I. Miss. Corn. Dogs.

My arms on my pillow, Saturday night I texted Becca with, “BYOB: Bring Your Own Barbie!” because, heck yes, we’re having a slumber party Tuesday night. I feel like a kid again, having a sleepover. In Africa.
It’s not like the last sleepover I’ve had was in my childhood years. I guess it just seems so new, so “invigorating” because it is my first time asking this new mom “if Becca can please spend the night?” Hah. Mama Joyce’s response: Why not?

Betsy and Becca showed up for Marianne’s kasiki on Saturday. Becca stayed for a long while, and we—Rebecca, Becca, and I—had a blast in our room, drinking our sodas, eating our matoke. Every chance she got, Becca mouthed to me “I love your family,” and “Can I stay?” and next thing you know, Becca is telling my mom that she wants to run down the dirt road in a night gown, carrying a teddy bear, saying sleepover sleepover sleepover. Yeah. We’re immature.

Preparing for the kasiki was great. Nanteza (dang, I’ve been spelling her name wrong) was in her element. We sat together, for hours, squeezing juice. Nanteza takes her juice seriously. We were just about to start, had the blender all set up, but when she found out we didn’t have mangoes…she told me, “If there aren’t mangoes, I feel like it’s not my best. And I won’t have people drinking my juice when it’s not my best.” (Why I think the two Beccas hit it off so well, other than the name thing: I asked Mzungu Becca to guess which fruits Rebecca and I had blended. She guessed watermelon, mango, oranges, and passion fruit. The exact four, and not one mistake. Impressive).

As a sidenote, I really love (I’ve said this 13 times) how much a part of the family we really are. This week I noticed again how Mom refers to me, straight face, as her daughter. And we were talking about Scott, another student, the other night, and Mom referred to his hostmom as, simply, Scott’s mom. Minor details that I adore.
At the kasiki, the reverend talked in Luganda, of course. Then he stared at me for a while, as did everyone, and continued speaking in Luganda. As if I understood him.
Nanteza said he was telling me that, as the last born, I am the only daughter left of the Serukenyas who still has to have her kasiki. He said he hoped I would soon return to introduce my husband and hold the occasion at the house, inviting them all back. Nobody laughed; I think he was really counting on my kasiki.
(And Becca’s dad, as he took us from classroom to classroom at the high school to greet the kids, he too introduced us as his daughters and said, “Look: I can even produce these kinds!”)

It must have been the angle I was sitting in the compound, but on Saturday—for the first time—I noticed the climbability of our mango tree.
“Hey Mom, is it okay if I climb that?”
“Why not?”

So Sunday, after “napping”/talking for awhile with Nanteza in our room, I asked her if I could go climb the mango tree. She said no. It was slippery, from the rain—too dangerous. As she said no, I still slipped into my jean shorts anyhow, assuring her I wouldn’t die.
“But my young sister.” She rummaged through her closet, pulling out her own shorts. “I’m coming with you.”
Then she told me to put my skirt on over my shorts, so I would look smart. (Look, it’s been four months. Hand me a box of matches and I’m ready to…)
“No. I’m not wearing a skirt in that tree.”
She had pulled her skirt over her shorts, but she then said she didn’t want me to look zolo—crazy—all alone, so she too removed the skirt and wore the shorts.
All that to say: climbing the tree was awesome, and the view was sweet. Worth every moss stain.

Also on Sunday: I joined Nanteza to the saloon. It was classic, watching her sit there in her hair-heater-orb-thing. I sat next to her at some point, as she brought Friday (departure day) up again, and I spent minutes trying to convince her that I will come back and visit, I must come back and visit, and at this point, I have no other choice.
“Nanteza. Do you think I could have little dimpled, dark-haired kids running around in this world, and have them not meet their auntie Rebecca?” (She is always touching or commenting on my dimples and dark hair. Yesterday especially).
But she isn’t convinced, pinky-promise and all. She said, “You are beating my heart,” and pretended to be fist-fighting something. “Oh God, give me a tissue.”
“Beating your heart? But I’m telling you I will come back. I promise.”
She pointed to her tears: “You think these are coming only from my eyes?” She pointed at her heart.
Goodness. Friday is getting closer; and I don’t want to think about it.

