The White Masai (29 page)

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ith my baby wrapped in her kanga on my back we pass through immigration without problems and to our mutual delight find my mother and her husband Hans-Peter waiting for us. Napirai is interested by all the white faces.

On the trip up into the Bernese Oberland I notice from my mother’s face that she’s worried by my appearance. When we get home the first thing I do is take a bath: a hot bath at last! My mother has bought a little bathtub for Napirai and washes her. When I’ve been in the hot water for about ten minutes all of a sudden my whole body starts to itch. The little cuts and scratches all over my body have opened up and started to discharge. These are mostly cuts from my Masai body decoration, and in this damp climate they don’t heal well. I climb out of the bath to see my body covered with red blotches. Napirai is crying and her grandmother in despair – the baby too is covered with red spots that itch terribly. My mother is worried it might be something infectious and books us an appointment with a specialist for the next day.

He’s amazed to diagnose our complaint: scabies, an extremely rare disease in Switzerland. There are little mites under our skin which the extreme heat has set moving and which is what causes the itching. Obviously the doctor wants to know where we could have caught this. I tell him about Africa. When he discovers my other wounds some of which have cut up to half an inch into my flesh, he suggests I should have an AIDS test. That’s a bolt from the blue and knocks the wind out of me, but I’m prepared to do it. He gives me several bottles containing liquid that we should apply to the scabies three times a day and tells me to call back
in three days’ time for the results of the test. Those three days not knowing are the worst thing of all.

The first day I sleep a lot and go to bed early with Napirai. The next day the phone rings and it’s the doctor for me personally. My pulse is racing as I take the receiver waiting to hear what my fate is. The doctor apologizes for calling so late but tells me he just wanted to relieve my anxiety: the test is negative. I’m overwhelmed with thanks! I feel as if I’ve been given a new lease on life, and a feeling of strength returns to my body. Now I know I’ll get over the after-effects of the hepatitis. Each day I step up my consumption of fat and eat everything my mother puts on the table.

Time drags, though, as I no longer feel at home here. We go for lots of walks, visit my sister-in-law Jelly and take Napirai out in the snow for the first time. She seems to like life here a lot, except for all the
putting-on
and taking-off of clothes.

After two and a half weeks I realize I don’t want to stay beyond Christmas but the first available flight is on January the first, 1990. By then I’ll have been away from home for nearly six weeks. Nonetheless parting is difficult because once again I’m thrown back on my own devices. I’m going back with nearly ninety pounds of luggage. I’ve bought or sewn presents for everybody. My family has given me lots too, and there are Napirai’s Christmas presents to pack. My brother has bought me a
baby-carrier
to go on my back.

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hen we arrive in Nairobi my nerves are stretched to breaking, not knowing whether or not Lketinga will have come to the airport to meet us. If not and I’m left on the street with Napirai and all the luggage, it won’t be easy to find somewhere to stay in the middle of the night. We say goodbye to the stewardesses and make our way to passport control. We’re barely through when I spot my darling with James and his friend. I’m overjoyed. My husband has painted himself magnificently and done his long hair beautifully, standing there wrapped in his red cloth. He throws his arms around both of us in delight, and we set off for the accommodation they’ve already booked. Now Napirai has problems with all the black faces and starts to cry. Lketinga is worried in case she no longer even recognizes him.

When we get to the hotel they all want to see the presents straight away, but I only unpack the watches because we want to be on our way tomorrow and everything is carefully packed. The boys retire to their room, and we go to bed. We make love, and at last it no longer hurts. I’m happy and hope once again that everything will turn out for the best.

Amidst all the chat on the way home I discover that they’re going to build a proper big school in Barsaloi. A plane arrived from Nairobi with Indians on board who stayed a few days in the Mission. The school is going to be built on the other side of the big river, and lots of workers will come in from Nairobi – all Kikuyus – but nobody knows when they’re going to start. I tell them all about Switzerland and of course about the scabies because my husband’s going to have to be treated too or else he’ll just infect us again.

Lketinga had brought the car as far as Nyahururu and left it at the Mission there – I’m astounded at his courage – so we get back to Maralal easily, although suddenly the distances seem vast to me. We return to Barsaloi the next day, Mama welcomes us happily and gives thanks to Enkai that we have returned healthy and well from the ‘iron bird’, as she calls the aircraft. It’s good to be back home.

