The White Masai (19 page)

The next nine days pass without event. The only big thing is my brother Eric's wedding to Jelly, but for me the whole event is like something experienced in a trance, and I find the luxury and the lavish
meal unappealing. Everybody wants to know what life is like in Kenya, and each and every one of them tries to bring me to my senses. But for me common sense is in Kenya where my great love and a life with meaning are. It's time for me to get out of here.

I
arrive at the airport heavily laden. Leaving my mother is particularly hard for me this time because I don’t know when I’ll be back. On June the first, 1988 I land back in Nairobi and take a taxi to the Igbol Hotel.

Two days later I arrive back in Maralal, drag my luggage to the boarding house and think about how I’m going to get back to Barsaloi. Each day I trawl through the village, looking for a car. I think of calling on Sophia but discover that she’s on holiday in Italy. On the third day I hear that in the afternoon a lorry with maize meal and sugar is leaving for the Mission in Barsaloi. I wait all morning next to the wholesalers where the bags are to be loaded. And indeed the lorry turns up around noon. I do a deal with the driver and settle a price to sit up front, and that afternoon we finally leave. Our route is via Baragoi so it will take six hours and it will be late before we get to Barsaloi. There are at least fifteen people on board the lorry: good money for the driver.

The journey takes forever. This is the first time I’ve done it on a lorry. We cross the first river in pitch darkness, only the beam of the headlights feeling our way across the broad emptiness. By ten p.m. we’re there and stop in front of the Mission compound where lots of people are waiting for the ‘lori’. They’ve spotted the lights in the distance, and all Barsaloi is excited. Many people reckon on earning money offloading the sacks.

Tired but happy, I climb down. I’m home, even if the
manyattas
are a few hundred yards away. A few people say a friendly hello. Father Giuliani turns up with a torch to give instructions, says hello briefly and then vanishes again. I’m standing helplessly with my heavy bags, unable to drag them in the dark as far as Mama’s
manyatta
. Two boys, who obviously don’t
go to school because they’re wearing traditional garb, offer to help me, but half way there someone comes towards us with a torch. It’s my darling. ‘Hello!’ he beams. I throw my arms around him with joy and press a kiss on his lips. The emotion takes away my breath and silently we make our way to the
manyatta
.

Mama too is delighted to see me. Straight away she lights the fire to make the obligatory
chai
. I hand out my presents. Later Lketinga taps lovingly on my stomach and asks, ‘How is our baby?’ I feel uncomfortable as I tell him that unfortunately there is no baby. He frowns: ‘Why? I know you have baby before!’ As calmly as possible I try to explain to him that it was only because of the malaria that I missed my period. Lketinga is very disappointed, but nonetheless that night we make wonderful love.

The next few weeks are very happy, life takes its usual course until at last we set off again for Maralal to see about the wedding. Lketinga’s brother comes with us, and this time we’re in luck. When we have our appointment and hand over my forms with their stamps, as well as the paper from the chief which Lketinga has managed to get in the meantime, there seem to be no more problems.

O
n the twenty-sixth of July 1988 we get married. There are two new witnesses, Lketinga’s older brother and some other person I don’t know. The ceremony is conducted by a nice official: first in English, then in Swahili. Everything goes without a hitch, except that at the decisive moment my darling fails to say his ‘Yes’ until I kick his leg. Then the wedding certificate is signed. Lketinga takes my passport and says I need a Kenyan one, as my name is now Leparmorijo. The officer tells us that this has to be done in Nairobi because Lketinga will have to apply for my permanent residency. Now I’m confused again. I thought we’d done everything and the battle with red tape was over. But no, the wedding notwithstanding, I’m still a tourist until I have a right of abode stamp in my passport. My joy fades, and Lketinga doesn’t understand it all either. In the boarding house we decide to go to Nairobi.

The next day we set out for Nairobi along with both of our witnesses. Lketinga’s brother has never been on such a long journey before. We take our Land Rover as far as Nyahururu and then catch the bus to Nairobi. The brother just gapes at everything. For me it’s entertaining to be with someone who, at the age of forty, is seeing a city for the first time. He is speechless and even more helpless than Lketinga. He can’t even cross a road without our help. If I didn’t take his hand, he would almost certainly stay rooted to the same spot until nightfall because he’s afraid of all the traffic. He looks at the big blocks of flats and doesn’t understand how the people can live on top of one another.

