The White Masai (31 page)

I
’ve made up my mind: I’m getting out of here. One way or another, we can’t go on like this. My money is disappearing. My husband is making me into a laughing stock, and people keep away from us because he suspects every man of being my lover. On the other hand, I realize that if I leave him he’ll take my daughter away from me. He loves her and legally she belongs to him or to his mother. I have no chance of getting away with her. In despair I try to work out what can be done to save our marriage because I can’t leave without Napirai.

He never leaves us alone now, as if he suspects something. If I think of my home back in Switzerland he senses it immediately, as if he can read my mind. He makes a big effort with Napirai, playing with her all day long. I’m torn apart – on the one hand, I long for nothing more than to bring up a family together with the great love of my life; and on the other, I feel that love slowly dying because of his lack of trust in me. I’m tired of perpetually having to rebuild that trust and at the same time bear the whole burden of making a living for us, while he just sits there and thinks of himself or hangs out with his friends.

It makes me furious when men drop in, look at my little,
eight-month
old daughter and talk over potential marriage propositions with Lketinga, who listens to their proposals with interest. One way or another, I am not having this. Our daughter will choose her own husband and for love! I am not going to sell her off to some old man as a second or third wife. Also we argue about female circumcision – my husband just doesn’t understand my point of view on this, even though for Napirai it’s still far away.

All this time the battery is still sitting there in the house. I’m about to go and ask one of the missionaries to put it in the car for me when Lketinga declares he can do it. He won’t listen to anything I say, and so to avoid another row I leave him to it. And to my surprise, the car starts straight away. However, an hour and a half later we’re out in the bush and the car won’t start anymore. At first I reckon it’s not such a disaster: maybe a cable’s just come loose. But when I open the hood my heart skips a beat. Lketinga didn’t screw the battery down properly and with all the jogging up and down on the uneven roads it’s come adrift and the battery fluid is pouring out down one side. I’m going hysterical now. Our new, expensive battery is ruined already just because it wasn’t installed properly. I try to use chewing gum to keep in what liquid was left, but it’s no good; in next to no time the battery acid has dissolved it all. I burst into tears, furious with my husband. We’re stuck out here in searing heat with a baby and have no choice but for him to go to the Mission on foot to ask for help while I wait here with Napirai. It’ll take hours.

Thank God I can still breastfeed Napirai, or we’d be in a total mess. At least I have drinking water. The time drags, and the only entertainment is a couple of passing zebras and a family of ostriches. My thoughts are running wild, and I’ve made up my mind to invest no more money in the shop. I’m going to get out of here, go down to Mombasa like Sophia. We can open up a souvenir shop down there, which will bring in more money for a lot less effort. But how am I going to get my husband to agree? I have to convince him or I’ll never be able to take Napirai. Apart from anything else, I couldn’t get there on my own. Who would hold Napirai for the long journey?

After a good three hours I see a distant cloud of dust and assume it must be Father Giuliani. He soon comes to a halt beside us, looks at the car and shakes his head. Why didn’t I get him to put the battery in, he asks – it’s unusable now! My tears start up again as I try to tell him we’ve only had it a week. He’ll have a go at fixing it, he says, but he can’t promise anything and in two days’ time he’s off to Italy. He lends me a spare battery, and we drive back to Barsaloi, where he patches up the casing with tar, but it won’t last long. Father Giuliani’s departure fills me with apprehension because for three months I’ll no longer have my guardian angel. Father Roberto is not much use.

That evening as usual the boys drop in and hand over the money from the shop. Usually I make
chai
and when Lketinga isn’t there even offer something to eat. The boys always cheer me up because I can have a proper conversation with them. James is disappointed, though, that I’m not about to organize another lorry.

For the first time I mention in front of everyone that I’m thinking of getting away from here because otherwise our money is going to run out totally. The room is deathly quiet as I explain to them that I simply don’t have the money to continue. The car is ruining us. Lketinga immediately buts in to say that we’ve only just reopened the shop and we should keep on with it. This is home and he’s not leaving his family. I ask him what he’s going to use for money to buy new supplies, and offhandedly he says I can write to my mother and she can send more money as usual. He doesn’t understand that this was my own money. The boys understand, but they don’t dare say much because my husband dismisses all their suggestions. I try sweet words and try to present Mombasa as a great place to do business. James would be ready straight away to go to Mombasa as he’d like to see the sea too, but my husband doesn’t want us to leave.

