Nine Or Vagina

Freshman year of college 2004: My roommate Mark Eckert and I had the same English writing class. Our teacher was a little Asian graduate student named Sophia Wang, and she had us reading novels written specifically by women.

One particular novel (I forget the name) was written by Virginia Wolfe. One night, I remember discussing the novel with my roommate Mark because I had a speech on the novel the following day, and I wanted to make sure I practiced what I wanted to say. Mark had difficulties taking me seriously, and instead was exploring different ways to say Virginia Wolfe's name. He settled on a mix between Virginia and vagina, creating something that sounded like “Vir-gina Wolfe”. He would repeat the name over and over again to subliminally influence me, then he would tell me to be careful not to say “Vir-gina” during my presentation instead of Virginia.

During class the next day, Mark whispered to me things like, “Good luck on your “Vir-gina Wolfe speech” and would just repeat “Vir-gina Wolfe” with a silly grin. With my nerves already taut from the coming presentation and my unreasonable fear that I would actually slip up and say “Vir-gina”, I curtly reprimanded him and stood to give my presentation. Suffice to say, I spoke soundly and pronounced “Virginia” with all the appropriate vowels and consonants.

Yet, here in Kenya I haven't been so lucky.

The other day, a couple of boys walked up to me as I was gathering some milk sap from a tree. They asked me what I was doing and why, so I explained to them that I wanted to test the milky tree sap as a potential glue. The boys looked on with curiosity written on their faces, and after some silence I felt the need to speak again. The conversation, in Swahili, went like this:

Louis: So, what are your names?
Boy 1: Mwarkio
Boy 2: Maganga
Louis: I see. My name is Louis. How old are you?
Boy 1: I am eleven.
Louis: And is this your brother?
Boy 1: Yes.
Louis: How old is he? Wait, let me guess..he is nine or vagina.

The boys' faces immediately flushed with embarrassment. I followed up quickly with “I'm Sorry. I know that word. Sorry!”

I don't buy into Sigmond Freud's philosophies all too much, though my episode might be considered a Freudian slip. I wouldn't say I am particularly sexually frustrated so I think I would have to search for answers in another.

Perhaps language is to blame.

The word for “ten” in Swahili is spelled “kumi”. When learning this word, our language teachers made specific mention to say it correctly, because a very similar word “kuma” means “vagina.” An easy slip up, right?

I remember back to when I was young, hearing words like penis or clitoris made my ears burn and my heartbeat quicken. I could imagine how much more potent words like that are to boys in conservative, rural communities who have not been desensitized by mass media.

The boys were silent after, their hands cupped against their mouths for a time as they sauntered awkwardly away from me. The ordeal made me feel awkward as well, as I would imagine I would feel had I just given the “birds and the bees” talk to my own children.

Well, I have had other Swahili mistakes, but none so blatant as the episode described above. Once, I called my supervisor's daughter a toilet (her name is pronounced“Chow”, and toilet is choo or “cho”), and I told a group of co-workers that my father is pregnant (“dada” is “sister”), and countless others. But the mistakes never hinder me from continuing to speak the language, and for the most part the locals are graciously forgiving.

I never did find out what the kid's age was—I'm guessing he was vagina. And Mark Eckert would have been proud.