November 11

I’m living on school housing and my building is split into two homes, each designed to fit a single family. Cleophas Yamiseo arrived at the school a week after I did, and began living in my home during the beginning of the semester. He is married with three kids, Jessica, Angel and Daniel. I don’t know what his wife’s real name is but everybody calls her Mama Yamiseo. Besides Daniel, who is off at school for most of the year, I see this family on an hourly basis.
Cleophas is a history teacher. When we first met he pointed out the anti-American sections of the Tanzanian syllabus as if I would be impressed. But he did let me raid the Departmental library (The Caine Mutiny and The Perfect Storm were the only two novels) and I gave him some homemade wine. Then we watched a pirated version of Shaolin Soccer on his DVD player. I learned over the wine that he had attended a Seminary School, where he had learned Greek, Latin, and a little Hebrew. He is strongly involved with the music program at Ndanda Abbey and owns his own electric keyboard; he directs or accompanies one of the choirs at the masses and he recently recorded a CD of gospel music in Dar es Salaam. At first sight he seems jovial and he has a tendency to rush his sentences to the finish while smiling, as if he was embarrassed of what he’s trying to say. He also wears a light-purple button down shirt against dark purple pants; there is no one in the states quite like him. I learned last weekend that he badly wanted to be a priest, but the man in charge of selecting candidates picked a member of his own tribe. I told Cleophas that in America, nobody wants to join the clergy and they’ll take whoever they can get. “Here, very many people,” he replied, shaking his head.