Eventually we get to the Nyayo Building. I stand in the queue to fill out more forms. When I finally finish the woman at the counter tells us
to check back in three weeks or so. I protest and try to explain to her that we’ve come a long way and there’s no way we are leaving without a valid stamp in my passport. I almost beg her, but she says everything has to take its course and she’ll try to get it done in a week or so. When I realize that that’s her last word on the subject I say thank you and go.

Outside we debate what to do. There are four of us, and we have to wait a week. Hanging around in Nairobi with my three men is inconceivable. Instead I suggest we go to Mombasa so Lketinga’s brother can see the sea. Lketinga agrees because he’ll feel safe in their company, and so we set out on the eight-hour journey – which will have to make do as a honeymoon.

The first thing we do in Mombasa is go to see Priscilla. She’s delighted about our marriage and thinks everything will be fine now. Lketinga’s brother is eager to see the sea, but when he’s confronted with the vast expanse of water he has to hold on to us. He won’t go closer than thirty feet from the sea, and after ten minutes he’s so afraid that we have to leave the beach. I show him a tourist hotel too but he doesn’t believe what he sees. On one occasion he asks a man if we’re really still in Kenya. It’s a remarkable feeling to be able to show the world to someone who can still be amazed. Later we go for a meal and drinks, and for the first time he tastes beer, which has a bad effect on him. We find ourselves a shabby little boarding house in Ukunda.

These days in Mombasa cost a fortune. The men drink beer, and I have to just sit there because I don’t want to go to the beach on my own. Gradually it starts to grate on me to be paying the bar tab for three people, and so we have our first few quarrels. Lketinga, who is now officially my husband, doesn’t understand and says it’s my fault we have to wait such a long time before going back to Nairobi. He doesn’t understand in any case why I need a stamp. He’s married me, hasn’t he, and that makes me a Leparmorijo and a Kenyan. The others agree, and I’m left sitting there wondering how to explain bureaucracy to them.

After four days we set off sullenly. With a lot of effort I drag Lketinga one more time – the last, so he says – to this office in Nairobi. I keep hoping that the stamp will be there. Once again I explain our situation and ask for someone to check if it’s been done yet. Once again I’m told to wait. The other three look at each other and me nervously. Everyone else stares at us in curiosity: a white woman with three Masai is not something you see everyday in a government office.

At long last my husband and I are called out and told to follow a woman. When we stop at a lift I already guess what’s going to happen if Lketinga has to get in. The lift doors open, and a horde of people pile out. Lketinga looks at the empty cabin with horror and says: ‘Corinne, what’s that?’ I try to explain to him that this box will takes us up to the twelfth floor. The woman is already waiting impatiently inside. But Lketinga doesn’t want to get in. He’s scared of going up so high. ‘Darling, please, this is no problem, if we are in the twelfth floor you go around like now,’ I say, begging him to get in before the woman gets fed up and in the end, with bulging eyes, he does it.

We’re taken in to an office where a stern African lady is waiting for us. She asks me if I am really married to this Samburu. She wants to know from Lketinga if he is really able to provide food and shelter for me. He turns to me and asks, ‘Corinne, please, which house I must have?’ My God, I think to myself, just say ‘yes’. The woman looks back and forth between us. My nerves are so stretched that I’m sweating from every pore. She stares straight at me and asks, ‘You want to have children?’ I answer promptly: ‘Oh yes, two.’ There’s a silence. Then eventually she goes over to her desk and picks out one of a multitude of rubber stamps. I hand over two hundred shillings and get my passport back, stamped. I could weep with joy. At last, at last, it’s done! I can stay in my beloved Kenya. All we have to do now is get out of here, back to Barsaloi, back home!

M
ama is delighted that everything has gone well. Now it’s time to plan the traditional Samburu wedding. Apart from anything else we have to build our own
manyatta
because after the wedding we wouldn’t be allowed to live in her house. Now that I’m free from red tape I stop thinking about having a proper house and ask Lketinga to find the best women to build us a nice, big
manyatta
. I can fetch branches with the Land Rover, but I don’t know how to build a hut. We can pay them with a goat. Quickly four women, including his sister, volunteer to build our
manyatta
. It’s to be twice the size of Mama’s and taller, so that I can almost stand up inside.

