Tales

As I write this Munch sits in my jacket with his head poking out, watching my fingers dance over the keys. I don't think it's cold yet, but he only weighs 3 pounds, so this is our nightly routine.

I was walking back to school from lunch when I ran into a student of mine. She is one of my best students, one I probably give too much slack because of it. Our conversation was very basic. I asked about her family. Her mother lives in a village a few hours away, she gets to see her on the weekends. “What about your dad?” I asked.
“He lives here.” She said.
“Oh that’s nice, do you live with him?”
“No. My dad never wanted me since my mother was pregnant with me. He never spoke to me as I grew up. Now that I am older he wants me, but now I do not want him,” was her calm reply.
“Oh,” was mine.

Celeste is one of the women at school. She’s is the oldest, and is very much our mother figure. She is the woman who rounded everyone up on my birthday and insisted we celebrate. Celeste attended my English class for my coworkers and was one of the first people to openly welcome me.
She works more hours than anyone else, by a long shot. Almost forty hours of classes, which is a huge number. She says that she likes to work.
Celeste does not live with her husband. Apparently he began to develop some mental issues and one day left home and retreated into the mato (the Mozambican word for the bush, or the wilderness). He left Celeste and her children, and no one—including the family—heard from him for more than fifteen years. Celeste’s children are grown and she has been living alone for some time. She shows pictures of her once intact family willingly.
Last week he returned, again without warning. Celeste was beside herself, elated. She brought him around the school and introduced him to everyone. He’s living with her now.

On my way to school I often see a little boy whose name I do not know, of maybe seven years. He is mischievous, I can tell by the look in his eye, and obviously very poor. He wanders around the village alone and likes to speak Shitswa to me, probably because he is too young to know any Portuguese.
The other day I had my umbrella. It wasn’t raining anymore so it was hanging from my bag. He approached, “Uvukili ke!” (How are you?)
I saw him and drew my umbrella like a sword, “nzi vukile hante wenau!” (I’m well and how are you?)
He turned and ran, “nzi vukileyo” (I am also fine)
Ï chased him down the street, brandishing the umbrella, “eyo!” (also)
He threw his hands in the air and ran evasively, trying to dodge the umbrella’s pokey end, “uya kuehi?” (where are you going?) He asks me this same question every time we meet.
“Nzia kaia” (I’m going home) I responded as I poked him in the ribs with the umbrella.
“Ate manzico,” (until tomorrow) he said as he batted the umbrella away, still running at full bore.
“Ate manzico” I replied as I chased him down the street.
The chase went on in silence for the last 30 meters until I got home, the smile never fading from his face (or mine). I saw him again the next day and almost every day since.

One of my students, Ilorgio, stopped by my house the other day. Again, our conversation was about basic things, school and family mostly. He’s a first year in the secondary school, meaning he’s about 14 years old. He acts very mature, with a measured step and an even tone of voice, and a slow, deliberate handshake.
Ilorgio lives here in town with his family. He lives with his mother and younger brother. “That’s a very small family” I said, most Mozambican families are quite a bit larger, sharing a house with many generations and cousins.
“Yes it is. I once had another brother, but he died. In school his teacher gave the chefe (the elected class leader) permission to hit anyone that came into the class late. One day my brother came in late and the chefe hit him on the head. In the following days my brother was very sick. We took him to the hospital, and they gave him some medicine. After that he didn’t get better. We went back to the hospital, but a short time after that he died.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But in life these things happen.”
Do they? I wanted to ask him.

I have been trying to get in some hang out time with my colleagues for the last couple of months. It’s not easy, my language still has a ways to go, and making friends can sometimes take a while as it is, let alone through a cultural barrier. I had gotten some numbers, made a few calls, but nothing had come of it. Until yesterday.
A colleague texted me, about something I had mentioned a few days before about celebrating the end of our finals week. I could hardly believe it. I was on a chapa when I received the text, and by happenstance so was another of my colleagues. I showed the text to him, and sure enough we three met up, plus another colleague, for a beer at the small bar across the street.
It started a little stiff, but by the end it was all laughs. Guy time is still guy time. We talked about politics, and girls, but mostly we talked about food. I was actually getting most of the jokes, and had no problem pitching in. I had planned to be out for maybe thirty minutes, two and a half hours later I had to peel myself off. “One more beer!” They insisted, but I still had to cook before bed, so with a prolonged goodbye I walked across the street to my house. It was just what I needed.