The White Masai (8 page)

W
e finally arrive in Mombasa just after five a.m. A few people get out at the bus station. I go to get off too, but Lketinga holds me back, saying that there are no buses along the coast before six, and it’s less dangerous to wait on the bus. We’ve arrived at last, but we still can’t get off the bus. I’m bursting. I try to tell Lketinga this, and he says: ‘Come!’ and gets up. We get out, and between two empty buses, with no one to be seen save a few roaming cats and dogs, I finally empty my bladder. Lketinga laughs as he watches my ‘river’.

The air on the coast is wonderful, and I ask him if we can’t just go to the nearest
matatu
rank. He grabs my bag, and we set out in the pale dawn light. A night watchman brewing
chai
on a charcoal brazier outside a shop even offers us our breakfast cuppa. In return, Lketinga gives him some
miraa
. From time to time huddled figures pass by: some babbling to themselves, others silent. Here and there people are sleeping on newspapers or cardboard boxes on the ground. This time, before the shops open, is given over to ghosts. But with my warrior at my side I feel totally safe.

The first
matatus
start hooting just before six, and within ten minutes or so the whole area is alive. And we get on board a bus to the ferry, and once again a feeling of great happiness comes over me. Then there is the last hour on a bus to the south coast. Lketinga seems nervous. I ask him: ‘Darling, are you okay?’ ‘Yes,’ he says and then starts talking to me. I don’t understand everything he says, but I gather he intends to find out who stole my letters to him and which of the Masai told me he was married. He looks so grim that it almost scares me. I try to calm him down, tell
him that none of it matters anymore, but he doesn’t answer and just looks out of the window.

We go straight to the village, where Priscilla is astounded to see the two of us. She greets us warmly and makes
chai
. Esther has gone. All my stuff is hanging neatly folded over a string behind the door. Lketinga and Priscilla talk, amicably at first, but then the discussion takes a serious tone. I try to find out what’s going on, and Priscilla tells me he’s accusing her of knowing that I’d written. Eventually Lketinga calms down and goes off to sleep on our big bed.

Priscilla and I remain outside and try to find a solution to our sleeping arrangements: the three of us together, particularly with a Masai woman, is not an option. Then another Masai who’s planning to move to the northern coast offers us his hut. So in the end we clean my new home, drag my big bed across and when I’ve sorted things out as best I can, I’m happy with the arrangement and a rent which costs the equivalent of ten Swiss francs a month.

The next two weeks are an idyll. I start teaching Lketinga to read and write. He’s delighted and shows real enthusiasm for learning. The English picture books are a great help, and he takes pride in every letter he learns to recognize. In the evenings we sometimes go to watch Masai dances for the tourists and sell Masai trinkets that we make ourselves. Lketinga and I make pretty armbands and Priscilla embroiders belts.

On one occasion there’s a daylong sale of paintings, trinkets and spears at the Robinson Club. A lot of people from the north bank come over for it, including Masai women. Lketinga has gone into Mombasa and bought some things from local traders to give us more to display. Business is brilliant. The white people swarm around our stand and swamp me with questions. When we’ve sold nearly all our stuff I join some of the other sellers to help them. Lketinga doesn’t like that because some of these Masai are still to blame for keeping us apart so long. On the other hand, I don’t want any ill feeling because they have generously allowed us to join in.

Time and again one or other group of tourists at the bar invites us to join them for a drink. I join a few of them, but once or twice is enough. It’s more fun selling. Lketinga hangs around the bar with a couple of Germans. From time to time I glance across but only see their backs. After a while I go over to join them briefly and am horrified to see Lketinga
drinking beer. For a warrior alcohol is forbidden. Even if the Masai on the coast drink occasionally, Lketinga is from the Samburu District and certainly not used to alcohol. I ask him worriedly: ‘Darling, why you drink beer?’ But he just laughs: ‘These friends invited me.’ I tell the Germans to stop buying him beer immediately because he’s not used to alcohol. They apologize and try to calm me down, saying he’s only had three! I just hope it’s okay.

Eventually the sale comes to an end, and we pack up what remains. Outside the hotel the Masai are sharing out money. I’m hungry, tired from the heat and standing all day and want to go home. Lketinga, a bit tipsy but still in a good mood, decides to go to Ukunda to eat with a couple of the others. I pass and go back disappointed, alone.

