Tea Time

“Oli Otya!”  This is a greeting in Lugandan to which you would reply, “Gyendi!” However, stumbling through Lugandan greetings and salutations, for me, is cumbersome. Trying it out feels alot like trying to fold myself into a tiny seat between two large men in the middle aisle...uncomfortable. However, finding time to study Lugandan is another matter altogether. Hopefully, I am learning by osmosis. 

The trouble of language plagues me most days because of my strong desire to connect with everyone well. I often have the feeling that my words don’t match my heart feelings. They feel more like the flat tire that landed me on the side of the road, stranded. No matter what though, making the effort to speak the language of other people creates a culture of honor. 

Case in point, my friend Emmaculate, whom I used to call Marjorette. I actually thought that was her name until I read a form she gave me to look over on which she had written her name. You may think these two names have nothing to do with each other, but really, come here and slip on my sandals... I promise, you will quickly find they fit you as well. 

Thankfully, love speaks louder than words. One night recently, I had already eaten dinner and was prepared to put my feet up and relax the long day away when I heard the Lord inviting me to put my clothes back on and go spend some time with Emmaculate. I won’t say I ran to obey, but I decided it was best to follow His lead…

As I walked down the dirt path, walking between ducks and chickens and cats, there was anticipation. After all, when you know your Father’s voice (“My sheep know me and they know my voice” John 10:27), the only response is to listen and follow Him. He ALWAYS has good plans, and He never misses a moment. How we choose to spend our moments is of course, in our hands. 

I found her working, as I always do, in her stall, on a particularly busy night. Between 6-11 are busy hours for people in stalls like hers, because people are transitioning from their own work to home, on foot and bodas mostly. This night, the road was busy with all the pedestrians, including the goats who graze in the ditch beside the road. The cattle go home, the ducks and chickens keep their vigilant watch over their young, and the mamas with babies strapped to their backs, come out looking for bread and other necessities. It is a vibrant and alive time. 

Emmaculate watches out for me, and I like to think my prayers watch out for her as well. It is a good thing we are friends, and we can call on each other at any time. When I finally arrived at her stall, I discovered her daughters were on school break. Eunice and Rona quickly pulled out the thin board that they had turned into a bench and gathered around me. Emmaculate announced to them, “This is Haley, my friend.” Then she proceeded to try to help them pronounce my name, because there aren’t names that start with H in this language. It is very challenging for the people that I meet, to pronounce.  Enjoying their company, I learned that Eunice wants to be a surgeon. Eunice begins school at 4 am, and ends her school day at 6 pm. From there, she takes her dinner, and proceeds to study hall, which goes until 10. After study hall, she studies until 12 on her own, and gets her four short hours of sleep to start all over again. This is common, and frankly absurd. More on that another time. 

As the evening continued, my efforts to communicate felt a lot like throwing bread to pigeons, just enough to make them smile, but not enough to satisfy. Nonetheless, more people began showing up at the little stall to greet Emmaculate, and of course the strange woman on the bench. Everyone was on a mission of some sort. Kampala is the “city that never sleeps so it is evenings are loud and eventful. Listening to the way the Ugandans interact with one another is never dull. They speak with their eyebrows, the lifting of their chins, their fists and their handshakes, exclamations like “aaaeeeeehhhh!”, or the ever present and loud, “banange!” which is basically their version of my infamous, “Oh my stars!” that my students of old remember well. Their conversations are lively birds, flitting through my consciousness, waiting for a place to land. One day. 

It wasn’t long after the muzungu greetings ensued, when I met a man named John, who ran to get some peanuts to share with me, just because. He is a new daddy, and ever so proud. His beautiful wife Stella came out eventually, and shared baby Destiny with me, making Emmaculate pronounce her displeasure that this was the first time she had seen the baby as well. Stella and John live with their newborn in a room behind Emmaculate’s stall. I soon learned that John was the twin brother to the security guard at my compound, named Kikuru. John’s other name is Kitale. I learned of their work, their dreams and their trials. The other’s came and went, inviting me into their dance, step by step. My words still, my two left feet.

Soon, Emmaculate was directing Eunice and Rona in Lugandan and announcing to me, “welcome to my home.” She often says this, but I thought she was saying that she worked all the time and like we do in America, expressing the fact that she practically lived there. Another cultural disconnect to be sure. What I soon learned was that the fire pit next to her stall was her only kitchen. You see, Emmaculate lives in a room with four walls and a roof, just big enough for the family to fit like dominoes to sleep. Their quarters are so tiny, without utilities, that they arise very early and stay very late because they have made the stall where she sells her wares, their actual living space. 

The welcome was followed by Eunice bringing out a mug of tea to me, while Emmaculate produced a roll. She then put me at ease, like she always does. “Don’t worry!” she admonished, “This is my home and you are most welcome.” By now you must know, they had invited me to dinner. Cue tears here. There was only one mug, so we couldn’t eat together, nor would they all indulge in a whole roll regardless, but rather share it amongst themselves. I was being treated like a queen, but feeling like that outfit did not fit me at all. How can you respond to such a beautiful gift of hospitality?

The only path forward is one on my face, bowed low in gratitude to my King that the truth is, love speaks louder than words. In the end, Paul told the Corinthians that we can do really awesome stuff like, prophesy, have faith that moves mountains, and give everything we have to the poor, but if we don’t have love, we are just clanging cymbals. (1 Corinthians 13). This scripture takes on a whole new meaning in a land where communicating in ways other than words is necessary. 

If you have read the rest of the blog, you know that I believe in this way of being in the world. I believe in the dignity of shared humanity. Paramount to being His hands and feet in this world is loving one another they way He did. I can just see Him now, breaking bread with people from every walk of life, and loving all the while. The Corinthians were learning about the depth and height and width of love expressed by our Jesus. In this passage, the aramaic translation of love means “burning love” coming from the “inner depths of the heart, bonding hearts and lives in secure relationships”.  It isn’t abstract, it looks like something. In the Greek, it means “being devoted to demonstrating inward feelings of love toward another with acts of kindness and benevolence”. It is an intense affection. This is our Father, our King, our one and only! He IS love. 

Emmaculate’s love looked like a mug of tea and a roll, presented with a grin and declaration of friendship. King Solomon unveiled a poignant truth that explains how I felt about this kind of love…  

“Receiving a gift is like getting a rare gemstone; any way you look at it, you see beauty refracted.” Proverbs 17:8

Indeed.