And again on Sunday. Sunday night dinner. There was just something about the thick, purple g-nut sauce that I couldn’t handle. I only filled half a plate of the matoke and such, and still ate only half of that. But it was miserably depressing. I honestly sat there, some minutes with closed eyes, trying to pretend that instead of purple squashed bananas it tasted like one of the center square pieces of a pepperoni sheet pizza. Because A. sheet pizza tastes better than any sort of pizza, B. the center pieces of sheet pizza taste better than any sort of pizza, and C. 19 days and I can finally eat something that tastes better than everything here, really. Vainly, I don’t think I could stand another month.
(Becca has had a saying going since we’ve been here. For every meal: “If you think hard enough, this tastes like…” Again, you only walk away depressed).

Working backwards from this weekend, Erin, Kyle, and I went to Kampala on Friday. What ended up being the purpose, the glory, of Kampala: Uchumi, a grocery store, sells plums. My favorite fruit. My favorite fruit that I’ve been thinking about as much as Oreos and Colby jack. It cost me more than a dollar; and I wish I could say that biting into it was bliss…but it wasn’t a very good one.
But I also bought a fresh red pepper, on impulse. Walking through the streets of this city, with orange hands, eating a red pepper: things you don’t think you’ll end up doing in Africa.

When we were ready to travel back to Mukono, some of the ladies at the market wished us luck; the matatu drivers were on strike. That’s when we started to understand why loads and loads of riot police, fully armed, kept passing us on the road.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to be walking in the same direction as the tear gas containers?” Kyle said.
Yes. Yes, of course it's a good idea.

And they were most definitely on strike. I crossed the street with closed eyes, and kneeled in the middle of the road—thrilled that I could make street angels and fear nothing. No traffic, no nothing. Just crowds and crowds of stranded people wishing they had transportation.

So we hired a private hire. He drove us to a Christian martyr’s shrine we wanted to visit, he agreed to stay with us for the hour we wanted to tour, and then he drove us to Mukono; twas nice. Twas nice until he told Kyle, “There are two of them. You have one, I have one.”
Thankfully, Kyle ruined any sort of Christian witness he had and said, “They are both mine.” Taking one for the team.

Thursday night was a very beautiful thing. Because the head-leader-man-guy of USP, Mark, and his wife had us mission students over for dinner. Which, translated, means: we’re going to feed you the best lasagna and salad and cake that you’ve ever freaking had, and you’re going to like it.
The best part, though. The very best part: V-Money joined us. As we were leaving, he stood (or kept jumping really) by the van with Scott and Betsy and me, and this is what basically went down for the next ten minutes:

V-Money: “How special am I? I just ate lasagna!”
Us: “Was it your first time?”
V-Money: “Yes! I am so special. I was the only black one in those walls. No one here knows lasagna. I tell you, I am special.”
We couldn’t argue with that. Later, when he was repeating this excitement to others, he didn’t refer to himself as “the only black one in those walls.” Instead he called himself the “charcoal-looking one.” Hah.

Because I want to soak up as much of Vincent as I can, I sat up front with him. Surely the best seat in the van—when he’s the driver.
We were driving out of the campus gates and the security guard waved at us, saying, “Hi Bazungu.” (white people, plural. Mzungu plural).
“Those are not their names,” Vincent said.
Finally.
There was something amazing, as simple as it was, about V-Money identifying with us whites. By defending our names, I felt as if he were admitting our friendship. Telling that man, I know these ones, and they are not merely Bazungu.
In fact, I accused him of loving us. And he didn’t protest.

Up front with V-Money, I then asked him how long he has been driving for UCU. He said four years, since our USP program started. Someone, then, asked if he remembered Dana as she returned this year as an intern (after being among the first guinea-pig USP students).
V-Money said of course he remembered her. “Anyway, there were only 7 of them then. The program was very new.”