The women spend ten days on it, and I can hardly wait to move in. The hut will be approximately sixteen feet by eleven. First they mark the outline with thick posts around which willow branches are woven. The interior will be divided into three: the fireplace right in front of the entrance with a support to hang pots and cups. Then five feet in there’ll be a woven partition wall. Half of the space behind that is for my darling and me, with a cowhide on the ground and then a straw mat and on top of that my striped Swiss woollen blanket. We’ll hang the mosquito net over our sleeping area. Opposite will be a second sleeping area intended for two or three visitors, and right at the back, where their heads would be, a rack for me to hang my clothes.

The bare bones of our super hut go up fast. The only thing missing now is the plasterwork – cow dung, which still has to be delivered. As there are no cows in Barsaloi we drive over to Lketinga’s half-brother in Sitedi and load up the Land Rover with cowpats. We have to make three trips before we have enough.

Two thirds of the hut is plastered inside with the dung, which soon dries in the heat. One third and the roof are plastered on the outside so that the smoke can seep out through the porous roof. It’s riveting watching the construction work. The women smear the dung on just using their hands and laugh at my turned-up nose. When it’s finished we have to wait a week before moving in so that the dung can harden and lose its smell.

W
e’re into our last few days in Mama’s hut. All the talk now is of our forthcoming Samburu wedding. Every day old men or women arrive to discuss possible dates with Mama. Our calendar doesn’t depend on dates or days; everything depends on the moon. I would like to get married at Christmas, but the Samburu don’t know anything about that and in any case they wouldn’t know what the moon might be like then. But we’ve planned roughly around that date. As there’s never been a wedding between a black and a white here before, nobody knows how many people will turn up. The news will be passed from village to village and only on the wedding day itself will we see who pays us the honour. The more people, particularly old people, who turn up, the more respect we’ll get.

One evening the game warden comes by, a strapping lad but calm and immediately likeable. Unfortunately he only speaks a little English but has a long chat with Lketinga. Eventually I get curious and ask what they’re talking about. My husband tells me that the warden wants to rent out his newly built shop, which is only used as a store for Father Giuliani’s maize. Excitedly I ask how much it would cost. He suggests that we go and take a look at it tomorrow and discuss terms afterwards. I spend a sleepless night as Lketinga and I already have plans.

After our morning wash down by the river we stroll through the village to the shop. My husband talks to everyone we meet, mostly about the wedding. Even the Somalis come out of their shops and ask when it’s going to be. But the elders still haven’t given us anything definite. For now I just want to see the shop and drag Lketinga off.

The game warden is already waiting for us in this opened up empty building. I’m speechless. It’s a building with walls near the Mission, which I always assumed belonged to Father Giuliani. It’s huge with a gate that opens to the front; left and right are windows, and in the middle there’s what could be a shop counter and proper wooden shelving. Behind another door there’s a similarly large room that could be used as a store or even living space. I can imagine with a bit of effort turning this into the smartest shop in Barsaloi and for miles around. But I have to play down my enthusiasm so as to not to drive the rent through the roof. We agree on the equivalent of fifty Swiss francs, as long as Lketinga gets the licence to run a shop. My experiences with the bureaucracy make me reticent about putting money up front.

The game warden agrees, and we go back to Mama. Lketinga tells her everything, and they end up arguing. Later he tells me with a laugh: ‘Mama’s afraid that there’ll be problems with the Somalis because people won’t go to their shops anymore. The Somalis are dangerous, and they could cause us trouble. She wants to get the wedding over with first.’

Then Mama takes a long, hard look at me and says I ought to cover up my upper body a bit better so that not everybody sees I have a baby in my belly. When Lketinga tries to explain to me, I’m speechless. Me? Pregnant? But then I think about it and realize that my period is nearly three weeks late, and I hadn’t noticed. But pregnant? No, I’d have noticed.

Why does Mama think that? I ask Lketinga. She comes over to me and traces with her finger the lines of the arteries running down to my breasts. Even so I can’t believe it and don’t know if it will fit in with our shop plans. Apart from that of course, I want to have babies with my husband, a daughter in particular. Mama is convinced she’s right and warns Lketinga he should leave me alone now. Surprised, I ask, ‘Why?’ With great difficulty he manages to tell me that if a pregnant woman has sex with a man the children will have blocked up noses. Although he apparently means it seriously, I have to laugh. Until I’m certain myself, I don’t want to live without sex.

Two days later when we’re on our way back from the river, there’s a group of people sitting gossiping under Mama’s tree. We’re in Mama’s hut, but in three days ours will be ready and that means I will have to light the fire myself and be responsible for fetching firewood. I can fetch water from the river with the Land Rover, unless I can persuade anyone else to
do it for some small change. I find it hard to make do with just one gallon though and want to have a four-gallon canister in the house.

