There was a monkey at Westville when Matt and I came back from Mariannhill today. Matt casually said, “Do you see him?” and I looked around, thinking he was asking about Tim. Apparently he was right in front of me, but by the time I noticed, he had scurried up a tree and was out of sight. I went to my room and was standing in the doorway, talking to Tim (who had appeared) and Matt. “Monkey!” I called, as he came into sight and then jumped onto the roof. “Come here!” Matt reached out and slammed my door with me on the inside. “I don’t think they come when you call,” Tim said (I could hear because I was now sticking my head out the window). “Besides,” said Matt, “I don’t think he knows he’s a monkey.” “Yeah, well, I don’t know the Zulu word.” Silence.
(I’ve since looked it up. It’s “inkawu.”)
In other exciting Zulu news, I’m starting to be able to pick out words I know when I’m reading. I try to use a Zulu Bible sometimes and follow along when someone’s reading English. The translations aren’t quite equivalent so it’s not that easy. The other day we ran out of Bibles and I handed mine to someone and used my phone. It was a guy I’d never met and he was quite amused to see that I’d been using a Zulu Bible.
It’s a beautiful language. I hope to be conversational at some point. Every time we set up Mobile BEC I’m reminded how little I know. The other day it took me way too long to get out the answer to “Unjani?” (“How are you?”) to this guy who came up. When I finally did manage a “ngiyaphila,” he was already gone, and Bro. Siphwe pointed to a woman who had crossed our paths during the interaction. “She laugh because you speaking Zulu. She turn around and laugh at you.”
I was signing up another guy who walked by and was quite drunk (I have really bad drunk radar; I never notice until I’m in the middle of an interaction) who seemed to speak no English at all. He wanted to sign up for the course but was struggling to write his name in his condition (this isn’t funny; just true). After trying to communicate several times and his friend having to interpret everything into Zulu, the guy looked straight at me and said, “write like doctor,” and pointed at his chicken scratch. We shared a laugh. And then he tried to remember his phone number (no judgment, I don’t know mine here) and write it down (not for me; for the course). After about five minutes and a few unintelligible digits, I said, “That’s enough. Anele.” (I only know that “anele” means “enough” because I know a couple of kids named that – always the youngest in the family, as you might guess.) He laughed and laughed at my appropriate use of the word, and then stumbled off.
We found out that the little boy who blew his fingers off was not shocked after all (as we had suspected by the look of the injury). He was playing with fireworks. As of Saturday afternoon (it happened Thursday morning), he still hadn’t had surgery. I don’t know if he was sent back home or if he’s still at the clinic, but it’s horrifying to think about how long he’s been like that. I hope someone is taking care of him. Bro. Funo said he’d like to find out where he lives and go do a small service – like a Bible reading and a prayer, if the family is game. He asked if I want to go along, so hopefully we’ll be doing that soon. Poor little guy.
[Some kids playing hand-clapping games at Lamontville Youth Day yesterday.] They made me play along and just told me what to say each time it was my turn. During one game, things seemed to be running smoothly until one kid walked up to another, pointed his fingers like a gun, and shot him right in the head. “Are we shooting people?” I asked. “I don’t think I want to play this game.” I stepped out of the circle and connected the hands of the two kids beside me, but they quickly found a less-violent alternative. I’m not a big fan of the “don’t let kids play cops and robbers” mentality, but there’s something just creepy about kids in this environment acting out stuff like that.
That’s all. Gotta be rested up for my day off tomorrow.
Next Comes Africa 