By Keturah Kendrick

Recently, I returned to visit East Africa, where I’d lived five years ago.

On this particular visit, I’d gotten a craving for the goat brochettes at Le Poete. When I was an expat in Kigali, I used to gorge myself on several skewers of grilled goat a week because I lived within walking distance of the restaurant.  On this visit, however, I was staying with a friend who lived deep into Kicukiro - way across town from Nyarutarama.

So, I relied on the familiar transportation of a moto taxi. When I flagged down a driver and he idled up next to me, I greeted him with “Miriwe.” As he handed me the helmet, I proudly recited the phrase I perfected so many years before when declaring my destination.  “Dashaku cuza…Nyarutarama,” I beamed.

The driver responded in complete sentences that flowed from his mouth with such ease, such informality. His words flew at me like thick drops of April rain. I smiled sheepishly and shrugged my shoulders like a cartoon character. “Well, this is awkward,” I said to no one in particular. “I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

The driver burst into laughter. “Wha?!,” he made a whole thing of looking shocked. “No Kinyarwanda?!”

I placed my index finger over my thumb, making sure only a sliver of space was between them so I could properly display how much of his language I really understood. “Uhm…un poquito,” I said just as confidently as I had “Miriwe.”  I watched this young man comb through his own list of memorized phrases searching for this odd new English word. He gave up quickly and gestured for me to get on the bike. Once I was positioned on the back, we took off.

“Kinyarwanda…I teach you,” the driver said. He pointed to a car and barked, “imodoka.”

I remembered this word from some of my first language lessons on the backs of motos. I repeated “imodoka,” nailing each syllable like a native.

He pointed to a house and before I realized it, I blurted out “Inzu!!” He was super impressed with my  skills, turning his body halfway around and beaming a smile of approval. I gestured for him to turn back and face the road.

As we approached the Sonatube roundabout that joins three busy neighborhoods, he sped up the motorcycle and said, “Byihuse.”

When I yelled, “Uhm, Bruh…why are you going faster…on the main road?,” he chuckled and nodded vigorously.

“Yes, fast. We go fast.”

Then he abruptly slowed the motorcycle and said, "Gahoro.”

“Uhm…I’mma need you to stop now, Sir. I don’t want to die.”

For some reason, he latched on to the word STOP, deciding this was an easy enough addition to my vocabulary list.  Pressing on the brakes, my driver-teacher proudly stated “Hagarara” and waited for me to repeat it.

It’s amazing how quickly you pick up a foreign language when death looms in the near distance.

I repeated the word with perfect pronunciation and our lesson ended.

There was no more instruction for the next fifteen minutes. When we approached Le Poete, I pointed to the left side of the road and said, “Gahoro.”

He laughed and said “Yes, correct,” as he slowed down.

Entering Le Poete, I was prepared to order my meal with a combo of broken Kinyarwanda, shaky French and fluent English.

They only serve brochettes so that was easy enough. I used my very expressive hands to explain that I’d also like a little Skol (and not a big one) to wash down the meat.

“You are from the United States?” A young man sitting at the bar initiated a conversation I was almost certain would lead to nowhere.

“Yes, I am.”

“Where…Where are you…where are you from? In the US?”

He was more fluent in my language than I was in his, but I’d found myself trapped helplessly in stifled chit chat in several countries to know this could be another struggle-conversation.

“New York City,” I answered.

His face lit up and I could see him running down his English phrases and putting them together in a workable first draft before presenting them to me.

“New York! Oooooh, Alicia Keys! I love it!”

I knew what was coming next and I ran through the language lesson I just had in order to find the best words to cut it off before it proceeded.

“Welcome to Neeeeeew York,” the young man started to sing. He paused and tried to remember what came next.

Against my better judgment, I decided to play along with this man who would no doubt insist on being my new best friend no matter how much I protested.

“Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,” I said much too quickly.

The young man struggled through each word, stumbling on ‘jungle.’  I had to repeat it, sounding out each of the two syllables slowly. He pressed on, finishing the lyric and waiting for the next. I regretted my decision immediately and searched in the recesses of my mind for the word my driver-teacher added to our lesson at the last minute.

My new friend interpreted my lack of engagement as a lack of interest in Alicia Keys. So, he changed the subject.

“Do you like 50 Cent?”

And for the second time that day, I found the motivation to summon words that were unfamiliar to me.

“Hagarara!”

I said it again slower, in case I butchered it the first time. “Ha..gaaaa…rara.”

He did stop, though he seemed surprised by such an aggressive response to a simple question.

Things were awkward between us now.

And I realized I was tired. I just wanted my brochettes and beer. I didn’t want to fight my way through a struggle-conversation. I also didn't want to be rude to this polite young man who’d been waiting all afternoon to practice his English.

I didn’t know how to explain any of this in words he’d understand so I did the only thing I knew.

I waved goodbye while saying, “Bonjour!,” and just walked off toward an empty table across the room.

 

Keturah Kendrick is the author of No Thanks: Black, Female, and Living in the Martyr-Free Zone. She’s written for USA Today, Newsweek, The HuffPost, NBC Think and numerous other outlets. An avid traveler who's explored much of Asia and Africa, Kendrick’s work often highlights the connections made and community created when venturing outside of one’s home country. She currently resides in New York City.