We let the conversation drop for today and play a round of cards. There’s lots of laughter but Lketinga, who refuses to learn the game, looks on dubiously. He still doesn’t like the boys coming round and usually sits ostentatiously apart chewing
miraa
or teasing the boys until they get annoyed and leave. But they’re the only people who do come to see us anymore. Day by day now I start mentioning Mombasa, and with no basic foodstuffs in the shop there’s really not much to do there. Lketinga can see that too, but he still won’t give in.

Yet again we’re sitting there, the three of us playing cards with just an oil lamp to light the table and Lketinga stalking up and down the room like a tiger. Outside it’s bright with almost a full moon in the sky. I get up to stretch my legs for a bit and stand up to go out only to stand on something slimy in my bare feet and shout out in horror.

Everybody but Lketinga laughs. He grabs the lamp from the table and looks at the strange something on the ground. It looks like a squashed animal, maybe even a goat embryo. The boys think so too, but it’s no more than four inches long and it’s hard to be sure. Lketinga looks at me and suggests it’s something I’ve lost. For a minute I don’t know what he’s talking about.

Then angrily he demands to know who got me pregnant. Now he says he knows why the boys come round every day. I’ve been having an affair with one of them. James sees that I’m totally shocked and tries to calm him down, but Lketinga pushes his arms away and goes to grab James’s friend. But the two boys are quicker and run out of the house. Lketinga turns and grabs me, shaking me and ordering me to tell him the name of my lover. I pull myself free and scream at him furiously: ‘You are completely crazy! Go out of my house, you are crazy!’ I’m convinced that he’s now about to hit me for the first time, but he simply says he will avenge this dishonour by finding the boy and killing him. And with that he storms out of the house.

Outside everyone is standing at their doors staring at us. When my husband is out of sight I grab together some money, our passports and run to the Mission with Napirai. I knock on the door like a lunatic and pray that Father Roberto will open up. In a few seconds he’s standing there staring at us. In as few words as possible I tell him what’s happened and ask him to take us to Maralal immediately, it’s a matter of life and death. Roberto wrings his hands and says he’s sorry but he can’t. He has another two months on his own here before Father Giuliani comes back, and he can’t afford to fall out with the local people. He tells me to go home, it can’t be that bad. But he’s clearly worried. At the very least I entrust our money and passports to him so that my husband can’t find them and destroy them.

When I get back home he’s already there with Mama. He wants to know what I was up to at the Mission, but I refuse to reply. Then he asks angrily what happened to the embryo. I tell him the truth: that our cat dragged it out, but of course he doesn’t believe me and says I must have flushed it down the toilet. He tells Mama that now he knows I’ve been having an affair with this boy and spent the night with him in the boarding house in Maralal before I went off for Switzerland the first time. How on earth did he find that out? My efforts to be helpful have rebounded in my face! Mama asks me if this is true. Of course I can’t deny it but they simply won’t believe that nothing happened. I sit there sobbing which just makes me look all the guiltier.

Thoroughly disappointed in both of them, I now just want to get out of here as soon as possible. After a long discussion Mama decides that Lketinga should spend the night in the
manyatta
and we should talk it all
over tomorrow. But my husband refuses to leave without Napirai. I scream at him that he should leave my baby alone, particularly as he doesn’t even believe it’s his. But he grabs her and stalks off into the dark.

I’m left sitting alone on the bed and curl up in a ball sobbing. Of course I could just take the car and drive out of the village, but without my child that’s not something I’m even willing to contemplate. I hear people talking and laughing outside; it seems a few people find it all funny. After a while the vet and his wife look in to see if I’m all right. They’ve heard everything and want to console me. I don’t sleep a wink that night and just pray that some day we’ll get out of here. My love has turned into pure hatred. How it could all go so sour in such a short time, I simply don’t understand.

Early the next morning I go round to the back of the shop to tell the boys that Lketinga plans to take his revenge on one of them. Then I hurry down to Mama because I still need to breastfeed Napirai. Mama is sitting outside the hut with her. My husband is still asleep. I take the child, feed it, and Mama asks me if Lketinga really is the father. With tears in my eyes, I say: ‘Yes.’

M
y husband crawls out of the
manyatta
and orders me to come with him back to our house. He fetches the boys too. As ever, a crowd of onlookers has gathered. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Angrily Lketinga turns to me and in front of everybody asks me if I’ve slept with this boy. He wants to know here and now. I’m deeply hurt and at the same time furiously angry. He’s acting like a prosecution lawyer and doesn’t even see how ridiculous he makes us look. ‘No!’ I shout at him. ‘You are crazy!’ But before I can say another word I get my first clip round the ear. Furiously I hurl my cigarette packet at his head. He spins around and lifts his
rungu
club at me. But before he can use it the boys and the vet intervene to hold him back. They talk to him angrily and tell him he needs to go off into the bush for a bit and not come back until he has a clear head. With that he takes his spears and stalks off. I rush back into the house and refuse to talk to anybody.

