Kito Moto: Life in the Hot Seat
- T. Donohue
- Jul 25, 2019
- 6 min read
I slide my index across the word in my dictionary, mzungu.
It’s a warm Wednesday afternoon. I spent the early part of the afternoon getting a tour of Dindimo, the private secondary school near my village. As we arrived back in kivukoni – the village center – Augustino, my counterpart, and I settled into our favorite spot to sit. From this vantage point, the bench outside Saidi’s duka – shop – I can watch the entire village whizzing by. The motorcycles come and go. The young guys driving them yell things I can only partially understand, mostly harmless and attention-seeking.
Augustino asks me what I want to do now. I tell him I think I want to stay here for a while. Going into this month one of my goals was to somehow break the ice with the vijana – said motorcycle driving, cat-calling, cigarette smoking teenage boys. The reason being, that I see the vijana as somehow the linchpin to understanding the challenges this village faces. They represent the breakdown in education, employment opportunities, lack of awareness about health and the general lack of prospects. Additionally, they know everyone in the village. So, my bright idea for an icebreaker? Teach them to play a game. Specifically, Egyptian Rat Slap, which is by far my favorite card game.
As I sat on the dust ledge in the midday sun, a few guys came over to strike up a conversation. Understanding about every tenth or eleventh word, I was totally lost in translation. Yet it’s utterly laughable how much is communicated beyond the use of words. We laughed, we joked, for lack of a better word, we shot the shit. One of the guys told me he wanted to get married and have mzungu – white – babies. I told him first he’d have to find a mzungu who wanted to marry him. The other guys erupt in raucous laughter. If one thing is universal, perhaps it’s the taking-shit type of banter that happens between young friends, which I am well-versed in, having the good fortune of years of experience.
My internal monologue, never-ending, this is a perfect moment to teach them to play the game but it would be so weird to just pull out the cards oh my god Tyler just pull out the god damn cards they already think you’re an alien nothing it weird here because everything is weird here
I tune back in as the guy who wants mzungu babies pulls out a super dirty quarter deck of cards. I cannot help but throw my head back and laugh at the Universe, at god, and fate, pick your word, but I laughed out loud, deep, from my belly. Of course, ask for an opening and one shall appear.
We spend about two hours playing cards. I am not sure if they had more fun learning to play the game or watching me shuffle. From their reactions you might have thought I am performing some David Blane level magic tricks. Sure, I can shuffle a deck of cards, but it’s nothing really. Each time I beat one of the guys, which I always did because I am objectively very good at this game, then another steps up to give it a try. And we gone on like this for hours playing cards, me drinking water and them drinking soda and smoking cigarettes and laughing at each other.
And then I am here, sliding my finger across the word mzungu. I have walked up the street a bit and found myself sitting in front of Muze’s kito moto shop, think Tanzanian BBQ pork (though, kito moto translates to "hot seat"). The metallic smell of blood lingers in the air. Muze is inside chopping at a piece of meat to sell to the man waiting. I am sitting on a small stool, to my left sits the man who sell vegetables across the way and to my right sits a babu – old man. The hem of my long navy blue dress is slowing soaking in the mysterious muddy waters that lay behind the stool. I am distracted by a pikipiki – motorcycle – flying past, leaving us in a trail of midday dust.
The babu has just walked up to us and said, Habari mzunga? – Hello white person/foreigner/etc.
Siomzungu, ninaishi hapa Mvaa. Unaweza kusema dada au rafiki – Not mzungu, I live here in Mvaa. You can say sister or friend.
And this is how I find myself in an in-depth conversation about the meaning of the word mzungu, and the history of colonialism and whiteness and blackness and what it means to be foreign. Mind you, this is all occurring in Kiswahili.
As I read out the definition for mzungu, which simply translates to European, I notice that there is another definition for the word mzungu. “A deck of playing cards with drawing on them, king queen jack ace.” I laugh, again. Because, of course, another opening. And so, I ask them about this and slide my deck of cards from my pocket and offer to teach them how to play the game.
The meat hanging from a vicious looking hook behind me doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it did a month ago. The faint dizziness and sweaty palms that come when stumbling through complex sentences in Kiswahili, no longer cause for concern. The strange rumblings of my gastrointestinal system or the way my skin seems to break out no matter how many natural remedies I attempt; I have no time to worry. Because as I sit here, listening to my friends make jokes in Kipare, the tribal language, I must tune back into this moment. Not the one that is to come in a minute or two years.
Sielewi kabisa Kipare, tunahitaji kuongea Kiswahili tu – I don’t understand Kipare, we need to speak only Kishwali.
Muze laughs and slides onto the stool next to mine. He translates into Kiswahili and gives me the head nod that I have come to consider the Tanzania gesture for, I see you. And with that we continue to play.
There are many strange things about living in a country so unlike the one you come from, about learning an entirely new language. But perhaps one of the strangest things is how I have observed myself picking up little mannerisms along the way, like talismans to my journey through this experience. There is the gentle lifting of the eyebrows, which by American standards would probably seem quite weird, but in Tanzania is a way to say hello without speaking a word. Often paired with a gentle head nod. There is the quick, and sharp inhale to express having heard what someone has said. It sounds like a gentle gasp, and for the longest time caught me of guard. That is until I noticed myself do it for the first time. It is strange how, sometimes without noticing, that which was once so foreign becomes woven into the fabric of our consciousness. Siomzungu.
We are in flux. Constantly adapting, growing and relearning. On Tuesday I spent eight hours working with farmers in my village. At some point a sense of such strong déjà vu hit me, that for a moment I forgot where I was. My friend turned to me, inviting me to speak, and I felt I had not only forgotten Kiswahili, but English too. This is certainly not the first time this has happened to me. The déjà vu I experience here is so visceral that it feels as if I am simply having a memory of something that has already happened. And perhaps it has. Or at least, I choose to believe in this magic. I choose to believe that perhaps in a past lifetime I was here, and perhaps there are lessons I didn’t quite figure out the first time around. And so, I am back, I am here, and I am learning. I find an opportunity for growth in every little part of my day, to a point where it can become overwhelming and exhausting.
There is certainly something incredibly monastic about this experience. I fluctuant between a craving for both asceticism and desire, indulgence. I am flush with time to dive deep into my psyche. Perhaps there is such a thing as too much time to think. The other day I was so overcome with grief and heartbreak and I wept, while doing sit ups mind you. Usually I work out, and at least make it into child’s pose before I begin to weep. But not this day. This day I wept while doing sit ups and listening to some poppy Taylor Swift song. I could not breathe. I did not want to breathe. I felt the high tides of pain and sadness inside my body, refusing to turn away.
The next morning, I awoke, and as if having dreamt the words from some astral realm guru I said to myself, Be gentle. Forgive yourself. Self-development and actualization don’t happen in one day. Take it slow.
Perhaps my internal guru is full of shit. But I would like to believe in these words. I would like to give myself permission to forgive myself. I would like to be able to face my shame and exhale it, breathing space and light into my body, into my heart. I would like to allow myself to put it down, to tell it,
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