There’s a hearty welcome for me in the Mission too. When I ask Father Giuliani what all this is about a school he confirms what the boys told me and that the building work is actually going to start in a few days’ time. There are already people here putting up barracks for the workers to live in. The building material is coming on lorries via Nanyuki-Wamba. I’m astounded that such a major project is actually going to be realized, but Father Giuliani tells me it’s part of a government plan to end the Masais’ nomadic way of life and make them settle down. The area is suitable because there is always water in the river and enough sand to be mixed with stone to make cement. The presence of a modern Mission building also contributed to the government’s decision. The days go by happily, and we take regular walks over on the other bank of the river to watch what’s going on.

My cat has grown. It would seem Lketinga kept his promise and fed it, though apparently only with meat because it’s as wild as a tiger. Only when she snuggles up next to Napirai in bed does she start purring like a tame moggy.

After two weeks the first workers from outside arrive. The first Sunday most of them turn up in church as the mass is virtually the only entertainment for these townsfolk. The Somalis have put up their prices for sugar and maize drastically, which has led to a lot of arguments and a village meeting with the elders and the little boss man. We take part too, and people keep asking me when the Samburu shop will finally open again. Some of the workers who’ve turned up ask me if I wouldn’t consider using my car to fetch beer and soft drinks. They say they’d pay me well as they get good wages and have nothing to spend them on. As Muslims, the Somalis won’t sell beer.

When the workers keep coming by I start thinking seriously about doing something to earn money again at last. I get the idea of opening a sort of disco with Kikuyu music, where we could grill meat and sell it along with beer and soft drinks. I talk it all over with Lketinga and the
vet, with whom he’s started spending a lot of time. Both think it’s a great idea, and the vet reckons we could sell
miraa
too as people are always asking for it. In next to no time it’s settled, and we decide to start up at the end of the month. I clean up the shop and knock out fly posters, which we pin up around the place and distribute among the workers.

The feedback is huge. On the very first day a few people come to ask why we can’t start that very weekend. But that’s too little notice as, apart from anything else, sometimes there’s no beer to be had in Maralal. We do our usual trip there and come back with a dozen cases of beer and soft drinks. My husband sorts out the
miraa
. The car is so packed that the journey home takes longer than normal.

When we get back we store all the goods in the main part of the shop because our previous living space out back is going to be the dance floor. Before long the first customers are there looking for beer. Then the little boss man turns up and demands to see my disco licence! Of course, I don’t have one and ask him if I really need to. Lketinga has a chat with him, and he promises that the next day, for a consideration of course, he’ll sort things out: for a handful of cash and a few free beers he’ll grant us our licence.

At last it’s the day of the disco, and everyone is very worked up. Our shop assistant knows a bit about technology and has taken the battery out of the car to fix it up to a cassette recorder: we have sound! In the
meantime
a goat’s been slaughtered, and two boys are butchering it. We have lots of volunteer helpers, and Lketinga is spending more time delegating tasks to other people than dealing with them himself. By half-past seven everything is ready: the music’s playing, the meat is sizzling on the grill and people are queued up outside the back door. Lketinga takes the entrance money from the men, women get in free, but most of them stay outside peeking in and giggling. Within half an hour the shop is full, and workers keep coming up and congratulating me on the idea. Even the foreman comes up to thank me for my efforts, saying his people needed a bit of entertainment, particularly as for some of them it’s their first job far from home.

I enjoy being in the company of so many happy people, most of whom speak English. A few Samburus from the village turn up, even a couple of the elders who sit on upturned crates, wrapped in their blankets watching the dancing Kikuyus with unfettered amazement. I don’t dance myself even though I’ve left Napirai with Mama. A few people ask me to
dance, but one glance at Lketinga is enough to persuade me against it. He sits there discreetly knocking back beer and chewing his
miraa
, all the rest of which is long gone.

At eleven p.m. the music is turned down, and some of the men say a few words of thanks, addressed to me in particular, the
mzungu
. An hour later the last beer is gone, and even the goat has almost vanished. Our guests are in a good mood and the party goes on until four a.m. before everyone goes home. I fetch Napirai from Mama and stumble home with her exhausted.

