Lunch &
Basketball

We were able to get a good lunch with Uncle Arkangelou, an
elder to Michael who when in America, lived in Austin, TX. I’d personally been
eagerly waiting to see him and spend time because he’s someone who I could
speak English with and be completely understood and I’ve always admired him.  

Uncle, what we both call him, had been suffering with
diabetes and had not been at 100% but, he did not complain about his health and
true to form, he talked for a while not holding back on his criticisms of the
very government that employs him. He updated us on his five children, and then
made sure to provide us with much needed solicited and unsolicited advice.

“Be weary of so-and-so…he’s after money.”

“When you get a place of your own, be sure not
to get more than one bedroom…it’ll keep people from camping at your house.”

“Be sure to let people know that you are not here to volunteer…you need to be paid!”

It was like sitting with a grandfather or great uncle. Our
time with with Uncle was refreshing as well as educational.

We left lunch and walked across the street to the basketball
court. While the clouds were threatening a storm in the distance, the “old
timers” paid no attention and continued to play. The group of ballers were in
the 40+ category and there were actually a couple of women out there keeping up
with the men. It was hot and humid but, they didn’t care and played for long
time. At some point, Michael noticed an old friend and cousin of Manute Bol,
Nickola Bol also known as Nok

.  

I first met Nok when I met Michael; back on December 16,
1989. Some of y’all know the story and if you don’t I’ll tell it some other
time. Anyway, I’d not seen Nok since 2004 when I had a stop in London during my
first visit to South Sudan. He and his wife Achuei were gracious enough to host
me overnight while on a 12-hour layover. They feed and housed me as well as
introduced me to family living nearby. So it was a true shock for him to hear
me yelling his name from the bleachers and grinning from ear to ear. I wish I
had been able to capture the look of surprise on his face!

When the game was over and ballers young and old filed out
of the small stadium, the group of players had a final huddle and stayed a bit longer. While waiting for the brief meeting to finish, Michael put on
the most sexy strut I’d ever seen and made his way to center court to greet
everyone. He was able to spend a few minutes sharing how excited he was to be
home and how proud he was of the group for working to remain healthy and fit. After
some time of speaking Dinka with a remarkable amount of formalities, he finally
got around to introducing his wife: MonMalou.

The traditional way of referring to the mother of one’s
first born child is by saying the word Mon and then the child’s first name: it’s
always spoken with high regard and ladened with pride and honor.

Once I was introduced, I went around the circle shaking
hands and being “most highly welcomed” to South Sudan. One would have never
known that there was a time, not too long ago, when I despised being referred to as MonMalou.
On that day, I wore my moniker with pride. 

I was proud to be with my husband, I
was proud to be the mother of his three children, and I was proud to among
his people in South Sudan.