A Birthday Sikukuu (see-koo-koo)

To my knowledge, there is no Swahili word for ‘birthday’. Imagine that. Throughout much of Africa, the anniversary of one’s birth is not really a Hallmark celebration.

So why then, in America, do we make such a big deal about birthdays? Maybe to make us feel significant, esteemed, loved…

In his book, Don’t Waste Your Life, John Piper opened my eyes to realize that our Western culture has a distorted view of love which tells us that to be loved is to be made much of. And making much of ourselves seems to be our specialty.

It makes perfect sense then, that we raise the roof on occasions such as birthdays. We don that golden Burger King crown, announcing that the world ought to serve us on OUR special day.

Think about it. When was the last time you attended a child’s birthday party? On that day, life revolves around them. They run the show.

I wonder, are we not perpetuating selfishness and materialism at these birthday hooplas?

We start this training early on by throwing a bash before the child can even talk…Happy 1st Birthday, Baby!

As the child grows, so grows the party. Not to mention, the quantity and quality of presents. Soon enough, parents are spending exorbitant amounts, hosting extravagant parties at expensive venues. Don’t even get me started ranting about those Super Sweet 16 birthdays.

For the record, my favorite birthday was 1988, the year I turned six. Mom made a She-Ra birthday cake and all my friends gathered at the local swimming pool. (Not sure how those two were even related, but Mom did her best to fulfill my every bizarre request…why wouldn’t she, it was MY special day?)

I suppose if we’ve fallen into our culture’s notion that to be loved is to be made much of, than why wouldn’t we want to use a day to improve our children’s self-esteem and make them feel good about themselves?

Happy Birthday to Me

A few days ago it was my birthday. And to be brutally honest, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Its not that I feared turning another year older, in spite of the fact that I’m now 28. The reason I wasn’t eagerly anticipating my birthday was because I had no one around to make much of me. I longed for fellowship with family and friends, yet here I was in a brand new country, alone.

I feared that without cake, candles, or song—not to mention the absence of friends and family—I would feel unloved, worthless, unappreciated. Would I even hear one live voice wish me a happy birthday?

A subtle reminder

On that day, I awoke early to the sound of the children singing. I can’t yet understand Kirundi, but the familiar tune brought the lyrics to mind.”This is the day that the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” In His grace, God reminded me that its not about me. Lord, this is Your day. Its not my day. Help me to decrease so that you might increase. Thank you for giving me life through your Son. May I delight in Your love today.

And much to my surprise, God gave me a birthday sikukuu. (As I mentioned, there is no Swahili word for ‘birthday’, but it certainly was a sikukuu = festive and eventful day; contraction of two Swahili words: ‘siku’, meaning ‘day’ and ‘kubwa’ meaning ‘big’.)

Here’s how the day transpired:

• In the morning, I sat with Goreth as she hand-washed mounds of dirty clothes. Yes Mom, I watched Goreth wash. Please don’t be too disappointed. Numerous times I offered to help, but she wouldn’t allow it. So I sat beside her. And as we sang hymns together in perfect harmony, God washed over my heart and saturated it with peace.
• Arriving at Amahoro, the remainder of my morning was spent combining fabrics for new handbags. My presence and advice brought reassurance to these women who have longed for design direction. Seeing the delight in their faces was mental encouragement which energized my creative spirit.
• Returning home in the afternoon, I snacked on fried plantains and pineapple juice. Goreth’s children insisted that we dance to African music videos and in doing so, they gave life to my weary body and planted joy deep in my heart. Such laughter. Such good dancing…those kids got rhythm.

If I had it my way…

…I would’ve been in America, celebrating with friends and family. Even here in Burundi, I was tempted to take the day for myself. Enjoy some ME time.

But by allowing God to use me on that day—though I would’ve much preferred to stay in bed, curled up with a book—He showed me that “the really wonderful moments of joy in this world are not the moments of self-satisfaction, but of self-forgetfulness.” (John Piper)

Mental Floss 006 – Slow Down Your Life

One of my favorite swahili sayings is:

“Haraka, haraka haina baraka.”

(literal translation: hurry, hurry has no blessing)

photo credit: vegadsl

There is a strange disease in America which doesn’t seem to exist in Africa…a hurried life. My initial reflection from Nairobi was written during my first few days in which I was a bit jaded. Fortunately, I quickly found that apart from the paved roads, city traffic, and electricity, Nairobi is not so different from Beni…

African cultures are all distinct and I’m certainly not trying to say otherwise. There is, however, one commonality I’ve observed among various places throughout East Africa: the concept of TIME

• In Africa, time is relaxed, elastic, open. Africans view time as flexible. Time is dependent upon man. *In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “When will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer. “It will take place when people come.”

