I got to meet Nyanja's grandma today. Ancient - slightly tottering, but amazingly strong. It was the first time she'd seen Nyanja in 15 years.

Grandma seemed almost as excited to see me, a token American with whom her long lost granddaughter had grown up. After the standard greeting (three kisses), and after finding out who I was, she fumbled back across the tiny living room (it felt 10x10), grabbed me, kissed me and kept patting my back. She said something in Kinyarwanda. Nyanja laughed. Grandma just told her that, in her village, they said people like me ate people like her. I was her granddaughter's friend.

They washed our hands and served us fresh fruit and Orange Fanta sodas. I listened to Kinyarwanda/French banter for the next three hours, mostly clueless. But I was starting to sort out certain words, even if I had no idea what they meant.