Counting up our takings the next day I realize the profits were a lot more than we made from the shop. My good mood is soon ruined, however, when Father Giuliani roars up on his motorbike and asks what sort of a ‘hellish racket’ was going on in our shop last night. Quietly I tell him about the disco. He says he doesn’t mind if it’s only twice a month, but he insists on getting to sleep after midnight. If I don’t want to rub him up the wrong way, that’s something I’ll have to bear in mind the next time.

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hen a few men come over from the river and ask if there’s still a beer to be had, I have to tell them no. Then my husband appears and asks the three of them what they want. I explain, but Lketinga goes up to them and says that if they want something in future they’re to ask him not me. He’s the man around here and decides what’s to be done. His tone of voice is so harsh that they retreat docilely. I ask him why he has to talk to them like that, but he gives a nasty laugh and says: ‘I know why these people come here, not for beer. I know! If they want beer, why don’t they ask me?’ I had realized that sooner or later we were going to have a fit of jealousy even though I haven’t spoken to anyone for more than five minutes! But I restrain my rising temper; it’s bad enough that these men have gone off with a bad impression when the whole of Barsaloi is talking about our disco.

Lketinga watches me all the time sceptically. From time to time he takes the Datsun and goes off to visit his half-brother in Sitedi or some other relations. Of course I could go with him, but with Napirai I don’t feel like squatting in the fly-infested
manyattas
next to the cows. Time goes by, and I wait until at last James will be done with school. We urgently need money to buy food and petrol and with all these people from outside here now we can easily be earning it.

Lketinga is off somewhere else nearly all the time because it seems there’s always someone or other from his age group getting married. Every day warriors turn up with tales of some upcoming wedding or other. He sets off with them and I don’t know if he’ll be back in two days, three or maybe not for five.

When Father Giuliani asks me if I’m prepared to fetch schoolchildren again as it’s the first day of the holidays, of course I agree. Even though my husband’s not around I set off, leaving Napirai with Mama. James is glad to see me and asks how the disco went – news of it has reached even here. I’ve got five boys to bring back. We go shopping, and I drop in briefly on Sophia. She’s back from Italy but is planning to move down to the coast as soon as possible. It’s too much effort living here with Anika, and she can’t see much of a future for her. I’m sad to hear it because now I’ll have nobody to look forward to seeing in Maralal; we’ve been through some tough times together. But I understand and am even a little envious; I’d love to see the sea again! As she’s moving soon, we say our goodbyes now; she’ll send word of her new address.

We get back home just before eight p.m. My husband isn’t back so I cook for the boys after they’ve had
chai
with Mama. It’s a jolly evening exchanging stories, Napirai is very fond of her uncle James, and I have to keep telling them about the disco. They sit there listening with sparkling eyes, imagining themselves there too, and in fact the next one is due to take place in two days’ time, except that with Lketinga not here it can’t happen. This weekend the workers are to be paid, and everyone keeps asking me to organize a disco, even though there’s only one day left. I don’t want to risk it without Lketinga around, but the boys persuade me, promising that they’ll organize everything if I buy the beer and soft drinks.

I’m reluctant to go to Maralal and so James and I go as far as Baragoi, the first time I’ve been to this Turkana tribe village. It’s almost as big as Wamba and actually has a beer and soft drinks wholesaler, even though it’s dearer than in Maralal. But the whole thing only takes us three and a half hours. One of the boys writes out flysheets which they go out and distribute, and everyone starts to get excited about the disco. We haven’t managed to sort out the meat though, as there were no goats to be bought and I don’t dare use one of our own, even though they belong partly to me. When I take Napirai down to Mama I notice she’s not as happy as usual because Lketinga isn’t around. But I have to earn money, don’t I? That’s what we all live off.

Once again the disco is a great success. There are even more people because the schoolboys are home. Even three girls dare to come in. With the boys there and my husband not, the atmosphere is actually much more relaxed. Even one of the young Somalis comes in and has a Fanta. I’m
pleased by that because Lketinga is always going on nastily about the Somalis. I feel as if I belong and can talk to lots of people. The boys take turns to sell the drinks. There’s a party mood, and everybody gets up to dance to the bouncy Kikuyu music. A lot of them have even brought their own cassettes. For the first time in two years, I even dance myself and feel as if I’ve let my hair down.

