“Mzungu!” the small voice cried out and a big smile followed. The child ran up to hug me fast around the legs and I rubbed his back. He was so young he was barely the height of my waist. He soon ran off to go play with the other children in the field.
The sun had begun to set, and the sky was full of pink and purple clouds as a light breeze cooled my skin. I said hello to the mama who walked by in her green and white colorful cloth. I watched the carpenters talk at the new housing complex on the corner. An older lady with curly hair walked by and I said a quick hello. Some man stop me, “mzungu…” I heard them mention. I shook his hand and he made some joke that his buddies laughed at. I said no and walked on. The smell of dinner cooking filled the air as I passed by house after house. As I approached the bottom of the hill the rolling green fields stretched before me as far as I could see with varying shades of green for the different types of crops being cultivated. I passed the goats who all cried out in their typical goat fashion. I passed a shy boy in the middle of the road who just said a simple hello. As I walked on and on the energy was palpable. The world was alive and I was lucky to be just one part of it.
The market is a chaotic, smelly, colorful place full of people busy buying and selling their goods. On this day at the market my friends, Chuck, Sophie, Lyda, and I decided to check out the fabric. In Rwanda (and I believe many African countries) the art of sewing is still well practiced and localized. The norm is to go to the market, chose your fabric, and then visit the seamstress to make the clothes. Excited to have our own unique clothing, we began the process of picking out fabric. The shops and stands of colorful fabric overwhelmed me. In my indecisiveness it took me approximately 45 minutes to chose just the perfect one (much to Chuck’s impatience ha). During the process of analyzing every type of fabric available, a seamstress who spoke good English approached us. “Are you wanting to make clothes?” She asked. After confirming this, she proceeded to show us the clothes she had made for other trainees. She had beautiful dresses and blouses. We assured her we would come find her once we had chosen our fabric.
After bartering down my fabric to about 3,000 RWF, quite the barter process let me say, I brought it to Emmaculee, the seamstress. She had me draw up the dress I wanted, I just did a simple big skirt dress. A teenage girl walked by with a collared neckline, I pointed at that. “I want it like that,” I said. Emmaculee understood. Chuck ordered some pants with the pink fabric he had found. We paid part of the cost 7,000 RWF for the dress (equivalent to ~$12). Then five days later we returned to the market and our clothes were ready. My new dress is so beautiful! It’s a classic teacher dress, and I couldn’t be more excited. Even if I have no experience actually teaching and I’m nervous to actually begin, at least now I can look the part.
My house has a cook named Leonidance. To have a houseworkers who cook is normal for middle class Rwanda people, for a variety of reasons such as the long periods of time it takes to cook and the very need for jobs. Leoni (my nickname for him) is a very skilled chef. He can cook up rice, fried potatoes, soup, meat, and cut up a pineapple for desert to feed all nine of us who live at our house. In my efforts to learn how to cook in Rwanda, and to help out, most evenings I go into our kitchen and ask how I can help. Leoni first will demonstrate how he does something, and then allows me to cut the onions, peel the potatoes, or any other task necessary for the meal. Leoni first will demonstrate how he does something, and then allows me to try for myself. On numerous occasions he has allowed me that independence, that is so often pushed aside in host families. He lets me struggle with my laundry, barely wash my shoes, and fail at lighting the cheap matches for the charcoal stove. Leoni above all else is patient and kind. I honestly struggle to understand him probably 70% of the time, but we have connected in other ways. I found out that he loves listening to music and dancing while cooking, with reggae being his favorite. He laughs at anything and everything.
One day in an effort to practice my Kinyarwanda, I asked Leoni about his family. I found out that he has a wife, and two children. His daughter is thirteen years old and his son is nine years old. They live with his wife in Burundi, where Leoni is from. He doesn’t get to visit very often it sounds like. Through this conversation I gained even more respect for Leoni. He was working and living with a family hundreds of miles away from his own just to support them. Leoni isn’t bitter or sad either, but has such a beautiful essence for life. I came home on Monday and asked him how he was. He replied “I am thankful.” For a man that works seven days a week, with his family far away, I found this simple comment inspiring. I am humbled to witness his intention in living each moment in joy and gratitude.