Inatosha: Exploring Boundaries, Heartbreak, and Bounty

Bus ride up to Mvaa

Dori and I at Side's duka

Hotel in Arusha

Dad and Annie

Lunch with Susie, Dori, and Johnson

A hike through Mvaa

My whole heart, Annie

My other whole heart, Anna

A walk through Mvaa

Bus ride to Mvaa

Mama Doris and Annie, familia yetu

The things in life which don’t go to plan are usually more important, more formative, in the long run, than the things that do.

Maggie O’Farrell

December 3, 2019

She glances up the street, unsuspecting, and she sees me. She drops her bags. Crosses the little wooden bridge and begins to run. She is a blur of purples and blues, wearing a floor-length custom-made dress. She is electric. I slow down and stop. I reach my arms out and watch as she rushes towards me. I think to myself, remember this moment be in this moment do not take your eyes off of her. And then she leaps through the air into my arms and wraps her little arms around my neck, shikamoo, she says as her buries her face in my neck. She smells of baby powder and mangos. Her hands are sticky pressing against my skin.

From here on out, when we are together, she will not let go of my hand. We arrive down the hill to greet her mama. She is hiding behind my back, apparently overwhelmed by her own excitement. I find this frightfully relatable. When you experience so much joy, so suddenly, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. And we spend the rest of the afternoon in her house with two other children, Susie and Johnson. We are drawing flowers and moons and stars. We decide that we will get matching outfits made this week or maybe next. We eat rice, cabbage, bananas and fish. She reminds me of a tiny woman at times, perfectly attuned and attentive to the moment and other people’s needs. She makes me feel taken care of in a way a child should never make an adult feel. Like she knows more than me, and I’m okay with it. Susie and Johnson seem to be in competition to see who can eat the most. Susie eats until she pushes her stomach out, round and still swelling. And then she asks me to unzip her dress. We all push out our stomachs to see who has the roundest belly, and I think, we should all be so proud of bodies, so bold and willing to feed ourselves.

As I walk back through kivukoni I pass my counterpart, Augustino, and we chat for a bit about our meeting on Thursday. I run to greet Moses, the driver of Kikwesha, who has just pulled into kivukoni. We haven’t seen each other in over two weeks and his faces illuminates when he sees me pop up next to the driver side door. I walk back to Baba Raymond and sit down next to him. Every week for the last three months he has asked me how many months, weeks and days until my baba – father – arrives. And today I responded, baada ya siku kumi na moja – after eleven days. To say he is excited to meet my father is an understatement. I mention that my father does not know any Kiswahili, and Raymond is not worried. He explains that my father will be able to see how accustomed I have become to Tanzania, he will see that I have so many friends, he will see that I continue to grow. As Raymond explains this to me in Kiswahili, I laugh. We are sitting on some half-broken concrete slab, and my back is aching. But I am understanding every word he speaks. And it all feels unrelenting. The joy, the pain, the way every moment cuts right through me. In a constant state breaking. Only to be built with an even larger capacity to love. With every experience of pain and heartache I expand.

I shake his hand and begin the walk towards my house. The air is damp with coming rain. But the honeycomb-colored sun is still glowing on the treetops. The path is filled with butterflies, white and yellow and blue. And they are shimmering.

As I speak to Mom later in the evening, I am overcome with the need to release. I tell her about all of the doubts and fears and uncertainty I have been feeling. I am exasperated and overwhelmed. She listens. She always listens. And then I tell her about Dori running towards me this afternoon. As I speak out loud this moment, I realize how deeply impactful it was. And as tears swell in my eyes, and my throat begins to constrict from the tension, I whisper, and even if I had to leave tomorrow, it would be enough. I have no idea what these next few weeks will bring. And certainly not these next few months. But I am however certain that our life is made of moments like the one I had today. When everything hurts and everything is beautiful and heartbreaking and ridiculous and despite everything, I might be able to feel in a split second, I choose to feel love. As a child leaps through the air into my arms with her electric love, inatosha – it is enough.

December 18, 2019

Today I am wearing a brand-new pair of underwear. They are freshly laundered and a really nice brand. I’ve kept them safe in a Ziploc bag for the last year. They’re periwinkle purple and they feel so good. The rest of the clothes I’m wearing haven’t been laundered in over a week, and that’s okay. Really, it’s all okay.

Now I am sitting in the back of a car, listening to Maggie Rogers and my noise-cancelling headphones make for a perfect scene. The outskirts of Moshi are flying past and Dad is talking with our driver and all I see are wild hand gestures as two older men talk about whatever old men talk about. I briefly heard something about the model of a passing car and that feels like an appropriate conversation topic. And I am reminded once again that, no matter how far I travel, no matter how far I feel from home, the world is far more familiar than you could imagine.

When we arrive at Union Cafe I walk up to my usual table. The young waiter that always takes our order comes to greet me, habari za siku nyingi, umepotea kwa mdamrefu- how have the days been, you’ve been gone for so long. He takes my dad’s order and then looks at me with a knowing smile, kwa kawaida? - the usual?

