I could start with the seventh grade girls who have adopted me, showing up at my door with armfuls of leaves and teaching me how to cook them for dinner. With the joy that comes with being able to introduce someone to their first Beyonce song, with the way they sweep my courtyard, fetch me water, teach me words of their tribal language. With them bringing me cassava (which we ate with soy sauce), cucumbers the size of a small child, half eaten maandazis from their breakfast. With the questions they ask me about America (Do you fear snakes? Do you fear coconuts? What are the names of Barack Obama’s daughters?), with the unshakeable faith they’ve instilled in me that Chiungutwa will feel like home.
With “Pole, Kiswahili changu ni kibovo”, Sorry, my Swahili is rotten. (A real crowd pleaser.) “Unaweza. Utaweza.” You know. You will know.
With the process of making my village house a home. With letting out a gasp upon seeing hundreds of wadudu (bugs) crawl out from behind a door, squeaking out “sijazoea”, I am not yet familiar. With my first village friend, a very pregnant village executive officer, killing them with her bare feet as she laughs, a twinkle in her eye, “utazoea”, you will be familiar.
With the leaning in, diving in to the hard parts of cultivating belonging and home in a rural Tanzanian village. With the softness that catches me each time I think I’m falling, with the beauty that is already beginning to bloom.
With malaria education games, with the 400 primary school students who can now correctly pronounce my name and shout it with glee each time I pass, with the teenage boys who hang out at the market who are slowly coming to see me not as a stranger to catcall but as a sister to protect.
With mornings spent at the clinic, conversations with doctors, nurses, patients. With journal pages filled with dreams for the future.
With the way one of my best friends from Philly, who is from the Congo via Kenya, absolutely died with laughter when she found out I had moved to the ushaago, countryside, and didn’t have water or electricity.
With my kenyan mama’s daily whatsapp messages, sending solar lamp recommendations and inspirational quotes.
With bleach and fresh paint and savoring this beginning.
With a fullness in my heart. With faith, and gratitude.
Yes, that feels like a good place to start.
View from my front porch my first morning in Chiungutwa
Dance parties in my courtyard
Somoe, Bimwana, and Tabia
This is going to be fun
