We're Home!

Happy Easter!

It feels good to be back in the swing of things (including blog writing) after a few weeks away.

We closed the school for a two-week midterm break a week before Easter, so Joseph and I took the opportunity to visit his family in Mwanza and spend a few days in Dar es Salaam stocking up on things that we can’t get here in Bukoba. While seeing family and being in the “big city” was wonderful and much needed, by the end of our ten days away we were both really ready to come home to Bukoba, in a way that we don’t usually feel. Usually as we pack up our things, we are discussing how we wish we could stay at the hotel forever, or how much we’re going to miss the delicious food or the readily available iced coffee, or really just ice in general. But instead we were talking about how excited we were to see our animals (one of our chickens had ten baby chicks while we were away) and our students, and to eat our weekly meals that have become staples, and sleep in our own bed again. After being in Bukoba for almost a year and a half, and married for three months, our life at KEMPS has become home. Not home in the sense that our house is here, but home in the sense that it is the place that we miss when we’re away, and that feels so good to come back to.

While we were in Mwanza, I got to see the place Joseph used to call home. Back in January, Joseph’s dad had asked us to plan to visit Tarime to see the village where his mother (Joseph’s grandmother) lived, along with many of her children, nieces, and nephews. This was also the area where Joseph’s dad had given us land for our wedding. Knowing that it was important to Joseph’s dad that we visit, but also knowing that we would essentially be in the bush without comfortable accommodations, we decided to make it a day trip. We rented a van in Mwanza and Joseph’s mom, aunt, and brother joined us on the four hour journey to Tarime. We drove north along Lake Victoria for much of the way, almost reaching the Kenyan border. When we were getting close, we turned off the main road onto a dusty gravel one and headed into the village. Aside from a few small mud huts, there was nothing but open space for as far as the eye could see. Trying to remember the way from when he lived there with his grandmother back in high school, Joseph slowed down and looked for the unmarked grassy path that would lead us to her land. Sure enough, he found it, and after carefully parking the car in an open area to avoid puncturing a tire on the thorny bush, we made our way through the tall grass to a small group of mud brick structures.

We were greeted by a group of women who emerged from one of the huts. They cheered and hugged us and scolded Joseph for being away for so long. They embraced his mother as if they were best friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Joseph tried his best to introduce me to everyone and explain how they were related, but there was so much excitement it was hard to keep up. They led us into the main house where his grandmother sat in a plastic chair close to the only window in the room. It felt like an oven inside, but she was bundled up in a wool sweater. She had a difficult time seeing and hearing, and she suffered from dementia. Everyone tried to greet her, repeating themselves, each time louder than the last, but it was clear she had no idea who anyone was.

Joseph took me outside and showed me around the compound. To the right of his grandmother’s home was a small, white, one room house with a grass roof. “I built this house and lived here when I was in school. We call it ‘The White House’.” Joseph told me, laughing. He opened the short, wooden door and we walked inside. The small house now appeared to be a storage room, filled with broken down chairs and extra charcoal stoves. Joseph showed me where his bed had been and where he had hung a curtain to separate the bedroom from the sitting room. He laughed as he pointed to the small window he had made in the bedroom so that he could have enough light during the day light hours to do his school work. There was no electricity, and definitely no plumbing. Behind ‘The White House’ in a small plot of open land, Joseph showed me the grave of his younger brother Josiah. There was no headstone, just a mound of red dirt surrounded by an oval of large stones to indicate that it was a grave. I recognized the area from pictures from the burial that Joseph had shown me. Josiah had been killed when he was just eighteen. We stood silent for a few minutes. Joseph shook his head and I could see the sadness in his eyes. “Was a long time ago.” he said.

As we walked back to the group of huts, Joseph’s mom asked us to come back inside to give his grandmother the gifts we had brought with us from Mwanza. We crouched down in front of her and showed her the bars of soap, jugs of cooking oil, and fabric we had picked out. She smiled and thanked us. After sitting for awhile, she started to talk to us. She spoke Luo, which was her tribal language, so I had no idea what she was saying. Joseph translated as best he could. She asked me my name and I asked her back. “Patricia” she said, loud and clear. “My name is Patricia.” I repeated her and she nodded, smiling. We had this conversation, exchanging names, about twenty times. And each time when I repeated her name, she nodded with a big smile on her face.

Needing some fresh air, we sat outside between the kitchen hut and the two main houses. Joseph’s dad was there, and slowly more men started to gather. All of them were brothers or cousins of his dad. They introduced themselves and sat, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some of them came with their wives, who, after introducing themselves, went to the kitchen hut to help prepare lunch. Every so often, Joseph’s dad would pull Joseph and one of the other men aside to have a private conversation. After a few minutes they would return and Joseph’s dad would make small talk with me before getting up to start another private conversation. I sat, trying my best to take it all in. After living in Tanzania for almost three years, I am pretty accustomed to Tanzanian culture and rarely am I in a situation where I feel overwhelmed, but sitting there in the bush observing the tribal traditions and family dynamics of Joseph’s elders, none of whom were speaking Swahili, my senses were completely overloaded.

I had noticed that there wasn’t any bottled water around and we had gone through our supply on the drive there, so I asked Joseph if we could head back to the main road and try to find a shop. He agreed and we headed to the van. Once inside, I felt myself coming back to life. I asked Joseph so many questions on our drive to the main road- questions about his grandmother and his house and all of the different men. We slowed down as we approached a small shop and a young man carrying a crate of soda on his head knocked on Joseph’s window, waving enthusiastically. He and Joseph greeted each other and he stuck his hand through the window to shake mine. Joseph asked him if he knew where we could get some water and he told us that the shop probably had some left. As we got out of the car to follow him, Joseph turned to me and said, “That’s my cousin”. Thankfully, the shop had a few bottles of water left. Joseph’s cousin loaded the crate of soda in the trunk of the van and climbed in the back seat. Before we could get back to the grassy path, his cousin asked us to let him out so he could take the soda to his house. When Joseph told him he thought it was to have with lunch, he replied, “No, this is for when you come to our house for dinner.” Joseph and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. It was already almost 2:00 in the afternoon, and we knew that his aunts were still preparing lunch for us. There was going to be dinner too?