He’s gone for two days, during which I refuse to leave the house. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to because nobody would help me without payment. I spend the time listening to German music or reading poems to help gather my thoughts together. I’m just in the middle of writing a letter home when my husband turns up unannounced. He turns the music off and asks why there’s singing going on and where I got this cassette from? I’ve always had it of course and I tell him that as calmly as possible, but he doesn’t believe it. Then he finds the letter to my mother. He insists that I read it to him but refuses to believe I’m not making it up. So I rip the letter up and burn it. He doesn’t say a word to Napirai, as if she weren’t even there, but he’s relatively calm so I try not to agitate him.
In the end I’m going to have to make my peace with him if I want to get out of here some day.

The next few days pass quietly, as the boy has left Barsaloi. James tells me he’s moved in with relatives. The shop remains closed, and after two weeks we’ve nothing more to eat. I want to go to Maralal but my husband forbids it, telling me other women can get by on milk and meat.

Again and again I mention Mombasa. I tell him that if we were to move there my family would be sure to send some money but up here they won’t send any more. We could always come back here at any time if the shop didn’t work out. When one day even James says he has to leave Barsaloi to find a job Lketinga asks me for the first time what we would do in Mombasa. His resistance may be being worn down. I’ve also done everything I can: I’ve got rid of my books and my music, I’ve stopped writing letters. I’ve even consented to intimacy again, albeit reluctantly. I have only one goal: to get out of here. With Napirai!

I conjure up pictures of a Masai-Shop with lots of souvenirs. To get money for the journey to Mombasa we can sell everything that’s left in the shop to the Somalis. Even our furniture will fetch a price; there’s no other way of getting hold of a bed, chairs or a table here. We can put on a farewell disco to make money and say goodbye to people at the same time. James can come with us and help get the shop up and running. I talk and talk and try not to show how nervous I am. He mustn’t know how important it is for me to get him to agree.

Eventually he relaxes and says, ‘Corinne, maybe we go to Mombasa in two or three months.’ Taken aback, I ask him why wait so long. He says because then Napirai will be a year old and won’t need me, so she can stay here with Mama. This knocks me back to say the least, and I tell him calmly that there’s no question of my going away without Napirai. I need my daughter with me or else I will take no pleasure in working. Then James joins in: he can look after Napirai, and if we want to go, we ought to go now, he adds, because in three months’ time he’ll have his circumcision ceremony. The festival lasts a couple of days, and for a long time after that he’ll only be allowed to be in the company of the other newly-circumcised men. We talk it over and decide to set off in three weeks’ time. The fourth of June will be my thirtieth birthday, and I want to celebrate it in Mombasa. I’m impatient now and live only for the day when we can leave Barsaloi.

As it’s the beginning of the month we want to have the disco as soon as possible. For one last time we drive down to Maralal to fetch beer and other drinks. While we’re there my husband insists that I phone Switzerland to make sure we’ll have money in Mombasa. I fake the phone call and tell him everything’s fixed up and as soon as we’re in Mombasa I’m to get in touch again.

Once again the disco is a huge success. I’ve agreed with Lketinga that at midnight we’ll make a short speech to say goodbye, as nobody has any idea we’re leaving. But after a while my husband disappears and by midnight I’m on my own, so I ask the vet to translate the speech – which I’ve written down in English – into Swahili for the workers and Masai for the locals.

James turns the music off and everybody stops what they’re doing to see what’s happening. Nervously I walk into the middle of the room and ask for their attention. First of all I apologize for my husband’s absence, then I announce that this will be our last disco and that in two weeks’ time we’ll be leaving Barsaloi to start up a new business in Mombasa. It just hasn’t been possible for us to keep going up here with the high running costs of the car and also the constant risks to my own and my daughter’s health. I thank everybody for their loyal custom in the shop and wish them the best of luck with the new school.

No sooner have I finished than a great commotion breaks out with everybody talking at once. Even the little local boss man is depressed and tells me that I can’t just up sticks and leave when everybody has accepted me. A couple of others stand up and say nice things about us and how much everyone will miss us, how we’ve provided so much quality of life and entertainment not to mention the good turns we’ve done for people with the car. Everybody applauds. I’m deeply moved and ask for the music to be turned on to get the atmosphere going again.