Unfortunately we have to turn the music down at midnight, but the party atmosphere lasts until two a.m., when we close up, and I hurry down to the
manyatta
with a torch to fetch Napirai. I have problems finding the gate in the thorn fence and when I do my heart almost stops when I see Lketinga’s spears planted in the earth outside the
manyatta
! My pulse is racing as I bend down to crawl in. Immediately I hear the grunt that tells me how ill tempered he is. Napirai is sleeping naked next to Mama. I say hello and ask him why he didn’t come up to the shop. At first I don’t even get an answer, then he starts shouting at me, cursing me and looking deranged. He doesn’t care what I say; he doesn’t believe any of it. Mama tries to calm him down telling him the whole of Barsaloi can hear him. Even Napirai starts crying. But when he calls me a whore who sleeps with Kikuyus and even schoolboys, I grab Napirai, wrap her naked in a blanket and run home in tears. I’m starting to become afraid of my own husband.

Before long he flings open the door, pulls me out of bed and demands to know the names of everyone I’ve ‘done it’ with. Now he says he knows Napirai isn’t even his daughter and I only told him she was premature because of my illness when really I’d got pregnant by someone else. Every sentence he utters rips away a part of my love for him. I don’t even understand him anymore. In the end he storms out of the house, saying he’s off to find a better wife and is not coming back. Right at this moment I couldn’t care less. All I want is peace and quiet.

The next morning my eyes are so red with tears I can’t bring myself to go out. Lots of people heard us arguing. Around ten o’clock Mama turns up with Saguna wanting to know where Lketinga is. I have no idea. Instead James turns up with a friend. He says he doesn’t understand either, but says his brother never went to school and warriors don’t have any idea about running a business. James tells me what Mama thinks. She wants to talk to Lketinga, to tell him not to get so angry, and that he’ll come back. I shouldn’t keep crying, I should pay no attention to him, all men are like that and that’s why it’s better for them to have more than one wife. James
disagrees with her, but none of it’s any help to me. Even the night watchman from the Mission has been sent down by Father Giuliani to find out what’s up. I find it all very unpleasant.

Lketinga eventually turns up late in the day, but we hardly exchange any words. Life gets back to normal, and nobody says anything more about it. Then a week later he disappears again for another ceremony.

The girl who fetches water for me has become ever more unreliable and so I have to drive down to the river to fetch a couple of canisters of water, leaving the boys to look after Napirai. But when I try to set off home again, I can’t get into gear, the clutch keeps slipping. Depressed to find myself broken down again for the first time in two months, I walk up to the Mission for help as I can hardly leave the car down by the river. Giuliani is not exactly delighted but comes down anyway and takes a look at the car. He works out that the clutch has indeed gone and says he can’t do anything about it. The only place I’ll get spare parts is in Nairobi and he has no plans to go there for at least another month. I burst into tears with no idea how I’m going to get food for Napirai or myself. Gradually I’m coming to the end of my tether.

He tows the car home for us and says he’ll try to order the parts from Nairobi by telephone. If the Indians are coming back in the plane over the next few days, they might bring the parts with them, but he can’t promise anything.

But four days later he roars up on his motorbike to say the plane will be landing today at eleven a.m. – the Indians are coming to inspect progress on the school construction – but he can’t say whether or not they’ve got the parts.

And indeed the plane does land, at midday. Father Giuliani drives up to the temporary landing strip in his Land Cruiser, picks up the two Indians and drives them down to the river. When I see Giuliani drive off, apparently towards Wamba, and don’t know what’s going on I decide to walk down to the school and take Napirai to Mama.

The two Indians in their turbans look at me in surprise, greeting me with a handshake and offering me a Coke. They ask if I’m part of the Mission. I tell them no, that I live here and am married to a Samburu. That seems to make them even more curious, and they ask how a white woman can live out here in the bush. They had heard that even their workers find it difficult getting supplies. I tell them about my car and that it’s broken down. They ask
me sympathetically if the clutch was for me then, rather than for the Mission. I say yes and ask hopefully if they managed to get it, only to have my hopes dashed when they say there are too many models and the only way to know which is correct is by looking at the vehicle. They see how deeply disappointed I am, and one of them asks where my car is. Then he tells the mechanic they’ve brought with them to take a look at the car and dismantle the faulty clutch. In an hour they’re flying back to Nairobi.