That is my biggest mistake as I learn later. In five days’ time my visa is due to run out, I realize on the way back to the village. Lketinga and I intend to go to Nairobi, although I can’t bear the thought of the long journey, let alone the Kenyan authorities! It’ll be okay, I tell myself as I open the door to our hut. I cook some rice and tomatoes for myself, which is all there is in the kitchen. The village is quiet.

A little earlier it had occurred to me that since my return with Lketinga, hardly anyone comes to visit anymore. I miss that a bit now because the evenings spent playing cards were fun. Priscilla isn’t there either, and so I lie down on the bed and start writing a letter to my mother. I tell her what a peaceful life we’re leading and how happy I am.

It’s already ten p.m., and Lketinga isn’t back yet. I’m starting to get worried, but the clicking of the cicadas calms my nerves. Just before midnight the door flies open with a bang, and Lketinga appears in it. First of all he stares at me, taking in the whole room. His face is hard, and there’s no trace of his former merriness. He’s chewing
miraa
, and when I say hello he asks, ‘Who was here?’ ‘Nobody,’ I reply. At the same time my pulse is racing. Never before has he asked who else has been in the house. Angrily I repeat that there’s been no one here while he, still standing in the doorway, insists that he knows I have a boyfriend. Of all things! I sit up in bed and give him a frosty glare. ‘Where did you get such a stupid idea from?’ He knows, because they told him in Ukunda that I had a different Masai in the house every evening, and they stayed with me and Priscilla until late. All women are the same, he says, I’ve had someone all the time!

His harsh words shatter my little world. At long last I’ve found him again, we’ve had two wonderful weeks together, and now this! The beer and the
miraa
have completely addled his wits. To stop myself bursting into tears, I pull myself together and ask him if he’d like some
chai
. Eventually, he comes away from the door and sits down on the bed. With trembling hands I light a fire and try to be as calm as possible. He asks where Priscilla is, but I don’t know; her house is in darkness. He gives a nasty laugh and says: ‘Maybe she’s down the Bush Baby Disco trying to score with a whitey!’ I have to keep from laughing, trying to imagine anyone falling for Priscilla’s more than ample figure. Instead I stay silent.

We drink our
chai
and I ask cautiously if he’s okay. He says he’s fine, except that his heart is pounding and his blood rushing. I try to work out exactly what he’s trying to tell me but I’m not sure I know. He keeps walking around the hut or going out and roaming around the village and then he’s back, chewing his weed. He looks nervous, restless. I wonder what I can do to help. Obviously, he’s had too much
miraa
, but I can’t just take it away from him.

After two hours he’s finished it all, and I hope he’ll come to bed and tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten. He lies down, but he can’t sleep. I daren’t touch him so instead I squeeze up against the wall, glad that the bed’s so big. After a while he jumps up and says he can’t sleep in the same bed as me. His blood’s rushing like mad, and he thinks his head’s going to burst. I’m wracked by confusion: ‘Darling, where will you go?’ He says he’ll go and sleep with the other Masai and disappears. I’m dejected and furious all at once. What on earth have they done to him in Ukunda? I ask myself. The night goes on forever. Lketinga doesn’t come back. I don’t know where he’s sleeping.

A
t the crack of dawn I’m straight up and washing my puffy, tear-stained face. Then I go over to Priscilla’s. It’s not locked up, which means she must be there. I knock and call softly: ‘It’s me, Corinne, please open the door. I have a big problem.’ Still more than half-asleep Priscilla comes out and stares at me in shock. ‘Where is Lketinga?’ she asks. With immense difficulty I hold back my tears and tell her everything. She listens attentively while she’s getting dressed and tells me to wait while she goes to the Masai to find out what’s going on. Ten minutes later she’s back and says we’ll have to wait, he’s not there, didn’t sleep with them and must have run off into the bush. He’ll be back for sure and if not we’ll go and find him. ‘What would he be doing in the bush?’ I ask, confused. Probably the beer and the
miraa
were doing things to his head, says Priscilla. I should just wait a bit.