My heart lifted and then sank in a matter of seconds. I was thrilled Vincent didn’t forget Dana, and I hoped he wouldn’t forget us. But then he said there were only 7 then. While now there are 36. Slim chance.
“Oh…Vincent, so you won’t remember us. There are so many.”
“Oh no. I always remember the IMME students. There are 12 of you. And we are always together.”
“So you will remember us?”
“You mean like Daniela? But I could not forget.”
And then, to prove it, he started listing all of the IMME kids’ names from last semester. He remembered indeed.

Another funny thing V-Money was caught saying in the van that night: (upon talking up a storm that he was the only black man eating lasagna) “You know, I joke. Some hate me because I joke. Besides, if you hate Vincent you are just tiring your brain.”
Amen.

And another: while up front, I tried convincing him that, if he ever had the chance, he needs to visit us in the U.S. “You would have 12 different places to stay.”
“Heck, if Vincent came to the U.S.,” someone said from the back, “He would go to Arizona with Brooke and we would all come to him.”
V-Money’s response: “Anyway, I need to see this Taco Bell.”
Hah. The rest of his response was hilarious, and the look on his face priceless. But I sat next to him, jotting in my notebook (in the dark) things like “If you hate Vincent, you are just…” so I wouldn’t forget, and he said, “Don’t write that one down. Don’t put what I said down there,” regarding his prediction of what it would be like to see the U.S.
And so I won’t share. But I feel like John when the angel tells him, “Don’t you write down what the seven thunders just said,” and he didn’t.
(V-Money = seven thunders. Always).

Still moving backwards in the week, the night before this:

We were sitting at the dining table, laughing about something. And I really needed, for quite some time, to make a shortcall, but I was lazy. (By the way, shortcall—essentially needing to go #1, and longcall…you can guess…have cute meanings/translations in Nanteza’s book. She calls them local calls and international calls. And so, depending on which it is, she has told me as I leave the room, “Tell Mom I say Hi,” or, “Who are you going to call?” I love it. It reminds me of my dad’s “I hope everything comes out okay.”) ANYWAY. There we were at the table, I had a full bladder, and we were laughing. Such was our conversation:

ME: “I’m going to wet myself.”
(more laughter)
ME: (upon realizing this may be Greek to them) “Do you know what I mean when I say I’m going to wet myself?
MOM: “Well, I imagine you’re going to urinate in your cloth-ies.”
[Oh dang. I’m laughing again as I write it. It was the. Funniest. Thing.]

The neighbor kids have finally mastered my name. Four days left, and I am finally hearing, “Danielle! Danielle!” instead of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” (Jenny, they pronounce “Danielle”…Nanteza too…like our Russian study hall teacher from tenth grade. DONyell DONyell). Priceless, anyway. It’s beautiful to respond to your own name for once.

Last night (Monday night; yeah, I’m writing this in stages), I sat outside with Mom, eating sugar cane. She said she was going to miss me.
I agreed. And I mentioned that another daughter would come in September.
“Yes, but really. You always miss the particular ones. They are not all the same. You miss each one.”
I don’t think “miss” cuts it anymore. This isn’t summer camp. The van picks me up at 4 on Friday, with full suitcases that won’t be back next summer.
Minus thoughts of and longings for home, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks.

I want to mention one more cultural difference recently noticed, before I go: gentlemen, and what defines them.
See, in Bwindi, V-Money left a seat open and said a gentleman would sit there. Separately, Scott proceded to leave his own seat and open it for a girl. Scott is our extreme sort of gentleman, refusing to eat—even for minutes on end—until everyone is served, etc. etc. According to my culture, I, we, respect him for this. Greatly. It’s one of Jesus’ paradoxes; your respect, your leadership, comes not when you assume your authority, but when you make yourself lower than everyone else. When you wash your neighbor’s feet, when you make yourself last. Because that’s what He did for us. Anyway, Scott is a gentleman.
But when Vincent left a seat open “so a gentleman could sit there,” Brooke pointed to Scott’s sacrifice and told Vincent, “Gentlemen are different in our culture. A gentleman is the one who gives up his seat so ladies can sit.” Opposite.

I just walked back, in my muddy gum boots (rainy season has its perks), from the office. And I just handed Vincent my supply of Taco Bell sauce sent via mi mamasita. He wanted Taco Bell, he got Taco Bell.