Panya Buku:

My experience with Panya Buku happened during one of my school’s Shamba Days. Shamba is the Kiswahili word for “farm” and on these days classes are called off so students can show up to school armed with their hoes or machetes and go work the school’s farm. Teachers also go to the fields to supervise and I can attest that this is not some casual, educational farming project; this was some hard-core manual labor. I saw gangs of fifteen to eighteen year olds clear brush from a field, fell trees using fire, and massacre unsuspecting bush animals all in one afternoon. My students may sometimes struggle in the classroom but there is no question that they can get shit done!

During the day, I saw a flock of boys rushing across the school campus and heard what sounded like the cries of a panicking dog. The students had an unmistakable look in their eyes I recognized from earlier in the day, a combination of unguarded enthusiasm and purpose that accompanies the extermination of small animals. In the fields, girl students would be clearing brush with a hoe and unearth rats. During the brief, joyful chase, boys would immediately claim the rat and then either stomp or beat it to death.

A quick side note here, no Tanzania is scared of pests or other small things that move fast, so I manage to frequently make a fool out of myself by jumping out of the way of a fleeing mouse or flinching when a chicken goes apeshit. I know I’m just supposed to jig on top of the mouse and ignore the chicken but, when seen as something that could scurry up your pant leg or a mini-dinosaur, both require a little more fear then Tanzanians afford them.

In the afternoon, sitting in the teachers’ lounge, Mr. Ntilla, our schools Kiswahili instructor and one of the quickest wits I’ve met in Kiswahili or English, asked me if I had seen Panya Buku. Not knowing what Panya Buku was, I told him no and, knowing that panya means rat in Kiswahili, I asked what buku means. To this, Mr. Ntilla indicated that it refers to the shape of the rat and, seeking to further clarify the word’s meaning, lowered his head into hunched up shoulders and, with straight arms, made a slow waddling motion with his upper body. It could have been someone’s imitation of a cave man or a grouch minus the scrunched up face but, for this purpose, it was perfect; to this day I do not know the actual definition of buku but I certainly know its meaning.

Later on, more teachers came into the lounge and talk turned once again to Panya Buku. Apparently, the pack of boys I thought was running off to beat a dog, which is not that far-fetched because people really don’t like them here, was actually going to kill Panya Buku. This raised some interesting questions, chiefly, “how big is this rat if it makes sounds like a dog.” While this thought was sloshing around in my head, I notice Mr. Mnaida, the coolest dude around and, non-coincidentally, the only teacher with a motorcycle, saying the Kiswahili word for coconut (I promise I won’t do this every time a Kiswahili word comes up but I must make an exception this time: nazi) while making a cupping motion over his package. Now, I’m used to not understanding conversations I’m a part of, especially when they’re in Kiswahili, but for something of this magnitude I had to interupt. “You know Conor,” Mr Mnaida said, “When you’re trapping Panya Buku, you must wear a coconut over your genitals.” Never before was I so sorry for making a correct assumption. Whipped into a fervor by this ground breaking revelation, I had to ask, “why?” This question elicited much laughter and the pained smiles and hissing teeth that accompany uncertainty in wording and taste. Finally, Mr. Kishimbo, whos first name is Goodluck and speaks impeccable English, sets his forearm down on the table, hunkering down as he looks me right in the eyes; “you must wear a coconut because, if you don’t, Panya Buku will take your scrotum,” and with this response he used his free hand to make a palms up “taking motion” in my direction.

At first I was stricken with panic but, after my initial terror of beastially removed testicles subsided and I allowed myself one empathetic yelp, even more questions began to pop into my head: Does Panya Buku consciously go for the scrotum or does it just have the capability? Do you have to confront trapped Panya Buku or will Panya Buku recognize your trap for what it is and hunt down your scrotum out of spite? Can Panya Buku look its children in the eyes when they ask about its day job? Does Panya Buku kiss its spouse and children on the lips? Most importantly, where were my student’s coconuts and would I do the same thing in Panya Buku’s shoes?

These are questions better left unanswered, especially the last one. I still have yet to see a panya buku and so it remains in my head as Panya Buku, a creature of mystery, judgment, and wonder. It will continue to live in my head as a spaniel-sized manifestation of when things are better said imprecisely, raising more questions than it answers, lumbering through the bush and asking “you feeling lucky punk?” Maybe one day I will finally see Panya Buku but I fear that this may be the day when everything starts making sense in my new home and the wonder that now accompanies every day of my life will fade to yield a sharp, distinct, and unapologetic reality. Maybe it won’t but either outcome is better than the unspeakable third option.

So, now I must end with what I say every night, as I look up at my mosquito net and hear unusually large rustlings in my ceiling. It’s a prayer for the continuation of uncertainty’s wonder and the evocative power of language and the human imagination. It goes, “Please Panya Buku, don’t take my scrotum.”

Flauers!

Neeepil

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Not scared of rats