But he doesn’t turn up. I go back into our little house and wait. Then, at about ten a.m., two warriors turn up carrying a completely exhausted Lketinga. They drag him into the house and lay him down on the bed. I’m angry that I don’t understand any of what’s being said. He lies there apathetically staring at the ceiling. I speak to him, but he just looks through me as if he doesn’t recognize me. He’s sweating all over. I’m close to panic because I don’t understand what’s happening. The others don’t have a clue either: they found him in the bush under a tree and say he ran amok. That’s why he’s so exhausted. I ask Priscilla if I should fetch a doctor, but she says there’s only one here at Diani Beach and he won’t come out to the village. We’d have to go to him, and in the circumstances that’s out of the question.

Lketinga falls asleep again and has weird dreams about lions attacking him. He throws his arms about wildly, and the two warriors have to hold him down. It breaks my heart to look at him. What has happened to my brave, good-humoured Masai? I can’t stop myself crying, which annoys Priscilla: ‘That’s no good. You only cry when someone dies.’

It’s the middle of the afternoon before Lketinga comes to and stares at me, befuddled. I smile happily at him and say: ‘Hello, darling, you remember me?’ ‘Why not, Corinne?’ he answers weakly then looks over at Priscilla and asks what’s going on. They talk to one another, and he shakes his head and can hardly believe his ears. I stay with him while the others all go off to work. He’s hungry and has a stomach ache. When I ask if I should get some meat he says: ‘Oh yes, it’s okay.’ I hurry to the meat-stand and back. Lketinga’s still in bed, asleep again. An hour later, when the food is ready, I try to wake him. He opens his eyes and stares at me in confusion again. Who am I, what do I want with him? ‘I’m Corinne, your girlfriend,’ I reply. But he keeps asking me who I am. I don’t know what to do, and Priscilla hasn’t returned from selling her kangas on the beach. I tell him he should eat something, but he laughs scornfully. He’s not going to touch any of this so-called ‘food’; I’m obviously trying to poison him.

Now I can no longer hold back the tears. He looks at me and asks who’s died. To keep myself in check, I pray aloud. At last Priscilla comes back, and I bring her in straight away. She tries to talk to him too but doesn’t get any further. After a while she says: ‘He’s crazy!’ A lot of the
morans
, the warriors who come along the coast get Mombasa-madness, she says, and his is a bad case: maybe someone made him crazy. ‘What, how and who?’ I stammer, adding that I don’t believe in superstitious things. But Priscilla tells me that I’ve a lot to learn in Africa. ‘We have to help him,’ I implore her. ‘Okay!’ she says, she’ll send someone up to the north bank to get help. That’s the big centre for the coastal Masai, and their chief is acknowledged as the leader of all the warriors. He will have to decide what is to be done.

Around nine o’clock in the evening two warriors from the north bank come to see us. Although they aren’t very pleasant towards me, I’m pleased that something’s being done. They talk to Lketinga and massage his forehead with a pungent flower. When they talk to him he gives completely normal answers. I can hardly believe it. Before he was so
confused, and now he’s talking calmly. I can’t understand a word and feel helpless and redundant. So to have something to do I make
chai
for everyone.

There is such trust between the three men that they are barely aware of my presence. Nonetheless they accept the tea gladly and I ask what the matter is. One of them speaks some English and tells me Lketinga is not well: he is sick in the head. He needs rest and space, which is why the three of them are going to go off and sleep out in the bush. Tomorrow they will take him to the north bank to see to things. ‘But why can’t he sleep here with me?’ I ask, flustered and unwilling to believe anybody anymore, even though he’s obviously feeling better. No, they say, my proximity now would be bad for his blood. Even Lketinga apparently agrees that, as he’s never been ill like this before, it must be to do with me. I’m shocked, but I’ve no choice other than to let him go with them.

The next morning they do indeed come back and have tea. Lketinga seems well, almost his old self, but the other two insist that he must come with them to the north bank. He laughs and agrees: ‘Now I’m okay!’ When I mention that tonight I have to go to Nairobi to get my visa extension he says ‘No problem. We’ll go to the north bank and then on together to Nairobi.’