When we got back to the compound, Joseph pulled his dad aside and asked him about the schedule for the rest of the day. He reminded him that we had a four hour drive back to Mwanza and that it wasn’t safe to drive in the dark. His dad explained that all of the brothers wanted us to visit each of their compounds, and that he wanted to take us to see our land as well. Joseph explained that we didn’t have much time, but that we would plan to come back when we could stay for a couple days. As he said those words, I looked around at the mud huts and wondered, ‘Where would we sleep? Would we stay in The White House? But what about showering?’ Joseph’s dad seemed encouraged by the hope that we would be back soon, and he went off to have some more private conversations with his brothers.

Because we had arrived in the morning, we had to be served tea before we could have lunch, even though now by now it was way past normal tea time, and even lunch time. Joseph’s stepmom served us a tray piled high with chapati (similar to tortillas) and piping hot tea with milk and sugar. We ate and drank in the warm, dark hut, sweat dripping down our foreheads. Joseph’s aunts had moved his grandmother outside to get some fresh air where she was seated in the middle of all her sons and nephews. She sat quietly, except for every fifteen minutes or so when she would again realize she was surrounded by strangers, and greet everyone. When the food was ready, a table was brought outside under the shade tree, and the men were fed first. Our food was taken back into the house where the table and all the chairs had been adorned with matching doilies. We were served a massive bowl of rice along with fresh, local chicken, and a salty red sauce. We all filled up our plates, even though we were definitely still full from tea and chapati, and tried our best to finish what we took.

Walking back outside into the fresh air, I was struck by just how many people were gathered. Now that all the cooking was finished the aunts and cousins had come out of the kitchen and were sitting on a straw mat in the shade. By now some of the children of the brothers had arrived, some of them bringing children of their own. There were at least forty people, all gathered together from their plots on the family land to the oldest living relative’s home, just to meet us.

After the meal, Joseph asked to talk with his mom and dad. We explained to them the news about his visa process, and what the next step would be, and that once he gets his visa, he probably won’t be able to return to Tanzania for a while. His parents listened closely, nodding and smiling. After a few moments of silence, Joseph’s dad thanked us for making it a priority to visit him and his family at their home. He told us that no matter where we go, this will always be our home too, and that we are welcome any time. He thanked God for bringing us together, and for delivering the good news that we had been praying for. His mom made sure to remind him that we had a long drive back and that we needed to be going soon. After a few more private conversations, it was decided that we would go together to visit one of the brother’s homes, and since it was next to our plot of land, we could walk together from there to see it.

Gathered outside The White House, we started to say our goodbyes. I crouched down next to Joseph’s grandmother, holding her hand and nodding as she talked to me in words I couldn’t understand. As I was standing to leave, Joseph’s aunt, the one sister among brothers, gave me a hug and held my hands tight. “She kept telling us that she wanted to see Joseph and his wife before she died, and today she did. She loves him very much. Thank you for coming. It was such a blessing.” I hugged her again, not having the words in any language to reply.

When we arrived at one of the older brother’s homes, all of the brothers and their one sister were already gathered in the living room. The oldest brother stood and formally thanked us for coming to visit them. He explained what an incredible gift it was to be with us, even just for a short time, and insisted that we return as soon as we are able. He addressed Joseph directly and spoke about the importance of family and honoring the traditions and culture of their tribe. Then the brother who was a preacher asked us all to stand and lead us in prayer, which ended with everyone shaking hands. Joseph’s dad lead us outside and started down a narrow path in the bush towards our land. Ten minutes later, we came to a clearing and the brothers started discussing which land markers indicated the boundary of our plot and the next. While they discussed, the oldest brother pulled Joseph aside and showed him the boundary. Some of the brothers tried to correct him, but he ignored them and kept walking with Joseph, pointing at telephone poles and prominent trees. We stood there for several minutes as the brothers kept discussing, but finally Joseph’s dad spoke up. “Okay, okay, we can discuss this later. The important thing is that they have seen their land, and they can see that it is good.” I smiled and nodded, and with that, it was time to go. There was another round of goodbyes at the car and Joseph was pulled aside for yet another private conversation before we piled in the van and headed down the dirt road. The sun was already starting to set.

The rest of our trip was much more relaxed than that day trip to Tarime, and it gave Joseph and me a lot of time to think and dream about the future. We talked about what life might be like after we move back to America, and our hopes for owning land in Mwanza, and building a home on our plot in village. For the past year we have been so focused on the goal of getting Joseph to the U.S. and getting married, it was hard to dream of anything other than that. But now, knowing that such a big goal will soon be achieved, our focus started to shift to what else God may have in store for us. I can’t lie, there was momentary fear associated with that realization, but once it passed, I was filled with so much excitement I could hardly contain it. Excitement for all of the possibilities that lie ahead of us- both in the U.S. and in Tanzania- and joy in knowing that God gave me the perfect companion to experience it all with.

Being away from normal life gave us space to dream of the future, but coming home to Bukoba reminded us that our hearts at peace in the present- not because our life is perfect, but because it's where and how God wants us to be.

Mungu akubariki,

Allee