The White Masai Page 8
On the one hand I’m touched by all the effort he made: on the other, I’m absolutely furious at his so-called ‘friends’ who only caused problems instead of helping him. When I tell him that I want to stay in Kenya now and not go back to Switzerland, he says ‘It’s okay. You stay now with me!’ Jutta and Tom the messenger leave us to get on with our happy attempts at conversation. Lketinga says it’s a shame that we can’t go back to his home because there’s a drought and not enough food. Apart from milk there’s nothing to eat, and in any case there isn’t a spare house. I tell him I don’t mind as long as we’re together. So he suggests that first we go back to Mombasa. There will be time enough for me to get to know his home and his mother, but he wants to introduce me to his brother James, who goes to school in Maralal. James is the only one of the family to have been to school. He can tell James he’s gone back to Mombasa with me, and when he goes home in the school holidays he can tell their mother.
The school is about a mile from the village. They have strict rules. Boys and girls play in separate playgrounds. But they all dress alike: the girls in simple blue dresses, the boys in blue trousers and white shirts. I wait to one side while Lketinga goes over to the boys. Soon they’re all staring at him and then at me. He chats with them, and then one of them runs off and comes back with another boy, who goes up to Lketinga and greets him respectfully. They talk for a bit, and then both come over to me. James holds out his hand with a friendly smile and shakes mine. I put him at about sixteen. He speaks very good English and says he sorry he can’t come into the village with us because they just have a short break and they aren’t allowed out in the evenings. The headmaster is very strict, he says. Then the bell rings and in the blink of an eye they’ve all gone, including James.
We go back into the village, and I suggest we might retire to the room in the boarding house, but Lketinga laughs and says: ‘This is Maralal, not Mombasa!’ It seems that a man and woman don’t go into a room together until it’s dark and then as inconspicuously as possible. It’s not that I’m desperate for sex – after all, I know what it’s like – but after all these months I could do with some physical contact.
We stroll around Maralal, and I keep a respectable distance, as this seems the thing to do. Every now and then he talks to other warriors or a few girls. The girls are all young and with pretty jewellery and quickly cast a curious glance in my direction and then giggle, whereas the warriors look me over in more detail. I seem to be the subject of most of the conversations, which makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know what anyone’s saying. I can hardly wait for it to get dark.
At the market Lketinga buys a little plastic bag with red powder, pointing at his hair and his war paint. On one of the other stalls someone is selling little stalks with leaves, tied together in bundles about eight inches long. There’s a real argument going on between the five or six men examining them.
Lketinga heads for this stall too. The salesman takes some newspaper and wraps up two bundles. Lketinga pays a fat price for them and quickly sticks them under the kanga cloth wrapped around him. On the way back to the boarding house he buys at least ten sticks of chewing gum. When we get to the room I ask him about the plant. He beams at me and says: ‘Miraa, it’s very good. You eat this, no sleeping!’ He gets everything out, pops a bit of chewing gum in his mouth and separates the leaves from the stalks. He uses his teeth to strip the bark from the stalks and chews it along with the gum. I watch in fascination how elegantly his beautiful long thin hands move. I have a go, but it’s far too bitter for me, and I spit it out immediately. I lie down on the bed and feel happy just watching him and holding his hand. I feel as if I could hug the entire world. I’ve attained my goal. I’ve found my one great love again, and tomorrow we’ll go back to Mombasa and start our wonderful life together.
I must have fallen asleep only to wake up and find Lketinga still sitting there, chewing away. The floor looks like a bin or worse with leaves, stripped stalks and spat-out green lumps all over the place. He looks at me with a steady gaze, strokes my hair and says: ‘No problem, Corinne, you tired, you sleep, tomorrow safari.’ ‘And you?’ I ask him. ‘You not tired?’ No, he says, before a long journey he can’t sleep, that’s why he’s eating miraa.
The way he says it, I get the impression that this miraa is the equivalent of Dutch courage, for Masai warriors are not allowed to touch alcohol. I can understand that he needs courage because he doesn’t know what lies ahead of us, and his experience of Mombasa was not exactly the best. This is his world. Mombasa may be in Kenya, but it’s not where his tribe comes from. I’ll help him, I tell myself, and go back to sleep.
The next morning we have to get up early to get seats on the only bus that goes to Nyahururu. But as Lketinga hasn’t been to bed, that’s not a problem. I’m amazed by how fit he is and the way he can just set out on such a long journey spontaneously with no luggage, wearing just jewellery and some cloth and carrying his stick.
This is just the first stage. Lketinga has secreted the rest of the miraa somewhere and chews on the same piece. He’s quiet, and somehow there isn’t the same atmosphere as on the bus Jutta and I arrived on.
Once again the bus lurches through thousands of potholes. Lketinga has pulled his second kanga cloth over his head so that only his eyes can be seen, and his beautiful hair is protected from the dust. I hold a handkerchief against my nose and mouth so that I can halfway breathe. About half way Lketinga nudges me and points to a long grey hill. It’s only when I take a longer look that I realize that I’m looking at hundreds of elephants. It’s a phenomenal sight: these giant creatures as far as the eye can see with their little ones among them. The bus comes alive with chatter as everyone stares at the vast herd; from what I can gather, it’s a rare sight.
At last the first stage is behind us, and by midday we’re in Nyahururu. We go for tea, or ‘chai’, and a lump of bread. The next bus to Nairobi’s in just half an hour, and we’ll get there by nightfall. I suggest to Lketinga that we spend the night there and get the bus to Mombasa in the morning. He doesn’t want to stay in Nairobi because the boarding houses charge too much. Given that I’m paying for everything, I find that touching and reassure him, but he still reckons Nairobi is dangerous and there are too many police. Despite the fact that we’ve been on a bus since seven this morning, he wants to do the longest stretch of the journey all at once. And when I notice how unsure of himself he seems in Nairobi, I agree.
We get something to eat and drink quickly, and I’m happy that at least he’s eating with me, even if he pulls the kanga across his face so that no one will recognize him. The bus station isn’t far, and we walk the few hundred yards. Here in Nairobi even the natives give Lketinga strange looks: some laughing, some respectful. He doesn’t fit into this hectic modern city. When I realize that, I’m glad the passport didn’t work out.
Eventually we get ourselves onto one of the sought-after night buses and wait for it to set off. Lketinga gets more miraa out and starts chewing again. I try to relax but my whole body hurts. Only my heart is at peace. After four hours, during which I’ve dozed on and off, the bus stops in Voi. Most people, including me, climb out to answer the call of nature. But when I see the fouled state of the hole in the ground that serves as a toilet, I decide to hold on for another four hours. I get back on the bus with two bottles of Coke. Half an hour later we set off again. Now I can’t get back to sleep at all. We hurtle through the night on dead straight roads. Every now and then we pass a bus going the opposite way. There are almost no cars.
Twice we go through police checkpoints. The bus has to stop because they have laid wooden planks with long nails across the road. Then a policeman, armed with an automatic weapon, walks along each side of the bus and shines his torch in every face. After five minutes we’re allowed to continue again. I’m still trying to get comfortable when I see a sign that says ‘157 miles to Mombasa’. Thank God, not too far now to home. Lketinga still hasn’t slept a wink. This miraa o
bviously really does keep you awake. The only thing is that his eyes stare more than normal, and he doesn’t seem to want to talk. It disquiets me a bit. But then there’s the smell of salt in the air, and the temperature starts to rise. Nairobi’s cold and damp are just a memory.
Back to Mombasa
We 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.
Sick In The Head
At 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.