Huratiti

The year is moving faster and faster. Routine and comfort teach me how to not notice how I spend my time. But it wends inexorably toward late July, when I must needs move again, when I will fly high over the ocean to a mission field closer to home.
"Tundapaa juu (oweo)" sings the radio. One of the most-played songs since we've been here blares in a tinny Kiswahili voice a testimony of transformation. I recently had more of the song translated for me than ever before; on my own, I had only discovered it was a gospel song about flying high (tunapaa juu) and going places (tunaenda). What I learned recently was the story, which is conveniently present in the music video. The singer was born into poverty and a rough neighborhood. He gave his life to Christ and since then has been blessed with wealth and music, marked by a dramatic costume change. "Huratiti"--faster and faster the blessings come, higher and higher the Lord lifts the singer.
My initial reaction to this meaning was disappointment. Here's a decent Kenyan song with lots of play time, and it's just parroting the prosperity gospel. "If you're a believer," I heard, "you'll have a nice jacket like this guy." But when I complained of this to my desk neighbor in the staff room, he told me to give the guy a break.
"It's his testimony. Let him tell it."
And that's just it. It is his story. What would I prefer, that he took credit for his success? As much as the prosperity gospel is a plague, it is not the case that God does not want people to be successful. We need refined eyes to evaluate our success in God's light, but material success is a gift of God--giving glory back for that gift is essential. Rumor has it some study has concluded that Africa in general has grown much wealthier in the past 20 years, but not just the rich getting richer--there are more and more people sharing the wealth, so said this study. So more and more people have the opportunity to tell the story of how God has blessed them materially. The message does not have to be read as "if you are a good little Christian, God will give you that sportscar you want." It can just be "Thank you." It is a story of transformation, of the work of God. So I guess that's ok. But I still want to handle with care--it still rubs me funny.
Our handball team did really well this year. It was fun to watch a team that kept losing their "friendlies"--scrimmages with nearby schools--repeatedly beat larger schools that had discouraged us all season. We advanced a game away from provincials after a few weekends of tournament.
We have had a tiny visitor a few times recently. Sara from across the hall is now old enough to walk. She comes and plays with the Dora dominoes or the dinosaurs or the crayons, with a cute, pudgy, expressive face. Last term (before April) she was comfortable with us and we would go visit and play games with her. But then this term when we came back to school, she had forgotten these bearded wazungu and cried when we came too close. It was another period of getting to know her--she had grown a lot in that month, but now we observe more cuteness than ever before.
And I am transformed this year. Faster and faster approaches the day when I will return home again to measure such change. It is by no means the end of my exploration, but maybe I will know the place for the first time. To new eyes.

Memory

The children were tested this week. From Wednesday to Friday, we "invigilated" our own exams and other teachers' as the students spent an hour or two forging 20% of their term grade. Another 20% comes in the next set of exams and then the final 60% for the final exam. High pressure and heated competition forge students whose choice between welding apprenticeship or medical school might be shaped by a single day's work in a classroom. These students know they compete for few national university spots, so any time they spend doing anything but study they feel they have wasted. Or so a recent University graduate said to me yesterday. There is certainly little opportunity for the boarders to do anything else. After supper, they go back to class to study on their own until bed. Saturday, we have elitist class--extra fees, extra attention. It's not all bad. This most recent Saturday we measured the height of the flag pole with clinometers we had fashioned from our protractors.
As I try to get an angle on the extremely hard-working students, I continue to have English barriers. Besides obvious things like speaking loudly and slowly in front of a group, individual communication is not usually smooth. Forget puns, especially if they're thrown in haphazardly, and move more toward big gestures with silly voices or innuendo. A pun takes too much explanation, and only interesting double meanings justify explanation. A student the other day, a couple hours after I took a picture of her at her request, said to me, "You will remove those for us later?" She gave me no preface but a glance at the camera--"picha" or "snap" in the sentence would have clued me in. Ms. Wacera was nearby, and I was grateful she knew what the student meant. I couldn't even tease afterward with the difference between delete and develop, because the student had only just learned the word "develop." But I tried [to lose the game].
Here I am, taking pictures in a new place far from home--far enough to actually learn something from the Christmas letter I received for the first time--and things pass on. There is a melancholy guilt, a wistful Sehnsucht, attached with leaving. Even if you only leave your own culture because you don't fit and want to blame not fitting on culture shock, you miss things. I love my home, my people, our ways (well, mostly). And glimpses of "how we do things back home" tend to float unbidden through my mind when emptied.
The year is half over--half full, I guess, of opportunity for growth. The relationship building now has a possibility, a responsibility to grow deeper than simply exchanging cultural notes, but I am not yet Kenyan. It is still comfortable and easy to get stuck on talk of home. I have to remember how to move past this--when in a new place, the things and people that mattered before just do not compute here. But some things always matter. The language describing these things changes, as do the customary smokescreens, but everyone loves talking about things they love with people they love. I think it is better to want to know what someone thinks because of their personhood, not their nationality.
Josh put a sad CD on before he left. These ramblings are totally his fault. The Fray. Blame them, too. And probably Canada, but I don't remember why.
I remember you, people back home. And I miss talking to you, and being a part of your lives. But not enough to leave now. Jesus makes life here, too--abundandantly as he tends to, and I am a part of other lives I am not yet ready to leave behind.

Facts

We are in Gatundu this afternoon for our groceries. We are sick of lentils. We saw some bananas, garlic, bread, and tomatoes that look good. The forty-minute walk was started after lunch, and it's nice to break in the shade of this internet cafe before we buy our groceries in the market on the way back. Our apartment is great--living room with a pair of couches and a pair of chairs. We each have a room with a double bed, and the kitchen has one burner. The single burner, absence of hot water, and necessity of walking to get foodstuffs are simple enough, I suppose. The school (Icaciri High) has welcomed us well. I taught a math class today, with some dimensional analysis. I'll be getting used to the board, to the style of math they've learned, etc, but it helps that for the next week at least, they know most everything already.

But, that's all for now. Keep reading for musings.