The mechanic is a quick worker, and in less than an hour I learn that not only the clutch but the entire gearbox is wrecked. He packs up the heavy parts, and we drive back. One of the Indians takes a look and reckons it ought to be possible to find the parts in Nairobi, but it won’t be cheap. The two of them confer for a few minutes and then ask me if I want to come back with them. I’m completely taken aback and tell them my husband isn’t here and in any case I have a six-month old child at home. No problem, they say, they have space to take the baby too.

Put on the spot, I don’t know what to do and tell them I don’t know my way around Nairobi. ‘No problem,’ says the other Indian: their mechanic knows every spare parts shop and will collect me from the hotel tomorrow morning and go with me to try to find the spares. In any case if I tried to look on my own as a white woman, people would try to charge me far too much.

I’m dumbstruck by the overwhelming kindness of these two strangers but before I can think any further they tell me to be ready in fifteen minutes at the aircraft. ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ is all I can stammer. The mechanic takes me home, and I hurry quickly to Mama’s to tell her I’m flying to Nairobi. I grab Napirai, leaving Mama standing there in total confusion. Back home I throw together all the essentials for the baby and me, tell the vet’s wife what I’m doing and that I’ll be back as soon as possible with the spare parts. She should give my love to my husband and tell him why I couldn’t wait for his permission.

Then I rush to the airstrip, with Napirai in a kanga sling and a travel bag in my hand. There’s already a crowd of curious sightseers gathered around the plane, and they’re dumbstruck when I turn up. The
mzungu
is flying off, the rumour soon runs, because her husband isn’t here. I realize this is likely to cause problems, but on the other hand I think how happy he’s going to be when his dearly beloved car is working again and he hasn’t had to go to Nairobi.

The Indians arrive in one of the works’ cars at the same time as Mama who stumps up to me frowning and tells me I have to leave Napirai here. I tell her I’m doing no such thing and promise to be back, and she gives both of us Enkai’s blessing. We get in, the engine screams, and the people standing around leap back in shock. I wave to them all, and already we’re bumping down the runway.

The Indians have loads of questions: how I got to know my husband, how I manage to live in this wilderness. Their amazement makes me laugh, and I feel happier and freer than I have done in ages. In ninety minutes we’re in Nairobi. It’s like a miracle to me to have covered such a vast distance in such a short space of time. Now they ask where to take me. When I tell them the Igbol Hotel near the Odeon Cinema they’re horrified and tell me that part of town’s far too dangerous for a lady like me. But it’s an area I know, and I insist on being dropped there. One of the Indians, clearly the more important of the two, hands me his visiting card and tells me I should ring at nine a.m. and his driver will pick me up. I don’t know what to say and am effusive in my thanks.

Only in the Igbol do I start to wonder if I’ve actually got enough money as I’ve only the equivalent of one thousand Swiss francs. That was all the money I had at home and even that was only because of the disco. I put a nappy on Napirai, and we go down to the restaurant. It’s hard eating at a table with her; she either throws everything on the ground or tries to climb down herself. Since she’s learned to crawl she can race along, and everything’s so dirty here I don’t want to put her down. But she screams and cries until I do. Within seconds she’s covered in dirt, and the locals are looking at me wondering why I give in to her. A few white travellers, on the other hand, are delighted when she crawls under their tables. One way or another she’s content, and so am I. When we get back to the room I give her a thorough wash in the sink. I have to wait until she’s asleep until I can have a shower myself.

The next day it’s pouring with rain. At eight-thirty a.m. I’m standing in the queue outside the telephone booth. We’re soaked to the skin before eventually it’s our turn. I get straight through to the Indian and tell him to pick me up at the Odeon Cinema. He says his driver will be there in twenty minutes. I dash back into the Igbol to change my clothes. My little girl is very brave and doesn’t cry even though she’s soaked through. When we get to the Odeon the driver is waiting for us and takes us to an
industrial district where we’re taken into a grandiose office where the nice Indian is sitting behind a big desk, wanting to know if we’re all right. Then he makes a call, and immediately the African mechanic from yesterday appears. He gives him a few addresses to take me round to find the spare parts. When he asks if I have enough money, I reply: ‘I hope so!’