Mama comes into the
manyatta
and says something to Lketinga. He seems worked up by it, and I ask him, ‘What’s the problem?’ ‘Corinne, we have to make the ceremony in five days because the moon is good.’ Just five days until the wedding? We’ll have to set off straight away to Maralal to get rice, tobacco, sweets, drinks and other stuff.

Lketinga is upset because now he can’t get his hair braided properly. This takes several days from morning to night. Even Mama is in a tizz because she has to brew vast quantities of maize beer, and that takes nearly a week. She doesn’t want to let us leave, but there isn’t any sugar or rice in the village: just maize meal. I give her some money so she can get started on the brewing. Lketinga and I set off.

In Maralal we buy eleven pounds of chewing tobacco which is an absolute must for the older people, two hundred pounds of sugar – the tea would be unimaginable without it – and thirty-two pints of sterilized Longlife milk because, although it’s normal, I have no idea how many women might bring milk with them. I don’t want to take any risks. It has to be a good party, even if not many people turn up. We still need rice, but there isn’t any right now. I pluck up the courage to ask at the Maralal Mission, and luckily the missionary sells us his last forty-pound sack. Finally we have to go to the school to tell James. The headmaster tells us the school holidays start on the fifteenth of December, and as we’re getting married on the seventeenth, it won’t be a problem. I’m pleased he’ll be there. Last of all I decide to buy an old petrol container, which we can clean out and use for water. By the time we’ve bought sweets for the children it’s already five p.m.

Even so, we decide to drive back straight away and manage to get through the dangerous jungle stretch before dark. Mama is relieved to see us back. The neighbours come round straightaway to beg for some sugar, but this time Lketinga is firm. He even sleeps in the car to make sure nothing disappears.

The next day he takes off to buy a few goats, which we’ll slaughter. I don’t want to kill ours because I’ve got to know them all. We need an ox too. Down at the river I try to get the smell out of the old petrol container, but it’s not so easy. I spend the whole morning rolling the barrel filled with Omo and sand up and down until it’s relatively clean. Three
children use tin cans to help me fill the barrel with water. Mama’s out in the bush all day, brewing beer because it’s not allowed in the village.

In the evening I go to the Mission, tell them about the wedding and ask to borrow a couple of church benches and some crockery. Father Giuliani is not surprised; he’s already heard the news from one of his employees and reassures me that I can come and collect the things I want on the day of the wedding. I remind him that, a while earlier when they let me store my petrol canisters up at the Mission, I also left my wedding dress and ask him for permission to get changed there. He is surprised that I’m planning to get married in white here, but he agrees.

Only two days to go, and Lketinga still isn’t back from his ‘goat safari’. I’m gradually getting nervous because there’s nobody here I can talk to properly and everyone’s rushing around busily. In the evening at least the school children arrive, which is good news. James is really excited about the wedding, and I have him explain the Samburu ceremony to me.

Normally, he tells me, the ceremony starts early in the morning: with a clitorectomy for the bride. I feel like I’ve been shot down from the sky. ‘Why?’ I ask. Because otherwise she’s not a proper woman and won’t have healthy babies, the otherwise so well educated James answers me in complete earnest. Before I can recover, Lketinga appears in the hut. He beams his smile at me, and I’m glad to see him. He’s brought four fat goats, which wasn’t an easy task because they kept trying to escape back to their herds.

After the usual
chai
, the boys leave us and I can ask Lketinga what all this about ‘female circumcision’ is and tell him in no uncertain terms that I will go along with everything but not that! Under no circumstances! He looks at me calmly. ‘Why not, Corinne? All ladies here make this.’ At that I go as stony as a statue and tell him that if that’s the case I would rather not get married. But he takes me in his arms and calms me down: ‘No problem, my wife. I have told to everybody, white people have this’ – and he points between my legs – ‘cut, when they are babies.’ I look at him doubtfully, but when he taps my tummy lovingly and asks, ‘How is my baby?’ I throw my arms around him in relief. Later I find out that he’s even told his mother this fairy tale, and I think all the more of him for saving me from this rite.

