Genga, ma vie.

Three years ago today, I was arguing with nurses to let me in my sister’s delivery room. She was having her first baby and nurses were blabbing on about some obscure COVID policy. Her husband, the natural choice, was already inside and she could only have one guest. This confused me as we were ALL having a baby. Plus, it was 2022. COVID had lasted 2 years. If we hadn’t died by now, we weren’t going to. “Ma’am – these are not my rules” “Ok- then let me break them…” I went on for so long, they threatened to call security.

When I went back downstairs to vent to dad, he scanned me from head to toe and did not say a word. I knew I was in trouble. Honestly, I don’t know why he likes to pretend I didn’t get my nonconformist nature from him. When he is in a good mood, he jokes, “Amaraso y’ubuto sha, ndayazi!” First of all, the man wore jean shorts. Think about it– ever seen a man past 30s (“umupapa”) in a traditional African society, back in the days, wear shorts? He had travelled to America in the late 80s and likely saw it from the Indiana whithies where he first landed. It is true that MY nonconformism has an add-on of American arrogance, the type that stays ready to sue… ANYWAYYYYYY – Genga is 3 years old today. She is a fabulous god-baby. Congratulations to the parents, I mean the kid can count in Kinyarwanda, BRAVO! Genga, ma vie, you will always be loved! What shall I bring you from my African voyages?