That's not my name, that's not my name- or is it?

Mulungu, Mulungu, Mulungu! The criancas (children) shriek as they encounter the rare site of a very strange, white girl traipsing around their town. She seems to know where she is going and manages to speak a bit of their local language, but surely she is a rich foreigner- right? I understand their fascination with me- the foreigner, but I also find myself frustrated by this common utterance (mulungu) put forth by adults and children alike. I know they are not saying this in a malicious manner, but they are putting me in this mulungu box with every other white person. I am not South African, I am not Portuguese, I am me. Not just some “mulungu,” but a specific, unique mulungu.

 I argued with three children all the way home about my name. In my broken Portuguese, that they may not even understand, I say, “Meu nome nao e mulungu, e Cheyanne.” Then they repeat my name in a mix of utterances that still includes mulungu. Hopeless- as of yet. These feisty children were “estou pediring” (or asking) for everything they could think of. It became a game where they would ask for something and I would say “Nao!” in a manner that would make them laugh and then they would ask again and answer their own question with a replica of my “Nao!” It was actually quite entertaining and it was nice to have company for a Saturday stroll from the mercado.

 My beautiful 2-year-old neighbor girl took to following me around yesterday chattering in a mix of Citswa, Portuguese and some plain 2-year-old jabber. She was mostly completely unintelligible. The best part was that it didn’t matter. Ku and I wandered the school grounds babbling unintelligibly to each other for hours (well that was in between trying to keep the matches, knife and piri-piri sauce out of her curious little hands). Meanwhile a 3 year old boy named U sporadically waltzed in and out of my closed front door demanding the whereabouts of my roommate. It is all rather entertaining, really.