The great benefit to this concept is that Africans embrace each moment. When they are with you, they’re really with you, focused on you, listening. Africans invest in people.

• In America, time is absolute, fixed, inflexible. Americans are enslaved by it and subject to it. Man is dependent upon time. Life revolves around schedules, deadlines, dates, hours. *An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat—time annihilates him.

The great tragedy to this concept is that Americans cannot find time for people. They cannot truly enjoy building relationships because they are always distracted by the next item on their agenda, the task they forgot to do, or the networking opportunity about to unfold.

Please, I implore you to start fighting the disease of busyness, hurried lives, and rigid schedules.

Begin today by going slow. When you find yourself hurrying, stop and take a deep breath. Savor every moment. Forget about what you’re doing next, enjoy what you’re doing now.

* Quoted from The Shadow of the Sun, by Ryszard Kapuscinski

See How Easily You Can Learn Swahili

Five days a week, I awaken to the creaking of our compound gate being opened, followed by a clear, high-pitched noise. It’s our cheerful Swahili teacher, Mwalimu Jean, whistling to summon the wuzungu students for the morning lesson. Mwalimu speaks Swahili and French, among other tribal languages. Unfortunately, he speaks no English. NONE. Therefore, our lessons usually consist of pantomime, charades, or pictionary. When those methods fail, we resort to a professional liaison: the French/English Dictionary.

One morning a few months ago, Mwalimu was teaching us new vocabulary, specifically referencing transportation. Here’s how the lesson ensued:

Mwalimu: Scribbles the new vocab word on the chalkboard: gari. He starts the explanation in French, which has remarkable similarity to English, “Gari. Signification: automobile.”

Me: Affirmative. I nod to indicate understanding: gari = automobile.

Mwalimu: Writes the next new vocab word on the board: forbeifo. He gives many clues, tries to articulate it.

Me: Blank face. No clue.

Mwalimu: Draws a rudimentary sketch on the board, pictionary style.

Me: “Does it mean truck?” I look it up in the dictionary, pointing to the corresponding French word.

Mwalimu: “Hapana.” Taking the dictionary himself, he attempts to look up the French word. But the dictionary is too limited. We’ve been defeated. Fail. Epic fail.

Mwalimu Jean

Well, it would’ve been an epic fail with any other teacher. But Mwalimu is tenacious and persistent. Pausing to think of another way to define the word, he eventually explains that this is the type of gari driven by the Kasali family.
Then, he writes on the board:  4WD.

Wait for it.
Wait for it.

Oprah is now delighted (well, she would be if she was taking Swahili lessons with me), because I finally reach the Aha! Moment.

Me: This is why I love Swahili. Because I get to laugh. A lot. The illusive word I’m struggling to grasp is really just a bad spelling and pronunciation of English: for-bei-fo = four-by-four, four-wheel drive

I’ll allow you to imagine the rest of our lesson, conducted in a similar manner, with words like:

piki piki = motorcycle, moto-taxi
ndege = anything which flies (bird, airplane)
meli = anything which floats or moves on the water (boat, ship)

Lost In Translation

Recently, while at the Women’s Center making smalltalk, I shared that my favorite Congolese food thus far is kalangiti. The women erupted in laughter. Apparently, the literal Swahili translation of kalangiti is “small blanket”. The women were amused, but very confused as to what really was my favorite food. Fortunately, Chelsie explained (in her near-perfect Swahili) that I enjoyed maragi which is the correct word for “black beans”. Much to my dismay, their laughter continued.  Evidently, black beans are considered slave food because they are so readily accessible and inexpensive. A typical Congolese would never admit to eating, let alone enjoying this food…so to hear this wealthy mzungu claim slave food as her choice meal was simply more than they could fathom.

Lest you think I am failing in my Swahili lessons, I would like to explain how I came to confuse the word kalangiti with the word maragi:

Most days at UCBC, Mama Madoe cooks (and sells) black beans and rice to the students for lunch. To avoid the negative connotation associated with maragi, the black beans have become well-known at the university as kalangiti…

Off now to fill my stomach with some small blankets, a.k.a. black beans.