Luganda

You don't know.

I think I've learned Luganda all my life.

I wouldn't know how to say it.

Our listeners, thank you so much for giving us your time.

Siri nkoko ndi mpungu.

Siri nkoko ndi mpungu." For those of you who don't know Luganda, he means, "I'm not a chicken, I am a what?" I am an eagle.

"I'm not a chicken, but I'm an eagle." Now, I could not understand how a guy can just spend the whole day...

In fact, even the thought that he's a mother hen or a cock, I th- [laughs] How did it cross his head? [laughs] Child of God, child of the Most High, he was meditating.

and say whatever you want.

Or just show that I'm a Luganda.

But

Bonnie, between you and I, we cannot construct full sentences in Luganda.

Bonnie, you know your Luganda.

You know your Luganda is not good.

Tell us your story.

You

You could maybe understand it in a different way, because what is very often the case in African music, not always, but very often, is that some sort of text, some sort of lyric, and therefore also some sort of story, is baked into the music, even if it is not being said or sung, even if it's purely instrumental music.

So, for example, you will find a different dimension of appreciation of this music if you speak Luganda and you actually know...

the histories that are being talked about.

I mean, just speaking Luganda is not enough.

You have to know, for example, the historical events.

If you take a piece from the repertoire of the court music of Uganda, let's say, I don't know, Sematimba ne Chikwabanga, it's a story about two princes.

You have to know that story, but then if you understand Luganda, maybe you can somehow link the music up to the embedded text.

which as a non-speaker, you're not going to be able to do, but you still can enjoy the incredibly sophisticated use of how we hear two interlocking melodic streams that we cannot differentiate by timbre, we cannot differentiate by musician, we hear something very fast, and now we start reorganizing what we're hearing, for example, into frequency bands.

The pen used was a pointed piece of speargrass, and the ink had been made from potsut and plantain juice.

None of us could have read it, for it was written in Luganda, yet it brought Mr. McKay the best news he had heard since reaching Uganda.

During all the three years he had spent in Mutesa's kingdom not a single black man or woman in the country, as far as he knew, had showed that he truly wanted to be a Christian.

this little letter bringing the good news was from one of mackay's first pupils a young man named sembera bwana master mackay it read sembera has come with compliments and to give you the great news will you baptize him because he believes the words of jesus christ never afterwards was sembera ashamed of being a christian day by day he lived a sort of life which convinced every one that he was true blue although only a slave-boy he was ever trying to persuade others to become christians two years after his baptism two young men whom he himself had won boldly acknowledged jesus as lord and saviour and even his old slave-master became a christian later because sembera his slave-boy had taught him of jesus About a month after Zambara's note came, another bit of important news reached the missionaries.

His sunburned face told of hours spent out of doors as farmer, carpenter, or bridge builder, and his hands were blackened and hardened by the heavy labor which was almost continually his.

Many a time he longed for more spare hours in which the bright lads who came to the mission might be taught to read the Bible.

At nights and in the evenings, when outdoor work was impossible, he would turn into schoolmaster, or printer, or, with the help of some Luganda boys, he would make an attempt at translating parts of the Bible into Luganda.

He wrote, Any amount of mere preaching would never set these lazy fellows to work.

The mother was very sad.

She sent the old nurse out to the hills where Musoke was herding the goats and said, tell my child to come home by the back way and to sit in the kitchen hut till i have told him what to do then she cooked food for the messenger and said when you have eaten you shall see the little girl and take her away with you she dressed musoke in a little bark cloth and put bracelets on his hands and as she did so she told him the story of his birth and said i have saved your life up till to-day i can do no more you must use your own wisdom and she told him a Luganda proverb.

It is no use asking the gods to help you if you don't mean to run fast.

Then she led Musoke to the messenger and said, Here is my little girl.

And he has this terminology.

It's, I think, a Luganda term.

It says, which is kill it to learn it.

So, you know, in terms of like fixing a radio, you take it apart and then you have to put it back together.

And so that's how it used ...

I'm sorry to use Luganda.

[laughs]

[laughs]