Strings of Connection

by Mary Manoah (South Sudan)

Making a local connection Japan

The streets were dimly lit and soothingly silent – ours were laden with filthy sewage watered potholes. As our sharply dressed cab driver took a left turn into a prim looking neighborhood my thoughts began to race, how would our host family receive us? Would I be gracious enough to be remembered? – did all my morals of three decades suit this night and the next day. Would I embarrass my entire continent – AFRICA by doing the most obscure thing? Just as the Takushi was leaving our ever-smiling hostess turned from the front seat of the vehicle “welcome to our humble home.” We couldn’t talk much as she did not speak much English and as my colleague and I strained words right through sieves of comprehension to strike up a conversation with her most of the time – it was more difficult than going through a needle’s eye. As we approached the entrance there was fine line border between the inside and the outside of the house lined with shoes. We were instructed to take ours off as well and slip into another pair of snugly sandals on the inside – which I later observed had no indication of left or right foot – a feature I found quite irritatingly queer and fascinating at the same time. In front of me, I saw an elderly man as he rushed towards us with the broadest smile I’ve seen in a while as our hostess quickly informed us “my husband – husband – she repeated. We had no idea whether to bow or shake hands – and as her husband approached us he began hugging us all with the heartiest and warmest laugh – I Immediately felt welcome as he said “me not knowing English well but we going to speak all night whether you like or no like, I am Reiko Ogita “ to which we all burst out laughing in agreement. As the line of courtesies grew shorter, we had met the whole family – our host’s daughter her husband, their daughters Amika and Yuina and their family friend plus a musician – we would learn later was their longtime friend. Their family friend was invited to make us feel at home and she was the better English speaker- who had come over to receive us and help with dinner and reception of us the guests – it felt special to say the least. Dinner consisted of Makizushi made from thankfully wrapping up fillings in rice and nori seaweed as I was a little worried that my raw fish sense would kick me my in the stomach and I’d have to politely decline. After the meal, we discussed about South Sudan in relation to Hiroshima, its war tarnished image, its likelihood to heal and reconcile. Our host Reiko San as they called him out of respect took it upon himself to be our history guide. As he spoke and articulated his Japanese juggling between his daughter or family friend to translate to us very critical bits of information which he felt he couldn’t deliver In English. As we were invited into the living room – we were entertained by the musician who played an instrument called a Koto – a long wooden string instrument. Enchanting as she plucked at the strings – it felt as though she was transporting my consciousness into the stories that were told of burning bodies of the atomic bomb stuck together, to a girl dying in her class because of the radiation – leaving behind a monument and paper cranes In honor of her – to a 90 year-old man losing his elder sister and never seeing her again at the age of ten (10) and having a photograph of them together which he showed to all the visitors who cared to listen to his sad story. This according to me peppered with some form of twisted obliviousness of its generation to the horrors of the atomic bombs and its effects on the city and its older generation and their story of courage and resilience to rebuilding their lives and city. If only I could retell this story to my people and make them understand that it could be done – that South Sudan could be the Hiroshima of Africa.