A brief poem written from the mingled joy and sadness I feel when I think about Rwanda and specifically about speaking the national language, Kinyarwanda. It was often a struggle, occasionally a triumph, and always a privilege. To be an American of African descent without a connection to my ancestors’ language, learning an African language was especially meaningful and I miss being able to do so every day.
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I miss the sound of African words shaped by my own vocal chords, simple and complex, ancient but new.
I miss the feel of African consonants rolling over my tongue, melding into one and filling the space with togetherness.
I miss the struggle of African vowels nimbly shifting meaning as they rise and they fall in the pitch of a voice.
I miss the music of uncolonized African nouns where there are no words for girl or boy, only words for son and daughter.