From behind me I hear someone call out to greet me. I turn and a friend of mine, who goes by Jack Sparrow, is sitting a few tables away. I walk over and we greet each other. He hugs me. Really hugs me. I feel his arms wrap around my body and feel the warmth of a real embrace. This is something I long for. Tanzanian do not hug like I like to hug. It’s usually an awkward shoulder bump that leaves me longing for a real embrace. Jack and I talk about our Christmas plans and plans for New Years. He says he hopes to see me on Zanzibar. We trade numbers and tells me I look like Kate Winslet so now I live in his phone as such.

When I sit back down at the table, Dad is lost in his phone like only a baby-boomer can be. I laugh to myself and then text Anna, I really live here. I have roots here.

Spending the last three days in Mvaa with Dad was such an insightful experience. Before Dad arrived here, I read a New York Times article about visiting family during the holidays. The article discussed the way, no matter how adult we believe ourselves to have become, we always, inevitably, revert back to our petulant teenage selves at some point. Usually there is a serenity period of about two days or so, and then they close the door, chew their food, say that thing, in the way that always just drove you mad. And once again, we are moody teenagers.

This past year has been a deep dive into myself, my wounds, my neurosis. And as I spend time with Dad I realize, again, where these raw edges are. Where and when do I feel rubbed the wrong way? And why? And when he is the same cantankerous man, I have always known him to be, I remind myself, the things that may irk me in this moment, I will long for one day. I will long for his facetiousness. I will long for his stupid jokes and frustrating side comments. I will long for him to tell me the same things over and over again. I am learning that self-development is not an easy task to undertake. This is, of course, why they call it a practice. It entails heavy emotional lifting and turning inward instead of looking for somewhere to misplace our aggression, anger and frustration.

During dinner time, Dad and I are sitting on the veranda overlooking the tropical garden, aglow with warm white lights. We are just finishing the main course, when we find ourselves, somehow, against all odds, in a conversation about racial politics. I feel my body tensing. I am holding my hands carefully in my lap. I tell him I do not want to talk about this anymore. He continues to talk at me. I attempt to make a point. I remind myself the lesson that came to me a few weeks ago. I do not need other people to agree with me, I do not need to convince people. When people feel they are trying to be “convinced” of something they rarely respond well. Likewise, they most likely are not listening. I am staring at my hands as Dad says things that slowly turn my stomach. I no longer want to engage. I no longer want to have this conversation. He asks me a question, I choke on my words, and say I know longer want to have this discussion. I have learned my boundaries. And we have arrived here.

I grab the bottle of water and try to pour water into my glass, my hand is shaking. I try to steady myself. I cannot look up. Looking down feels like a betrayal to myself. I push myself back from the table so quickly, I surprise myself. I walk quickly down the veranda and into the garden below. I am moving as quickly as possible, into a space where I can feel the air around me again. I am standing on a path weeping. I am covering my mouth and hyper-ventilating. The garden is luminous. I watch tears fall from my eyes onto the path below, catching the glowing lights as they fall. I try to steady my breathing. A young man who works at the hotel walks by me, and whispers pole – sorry. I look at him as he passes. I do not attempt to hide the fact that I am crying. I am no longer in the business of hiding the way that I feel. I gather myself, barely, and make my way back over to the steps.

I sit down and light a cigarette. The older gentleman from the front desk comes down, likely because the young man just told him there was some woman crying in the garden. Is everything okay? Has something happened? Is there anything I can do for you? A small laugh escapes my mouth, mingling with the exhale of smoke. Classic Tanzania, I think to myself. By far some of the most gracious and welcoming people I have met in my life, and this man is truly serious when he asks what he can do for me. If only this man’s hospitality could heal my wounds and give me the right words to say. But no, that is my work to do. And so, I smile, my eyes surely glistening with tears, No, I am okay. Thank you though, I appreciate you.

I return to the table a few minutes later and take a deep breath. I feel proud of myself as I clearly, without crying, express my thoughts. For me, this is a challenging space. I have an academic background, years of study, considering the multilayered world of racial politics. Simultaneously, I am emotionally invested. This is not just about something I read in a textbook. This is about people I love deeply. This is about the conversations I will have with my children one day. It is about the world I want my children to be raised in. This is not just dinnertime political banter, if there is such a thing. And I express this to him, clearly and effectively. And he listens. My father is of another generation, and his generation thought they could change the world. And they have, more or less, lost their spark. I recognize that our generational differences must be taken into account. And he tells me this is an uphill fight, as if I am not already frightfully aware of this. I tell him that idealism is something I am not willing to give up. I tell him that we ought to stop holding people to such a low standard of civility. I tell him that my commitment to anti-racism, similarly to anti-sexism or even my own spiritual practice, is hard work. It does not move forward with passivity. I am not here to spectate. It is a practice, it is work, day in and day out. And I suppose, similarly, fathers and daughters are learning too, day in and day out.