Fanta Orange

School is over. I have proctored for the last exams and turned in my final grades. Teachers are deliberating grades to prepare for second chance exam sittings and students are planning and preparing their end of the year parties. These student parties are very impressive. I’ve been waking up to large amounts of my girls in my yard – the morning rooster paired with the sound of an axe cutting up cooking firewood outside my door. They are cooking at my house because I live with the manager (Jacques) and the dean of discipline (Jacky) and we have the space and the utensils to make large meals. So recently I’ve been opening my wooden shutter to curious smiling students who otherwise haven’t had the gall to visit me in my foreign lair. With sleep in my eyes scratching my head I bid them good morning and accept that I’ll be ‘on display’ for the day. When there isn’t electricity and your room is a cement box (though, beautiful one) an open shutter is your only source of light – and the perfect height for a teenager to spot pictures from America posted on the wall. Though it can be taxing, having some hang out time with my students is a really is a good way to end the year. I’ve enjoyed sitting with them by the fire and testing their English (lord help them…) and using Kinyarwanda (which I mostly avoided with my students during the school-year) amidst screams of delight.
I’m amazed at what these students can do with a roll of toilet paper (more often used for streamers than its common American use...), some old paper folded or cut into chains and tree branches in regards to decorations for their parties. The most recent one I went to students greeted the teachers at the door and lead them to a seat at a table decorated with a bouquet of fake flowers (which I recognized as Jacky’s). The blackboard was covered in drawings and well wishes in Kinyarwanda, English and non-English (one sentence proclaimed ‘Jesus is Camming!’). Some girls wore umushanana – a thin colorful skirt and cloth draped over one shoulder with a tank top underneath. The activities included traditional dancing, some choir songs and many many many speeches. There is also the food and Fanta.

The Fanta… I would like to find out when and how it began, but the type of Fanta you choose can speak volumes about your personal life. As Rwandans will mischievously tell you – Orange Fanta is for virgins, and your thirst quenching decision can lead to snickers from all around. This particular time I didn’t get to choose – one of my students, a boy from my younger classes, got to my seat, nervously handed me orange and quickly moved on. I felt slightly bad for him having to hand his female teacher an assumptive Fanta. I chuckled to myself and sipped away until a male guest – a guy from the district office visiting for the day leaned over:

“You know the significance of that Orange Fanta… don’t you…?” He asked smiling at me, sipping his Fanta Citron.

“Yes… yes… I know.” I sighed.

“Well, also… it’s not good to drink those if you know in your heart that….” He trailed off and looked at the orange filled bottle on the table.

“Umm... What?” I said, looking at him with raised eyebrows, daring him to continue his sentence. The guest leaned back into his seat and looked into his hands and I just shook my head. Oh Rwanda.

It’s bittersweet to know that I have only a handful of these ‘special moments’ as end of the year parties dwindle; a few more mornings waking to the smell of fire smoke, a few possible Orange Fantas, and a couple more times admiring my students beautiful singing voices as they fill every crevice of a toilet paper decorate classroom.