Practicing English

I did not know what my students and I would talk about at lunch, but I figured if we had nothing to say, we could at least eat.

I have learned that the opportunity to practice speaking English with me elicits two responses: terror and delight. This group of first-year Diploma in Education students had been thrilled the week before when I asked them. So thrilled they were sure that Mama Somebody who runs the off-campus canteen would bring the food to us in our classroom. It seemed a huge inconvenience for that mama, so I nixed the idea, especially after Malekea, the guy who sits in the back of the room where the sun beams the brightest, shook his head. Of the 12 or so students in the room, his feet were solidly on the ground.

I could’ve planned topics for discussion, but that seemed like work. Plus, if I plan things, it limits the possibilities of what can happen. (I do not apply this same rule to my classes, though I have abandoned parts or all of my plan after discovering students didn’t understand something critical.)

What did we talk about on the dusty road to Mama Somebody’s canteen? Njau wanted to know how I could expect to teach English and learn Kiswahili at the same time. Based on the fact that he asked this same question 26 times, I decided he really wasn’t interested in my answer; he wanted to practice asking the question. By the time we hiked up the steep short hill to the canteen, he was still asking that question, and suddenly and fortunately, he disappeared.

Outside the front door, Mama was serving food from steaming tables. Inside were about three coffee tables and one tall bar table. Ten of us joined the 3 or 4 people who weren’t expecting to practice speaking English while they ate. Neither was Mama Somebody, judging from her own startled look.

I wasn’t sure about the canteen’s serving system. People were clearly going out to the mama and ordering what they wanted. Bongole was eating rice and meat with sauce. Joseph was eating rice and banana stew. I announced I wanted rice and meat. I stood outside thinking there was a line of people waiting to order and collect food right by the steaming tables and Mama Somebody. But no, Bongole told me to sit down and after a while, the food was brought to me. (I’ve discovered if you don’t know the main language spoken in a country, events appear surprising, fraught with either divine mystery or frustration. Today it was mystery.) All of this was part of a whirlwind of excitement. Bongole, sitting beside me on the bench against the wall, launched into a series of statements about not knowing the local tribal language, he was from the southern region of Iringa, and so on. When I asked him how long it took him to travel to Mwika, he said he didn’t understand the question. Irambo, sitting across from him, did. But Irambo had a mouth full of rice and meat. And apparently, judging from the silence in the room, he was the only one who understood. So we waited.

When Bongole finally explained that it took him 14 hours to travel to Mwika, three other students began to argue, calling him a liar. Bongole, an excitable guy to begin with, could not be contained in his space on the bench. I had to tell him to be quiet three times in English and finally when I said it in Kiswahili, he stopped. Kissima, sitting at the bar table, explained that she had just made the trip from Moshi Town to Iringa and it took her ten hours. After sorting out the details, it was revealed that neither Kissima nor Bongole were lying.

From there we hopped around topics. By the time we had walked back to campus, I was explaining how our large buses in the States have toilets--I used the word “latrine” because they’d just learned it that day. Temba wanted to know where the poop went. How much were people paid to remove the poop? Bongole said he would never do such a job. Kissima said he would if he were paid good money.

At that point, our roads diverged, mine to my apartment, theirs to their next class. Next week, I will write down Mama Somebody’s real name.