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Muzungu

Muzungu.
That’s what they call us on the soccer field when they have no idea what your name is, but want you to somehow come score a goal for them even though your eye foot coordination is about the same as that of a dead fly.
Muzungu.
That’s what they call us when we are walking the streets before they all rush us like a group of linebackers and hurl themselves at you trusting you to catch them…all 10 at once.
Muzungu.
That’s what they call us when they argue over us in the school yard. The arguing is done in their own language, but you can tell they are telling the littler one to go find their own muzungu to hijack a piggyback ride on.
Muzungu.
That’s what they call us through the red iron gate in front of our house. Yelling it over and over again until you come appease their cries with high fives and fist pumps.
Muzungu.
That’s what they call us before pulling us down to sit on the ground so they can play with our soft muzungu hair by pulling it in all directions as they argue over which piece of your head they get to take.
Muzungu.
White person.
That’s what they call us.
In its literally translation it means “someone who roams around” or “wanderer”
But to them muzungu is just us.
Muzungu is the person they get to laugh at when we trip over ourselves on the soccer field
Muzungu is the person they get to run up to and grab hands with without permission
Muzungu is the person they get to treat as a human jungle gym
Muzungu is the person they get to tackle in hugs
Muzungu is the person they love without even knowing our past or asking question about where we are from or what our statis is back home or even talking at all because its a connection that surpasses language.
Muzungu.
I’ll take it.

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