When we get to the north bank there’s a lot of chattering and gossiping before we’re brought to the ‘Chief’s’ hut. He’s not as old as I had anticipated and greets us warmly, although he can’t see us because he’s blind. He talks patiently with Lketinga. I sit there and watch, not understanding a word. In any case I wouldn’t dare to interrupt the conversation. Time is getting short, however, and although I’m getting the night bus I need to get the ticket about three or four hours earlier if I want to get a place.

After an hour, the chief tells me I have to go without Lketinga because Nairobi would not be good for his condition and his sensitive disposition. They will look after him and I should come back as soon as possible. I agree because I would be completely useless if the same thing were to happen again in Nairobi. So I promise Lketinga that I’ll catch the bus back tomorrow night as long as everything goes okay. He looks very sad as I climb on board the bus, holding my hand and asking me if I really will come back. I reassure him and tell him not to worry, I’ll be back and we’ll see what to do then. If he is still not well, we’d find a doctor. He promises
me he’ll wait and do everything possible to avoid a reoccurrence. The
matatu
leaves, and my heart sinks. As long as everything goes okay!

In Mombasa I get my ticket, but now have to wait five hours before the bus goes. Eight hours after that I arrive in Nairobi in the early morning. Once again I have to wait in the bus until just before seven, before getting out. I have a cup of tea and take a taxi to the Nyayo Building, the only way I know to find it. When I arrive the place is in chaos. Whites and blacks alike are pushing and shoving at the various windows. I suffer through all the forms that I have to fill in, all in English of course. Then I hand them all in and wait. Three whole hours pass before my name is called. I hope fervently that I get the necessary stamp. The woman at the window looks me up and down and asks why I want to stay another three months. As relaxed as I can, I answer: ‘Because I’ve seen nothing like enough of this magnificent country and I’ve got enough money to stay another three months.’ She opens my passport, flicks through it and then thumps down a huge stamp on the relevant page. I’ve got my visa: one step further! I pay the fee happily and leave the dreadful building. Right now I cannot imagine that I will eventually see so much of this building that I will hate it with a vengeance.

With a ticket for that night’s bus securely in my pocket I head off for something to eat. It’s still early afternoon, and I wander around Nairobi to stop myself falling asleep. I haven’t slept properly in more than thirty hours. In order not to get lost I restrict my wanderings to two streets. By seven o’clock it’s dark, and as the shops close the nightlife slowly begins in the bars. The figures on the streets become more sinister with every passing minute, and I decide not to linger there any longer. A bar is out of the question so I opt to pass the next two hours in a nearby McDonald’s.

Eventually I’m on the bus back to Mombasa. The driver is chewing
miraa
. He drives like a madman but gets us back in record time, arriving at just four in the morning. Once again I have to wait for the first
matatu
to the north bank. I can’t wait to see how Lketinga is.

Just before seven I’m already back in the Masai village. Everyone’s still asleep, and the teahouse isn’t open yet, so I wait outside it, as I don’t know which hut Lketinga is staying in. Around seven-thirty the teahouse owner arrives and opens up. I go in, sit down and wait for the day’s first cup of
chai
. He brings it to me then disappears back into the kitchen.
Soon after a few warriors come in and sit down at other tables. The atmosphere is very quiet, suppressed, but I put that down to the fact that it’s still early morning.

After half an hour I can no longer contain myself and ask the owner if he knows where Lketinga is. He shakes his head and disappears again. But after another half hour he sits down at my table and tells me I should go back to the south bank and not wait around any longer. I stare at him in astonishment and ask: ‘Why?’ ‘He’s not here anymore,’ the man says. ‘He went home last night.’ My heart misses a beat. ‘Home to the south bank?’ I ask naively. ‘No, home to Samburu-Maralal.’

‘No, that’s not true!’ I shout, horrified. ‘He’s here. Tell me where!’ Two others come across from their table and try to calm me down. I beat back their hands, rage and shout at them in German: ‘You pack of lying pigs, you planned all this!’ Tears of anger run down my face, but I couldn’t care less.

I’m so furious that I’m ready to lay into any of them. They put him on the bus knowing that I’d be getting the very same bus in the opposite direction. We must have passed in the night. I can’t believe it. How mean could they get! As if these eight hours were all that mattered! More spectators have gathered, but I charge out of the place to get away from them. As far as I’m concerned they’re all the same. Sad and bitter, I set off back to the south bank.