Being Alive

A coworker’s brother killed in a car crash. A friend’s family member dead from a snake bite. A counterpart’s baby who was stillborn. A pupil’s parents taken by AIDS. My headteacher’s child dying in a traffic accident. And just this past week, eight primary school pupils killed instantly by a lightning strike that hit a classroom in a nearby school. 

In Uganda, everyone goes to burials - families, villages, districts. They leave schools, shops, fields, vegetable stands and sewing machines. And they return the next day. 

Death is different here. It’s everywhere, and it's more a part of life than I have ever seen. 

Pupils still attend class and work for a future, a better future, any future. They play football and netball and a game with bricks they invented. They clean and dig and serve their extended families, many of their parents long gone. Teachers wake up early, harvest their subsistence gardens, tell jokes in the staff room, give chalkboard exams, make dinner from maize flour and beans by the light of small solar lamps. Men doze off on benches by storefronts, women shade themselves and their produce from the beating sun by the roadside, children ride on bicycles far too big for them, balancing jerry cans full of water or huge bunches of bananas on the back. Coffin makers sand and smooth in front of their outdoor displays, sunlight glinting off the windows on the caskets. A boda driver coasts silently down a large hill, conserving gas, a new coffin strapped precariously to the back of his motorcycle, and children race by him to school, barefoot and laughing. 

Death is different here. Life is too.

Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.

― William Saroyan

Confessions of a Language Geek

After our month and a half of Peace Corps language training, a time I also refer to as heaven, Kris and I continued to study Runyankore on our own while searching for a tutor to help us. This is a more difficult task than you might imagine because simply knowing the language does not necessarily mean that person can explain it to us. For example, you might know that the sentence, “He got on the car,” is wrong but "He got on the bus" is right, yet you would probably be hard put to say why or give a concrete rule that would help your student.

Finally, after months of self-study and well-meaning tips from our Runyankore-speaking neighbors and friends (“Don’t ask ‘What?’ so quickly! Look where I pointed! At my nose! I said I have the flu! Now repeat."), we have finally found a tutor! As the first agglutinative language I have studied, advancing in Runyankore has been pretty fun.

Words can be incredibly long; for example, the three-word sentence Tindamuhandiikiire nkamugambira bugambizi means I didn't write to him, I just told him. Some of the words are also fascinating, and looking through my Runyankore/English dictionary has become a favorite pastime of mine during those long lunch hours where I can grasp about 1 out of 25 words of the staff-room conversations.

Like in many languages, a lot of the words in Runyankore relate deeply to its culture and illustrate aspects of its history and daily life of its people.

Cattle, for instance, are extremely important and valued - hence the 50-odd specific words to describe their markings, horns, and patches.

emishubyo: n. milk of a second milking

emishura-ibiba: n. night jars

For those of you wondering, night jars are what you use when you have a pit latrine and don't want to venture outside during the night.

enkundwakazi: n. favourite wife

ekikondooro:  n. lap opened for grain; piece of cloth overhanging the belt

Family relationships are also extremely important, and you must be extremely specific about how someone is related to you. Kris uses a different word for his brother than I do for my brother because he is a man and I am a woman. When I say banyaanya, for example, it means brothers, but when Kris says it, it means sisters. Irritating or fascinating? All depends on my mood.

Other words are slightly more mystifying to me and my American background…

omushuuzi: n. visitor of lonely people; one who checks on a trap

Now is this an either/or or both situation in terms of the definitions? Maybe these people are so lonely because their friends are fed up with all the traps they've been setting.

kusinda: v. be drunk; not say one's husband's name; sigh with pain, roar

Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.

kujwarirana: v. hide inside one's clothes

kugongyera: v. whimper; low; moan when dying; moan when drunk

I think we actually could have used this word in college...

And some are downright incomprehensible.

obumeeza: n. occasional tables

Huh.

And then, of course, there are some that just make me giggle.

enkooko: n. bogeys

Heheh. Bogeys.

Interestingly enough, enkoko with one o and a slightly different tone actually means chicken. This leads to unfortunate sentences such as, "I was thinking about buying some bogeys."

One of my favorites though, is this one:

okutongoza: v. to walk slowly, especially when one is in his happy moments

On my walks home from school, listening to the wind rustle through the drying leaves of the banana trees, I think about this word and take some time to enjoy the beauty and culture that surrounds me here.

"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything." - Steven Wright