Arthurbuliva at en.wikipedia [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

I grew up next door in Mwanza, Tanzania

so we’d always been family friends

waving at the dentist, guest house, summer camp.

But I thought you were a Western wanna-be.

When you met me at the airport when I was 16,

You said, “Jambo! Karibu!” and I corrected you with, “Sijambo.”

I didn’t want to like you

couldn’t betray Mwanza by forgetting farewells.

The “Mzungu!” unspoken on the streets still chanted in my head

my closet still clothed me in ankle length skirts on Sundays

and Sukuma was a tribe or a verb, not a vegetable.

But this small world gave us a second chance.

This time I listened to your story, learned to name your plants and people.

I trained my reflexes to respond to your roads

and my mouth to greet with the slang Sasa? instead of Shikamoo.

I styled up with polished work shoes and MPESA.

Yet maybe I was not so much settling

as discovering a soul mate

who dances to Swahili songs in church but speaks English

who eats passion fruit, yogurt, kimbap, chapatis, and burritos

who listens to the BBC and Christian hip-hop on the radio.

We’ve got a lot in common.

I can run with you all year ‘round.

We both enjoy poetry slams.

You accept me as a Pentecostal and a professional woman.

We buy books at coffee shops and haggle at used clothes markets together.

You can relate to

my British education, Indian classmates, and missionary worship nights.

I guess we’ve had a similar identity crisis!

My family knows you

and my old friends are always coming from out of town to visit you.

I know you have your secrets and regrets

but we’ve grown in the same direction.

Siku hizi you’ve grown on me.

Maybe one day we’ll make a home together.