I do not speak Kinyarwanda

I do not to speak Kinyarwanda. 

I have, however, perfected not only in comprehension but pronunciation the following words: moon (Ukewezi) sun (Izubo) rain (Invura), stars (Yinyenri), beans (Ibishimbo) water (Amazi) and ‘come here’ (Guino Hano). I have mastered the ability to act surprised or angry with my girls using only one syllable and sound “Eeh…” I can tell when they are sad because when that happens they don’t speak at all. Their eyes follow the ground until their way is perfectly memorized through the green and the red landscape of Ahagozo-Shalom. I do my best to roll my tongue at the precise moment or press it reluctantly against the top of my mouth. I send short bursts of air through my teeth and try to have my lips burst with the precision of a native East African mama.

I do my best to listen. 

I listen to how they speak their language through their bodies. I watch how they celebrate when they dance and am filled with piercing envy when I realize that my backside will never move to the beat the way their's does at the "boom" every Friday night. 

I watch how they raise their forks to their mouths, how they hold each other’s hands like they’ve known each other for decades and how they believe in Jesus with no question or doubt and wonder how I don’t and what will happen to me.

 I notice how they listen to each other’s words and how so much can be said through those slender strips of hair above their bright eyes. I notice how they take care of each other and how so graciously they take care of me. They pile my plate high with rice every afternoon, they demand to carrying my heavy laptop from dining hall to home and if I didn’t insist on doing it myself they would happily wash my all my clothes probably for the rest of my life.

But still, I do not speak Kinyarwanda.

A week ago, at 5am I went to wake up my girls. Together we glided through the cool morning air with the burning sun coming up in the east. For a while we sat and waited for the whole of the village to be together as people slowly trickled in through the front doors of the dining hall. “Ayel, you look sad, why are you sad?”

I do not speak Kinyarwanda.

When JC, Agahozo-Shalom’s village director, informed the kids that Anne died, I listened. I listened to the popping P’s, the rolling R’s, the sharp Ch and the cutting K’s. In those 30 seconds Kinyarwanda was the most terrifying language that I did not understand.

When the sharp scream of our kids erupted in the enormity of the dining hall I realized that I did not need to understand Kinyarwanda to comprehend the terror of loosing what these children just lost.

That day was a terrible day but a remarkable one as well. I was fortunate to witness these kids carry each other. Some went from family home to family home and gave speeches about how we must stay strong; they painted pictures, they wrote poems, they danced, they prayed. Anne said once that no person acts alone and that it takes a community to raise a child. That day these kids began to raise themselves 

I do not understand why Anne died. I do not understand Kinyarwanda.

But I have come to truly understand the power of Agahozo Shalom.

I am not worried.

Anne did a very good job.