One day before our wedding guests arrive from far away and settle down in various
manyattas
all around. My darling fetches the ox from his
half-brother, which takes the whole day. I drive into the bush with the boys to chop enough firewood. We have to do a lot of driving before we can fill the car with wood, but the boys work hard. In the evening we drive down to the river and fill up the big barrel and every canister we can find. On the way home I ask James to pop into the
chai
-house to order
mandazi
, the little spiced pastries, for tomorrow. While I’m waiting in the car, the owner, a likeable young Somali, comes out and gives me his congratulations.

The night before our wedding is our last in Mama’s
manyatta
. Ours is already finished, but I prefer to move in on the day of my wedding because with Lketinga out and about a lot I didn’t want to sleep alone in our new home.

We wake early. I’m very nervous. I go down to the river to wash myself and my hair. Lketinga drives the boys up to the Mission to pick up the benches and crockery. When I get back everything’s already bustling. The benches have been put out under the shadiest tree. Lketinga’s older brother is making tea in a huge pot. Now it’s Lketinga’s turn to go down to the river to get ready. We agree to meet in one hour up at the Mission. In the Mission building I put on my wedding dress and all the accessories. The dress is tight and only just fits, so that for a moment I wonder if I really am pregnant. It’s a bit stretched across the stomach and breasts. When I’m all done up, I find Father Giuliani standing dumbstruck in the doorway. For the first time in ages I actually get a compliment. He laughs and says this long ankle-length dress is not exactly right for the
manyattas
and certainly not for the thorn bushes. Then my darling is there too, painted magnificently, ready to collect me. He asks me with minor irritation why I want to wear a dress like that. Slightly embarrassed, I laugh back: ‘To look pretty.’ Thank God I’m wearing white plastic sandals rather than European shoes with high heels. Giuliani accepts our invitation to join us.

When I get out of the car both children and grown-ups are amazed. None of them have ever seen a dress like this. I feel a bit unsure of myself, not knowing what to do next. People are cooking everywhere. The goats are taken out and slaughtered. It’s just gone ten a.m., and already there are more than fifty people. The old men are sitting on the benches drinking tea while the women sit a bit apart under another tree. The children jump up and down around me. I hand out chewing gum, and the old men stand
around James, who’s handing out tobacco. There are people pouring past in every direction, the women giving their calabashes of milk to Mama, others tying goats up to the trees. Rice and meat are being boiled up in a big cauldron over an enormous fire. The water is disappearing fast as vast quantities of
chai
are brewed. By midday the first meal is ready, and I begin to hand it out. Father Giuliani has arrived and is filming everything.

Gradually I start to lose track of events. In the meantime some two hundred and fifty people have turned up, not counting the children. I keep hearing that this is the biggest ceremony there’s ever been in Barsaloi, which makes me very proud, particularly on behalf of my darling who took the risk of marrying a white woman, despite the fact that far from everyone was in favour. James comes to tell us the rice is all gone and lots of women and children haven’t had any yet. I tell Giuliani about this ‘disaster’, and he immediately drives off and comes back with a
forty-pound
sack as a wedding present. While the warriors, set apart from everyone else, start dancing, there’s more cooking going on for the others. Lketinga spends most of the time with his warriors, who won’t get to eat anything until tonight. As time goes by I start to feel somewhat neglected. It’s my wedding after all, but there are none of my relatives here and my husband spends more time with his warrior mates than with me.

The guests start dancing, each group on its own: the women beneath their tree, the boys separately and the warriors off in the distance. A few women from the Turkana tribe do a dance for me. I’m supposed to dance along with the women, but after the first few dances Mama takes me to one side and says I shouldn’t jump up and down too much on account of the baby. Meanwhile, a little bit away from the festivities the ox is being slaughtered and hacked into pieces. I’m relieved to see that we’ll have enough to eat and drink for everyone.

Before dusk people hand over their presents or make promises to us. Everyone who wants to give us a present, whether to my husband or me, stands up and announces it. They have to announce which of us the gift is for because it is the Samburu custom for men and women to own their possessions – in other words, their animals – separately. I’m overwhelmed by how much people give me: fourteen goats, two sheep, one chicken, a cockerel, two young calves and a little camel, all for me alone. My husband gets about the same. Not everyone has brought their presents with them, so Lketinga will have to go and collect them later.

The party comes to an end, and for the first time I retire to my own
manyatta
. Mama has fixed everything nicely for me, and at last I can unpeel my tight dress. I sit down in front of the fire, waiting for my husband who’s still out in the bush. It is a beautiful night, and I am alone in my own
manyatta
, beginning life as a proper housewife.