their entire lives.

He told me, “Here, we choose the subjects that will pay. But you whites. I have noticed, you take risks, so you can do what you love. If you fail, you fail, if you succeed, you succeed.” I told him it wasn’t just a white thing—anyone can take risks. But he went on to explain that in the Olympics, he watches the brave whites ski, and that’s really risky. I told him the example was unfair; there is no snow in Africa.

I think I mentioned that Rebecca’s lecturers are on strike; so she hasn’t been to school in awhile. The students started rioting, and so they’ve closed down the school. For awhile, I guess. What sucks: they still have to pay tuition. That calls for some sort of overthrowing, I think; I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.

Anyway, my school is having less-drastic issues, but issues nonetheless. We recently had an election for the student guild—which, here, is one hundred times more important/professional/influential than the student governments in the U.S. And it was announced in chapel yesterday that, for the 3^rd in a row, it was a shady election, with illegal procedures. The white man making the announcement was pretty intense about it, saying something about scandal being a part of the culture. Which, well, I won’t say anything about that; I think I’m still bitter and think “Shady” every time someone cuts me in line, in the bathroom or the cafeteria. Because it’s normal and accepted to not even make eye contact with anyone in line, but to walk in front of all of them and just stand there like you’re next. Dang.

But anyway, our program leader later explained to us that this is a big deal, this student guild election scandal and the fact that the white man stopped the election process until it is all sorted out and justice is served. They warned us about possible riots, and suggested we don’t join—even if we think it’s a good cultural experience chock-full of community involvement hours. Hah.

At breakfast this morning, Rebecca and I exchanged dreams. I told her I woke up to a rooster, apparently, who I thought was Jackie. I couldn’t understand why, every few minutes, Jackie was screaming/laughing in the house. (On my walk to school, Mom explained to me that this is one confused rooster. A rooster everyone thought was female until only recently, when it started growing that red thing on its head and started trying to crow. It doesn’t know how to crow yet—so it sounds like a laughing woman). Anyway, Rebecca told me she dreamt that I went on a weekend trip and didn’t come back. That they took us back to America and we didn’t get to say goodbye, and next thing she knew, all my stuff was gone, and she had a new student in the house, a Chinese girl who didn’t know English and who brought a TV with her.

After she told me the dream, she asked what we were doing this weekend; I reminded her of the safari. She told me I better come back; and that’s when she started crying, and then laughing to cover up the crying. Rough stuff. Rough stuff that, even though I can’t wait to come home, makes me dread my last night here. I really can’t imagine walking away from them.

Rebecca went on to explain to me how empty the bedroom was in December when the last girl left.

I told her I hoped the next girl is Chinese. For humor and irony’s sake.

Yesterday in class, our program leader handed to us our applications for the program, that we filled out last year. There aren’t many things more disappointing than reading who you were in May 2007, reading your explanation on what Jesus means to you. A sick sort of time capsule. Because I’m definitely not where I need to be—not locationally, but spiritually. And I don’t just mean because of circumstances like ignoring poor children at grocery stores. Just the daily relationship with God, a relationship that was so core, so central, so consuming, only months ago, and seems so stagnant now. Yesterday I was also flipping through my assignment notebook, which I also had last semester, and I had jotted a quick prayer down in it randomly, sometime in December. I had written that, by the looks of things, I was trying to go to Africa without God. Trying to do it on my own.

And that was a perfect prediction—for I feel like that is what has happened/what is happening. To make a long story short, I’d love some prayer right about now, if you think of it. It’s rough and confusing being so in love with a God you want to please, but forgetting what a pleasing life looks like, feeling like you can’t hop back on the train and pick up where you left off. Because you left off. Like a jackass, you freaking left off.