In the midst of all this the young Somali comes up to me and says he’s sorry to hear we’re going too. He says he’s always been amazed by what I’ve achieved. I’m touched and buy him a soft drink and suggest he might like to buy the rest of our stock. He agrees immediately. He says I should just make an inventory and we’ll settle a price, even to buying our expensive weighing scales. I have a long chat with the vet, who didn’t know our departure plans either. But after everything that’s happened he can understand and he just hopes that in Mombasa my husband will come
back to his senses. He’s probably the only one who understands the real reason we’re leaving.

We close the doors at two a.m., and Lketinga still isn’t back. I hurry down to the
manyatta
to fetch Napirai. My husband is sitting in the hut talking to Mama. When I ask him why he wasn’t there he says it was my party because I’m the one who wants to leave. This time I don’t get involved in an argument but simply stay with him in the
manyatta
. Who knows, I’m thinking, maybe this is the last time I’ll spend the night in one?

When the opportunity arises I tell Lketinga about my deal with the Somali. At first he’s cross and doesn’t want to talk about it. He won’t bargain with the likes of them, he says arrogantly. So instead I work out the inventory with James. The Somali asks us to bring the stuff down to him in two days’ time and he’ll have the money ready. The scales alone come to a third of the total.

People keep turning up at our house wanting to buy things; and everything, down to the last cup, is reserved for someone. I’ve asked everyone to bring their money on the twentieth and they can pick up their goods on the twenty-first. When we go to take all our stock down to the Somali my husband comes along after all, to give his agreement on the price of every last item. When I include the scales he takes them out and insists we should bring them with us to Mombasa. He simply can’t see that we don’t need them anymore and will get much more for them here. No, he insists, we have to take them, even though it infuriates me to have to give so much money back to the Somali, but I say nothing. Let’s not have another argument before we leave! There’s a whole week to go before the twenty-first of May.

The days before we go simply crawl by, and I get more and more tense inside as the day of our departure approaches. I don’t want to spend an hour longer here than we need to. Suddenly it’s our final night. Almost everybody has brought their money, and anything we no longer need we’ve simply given away. The car is packed full, and the only things left in the house are the bed with the mosquito net, the table and chairs. Mama spent the whole day with us looking after Napirai. She’s upset about us leaving.

That evening a car stops in the village at the Somali’s, and my husband goes down to see if there’s any
miraa
to buy. In the meantime James and I are working out our itinerary, both of us excited at the prospect of such a long journey. It’s over nine hundred miles to the south coast.

When my husband still hasn’t come back an hour later, I start to get worried. Eventually he turns up, and I can tell at once that there’s something wrong. ‘We cannot go tomorrow,’ he announces. He’s chewing
miraa
of course, but the look on his face is extremely serious. I’m starting to simmer and demand to know where he’s been such long time and why we can’t set off tomorrow. With wild eyes he tells us the elders aren’t happy that we should set off without their blessing. And in those circumstances it’s impossible for him to leave.

I get worked up and ask why they can’t give us their blessing first thing in the morning, but James tells me for a ceremony like that we need to slaughter at least two goats and brew beer. Only when they’re in a good mood will they pronounce the will of Enkai. He can understand why Lketinga won’t go without this blessing.

At that point my nerves give in and I shout at Lketinga, asking why this didn’t occur to the elders before. They’ve all known for three weeks now when we were due to leave: we had a party, sold everything we didn’t need and packed up the rest. I refuse to stay one day longer. I’m going even if I have to drive all the way with Napirai on my own. I sob and rage because I know that this so-called ‘surprise’ will delay us for at least another week because that’s how long it takes to brew their beer.

Lketinga simply says that he’s not going and chews his weed, while James goes off to ask for advice from Mama. I throw myself on the bed and wish I were dead. There’s just one thought going round in my head: I’m leaving tomorrow, I’m leaving tomorrow. As a result I’ve hardly had any sleep when James turns up at dawn with Mama. There’s more palaver, but I pay not the slightest bit of attention, blindly continuing to pack up our stuff. I barely notice what’s going on through my puffy eyes. James is talking to Mama, and lots of other people keep turning up to collect things or say goodbye. I ignore them all.

Then James comes up to me and asks on Mama’s behalf if I’m determined to leave. ‘Yes,’ I reply and grab Napirai by my side. Mama stares silently at me and her grandchild. Then she says something to James that makes his face light up. He turns to me happily and says Mama will go off and fetch four Barsaloi elders who’ll give us the blessing then and there. She doesn’t want us to leave without it, because she’s convinced she’ll never see us again. Thankfully I ask James to translate for her that wherever I am I will always see that she is all right.