The river is slowly building up, and I refuse to drive. Now he gets furious, pushes Napirai into my arms and wants to drive himself. He insists I give him the ignition key, but I don’t have it and think with some reason that it’s in the car, seeing as the engine’s running. ‘No, Corinne, please give me the key, you have driven the car, now you have taken it that we go back to Wamba!’ he says angrily, his dark eyes sparkling maliciously. I go to the car to show him, but ironically it turns out that the engine is running without the key in. Feverishly I search the seats and the ground but the key – the only one we have – is missing.
Lketinga blames me. Furiously he climbs into the car, engages the four-wheel drive and roars into the river. It’s all too crazy for me, and I burst into tears and Napirai starts crying at the top of her voice. The car is getting stuck in the river. The first few yards are fine, the tyres sinking just a little, but the further he drives the slower he goes and the back wheels slowly sink under the heavy weight. Just a few yards from a dry sandbank the car threatens to come to a stop, the wheels spinning uselessly. I’m crying and praying and cursing all at once. The two warriors splash their way to the car, lift it and push and actually do manage the last six feet. The wheels grip again, and with a flourish he shoots across the other half of the river. My husband has managed it brilliantly, but I’m anything but proud: he risked everything far too carelessly and in any case we still don’t have the key.
One of the warriors comes back and helps me across the river. I sink up to my knees in places. Lketinga’s standing there proudly and defiantly next to the car and demands I now hand over the key. ‘I don’t have it!’ I shout at him in despair. I go over to the car and search all over again, in vain. Disbelievingly Lketinga shakes his head and goes to search himself. In a couple of seconds he has it in his hand – it had fallen between the seat and the backrest and got stuck. How it could have happened is a mystery to me. But he’s convinced I hid it from him because I didn’t want to drive across the river. We drive home in silence.
When we finally get to Barsaloi it’s already dark. Of course we go first of all to see Mama in the manyatta, and my God she’s delighted to see us! Immediately she takes Napirai and blesses her, wiping spittle on her forehead, the palms of her hand and the soles of her feet and prays to Enkai. She says something to me too, but I don’t understand. The smoke is causing me problems, and Napirai is coughing too. Even so we will spend the first night here with her.
Next morning several people come to see the baby, but Mama says that in the first weeks I shouldn’t show the baby to anybody but those she permits. I don’t understand this and ask her, ‘Why? She’s so pretty!’ Lketinga mutters and says I shouldn’t say she’s pretty, it’ll bring bad luck. Strangers shouldn’t be allowed to see her in case they wish evil on her. In Switzerland we show off our babies proudly, here I have to hide mine away or if I take her out I have to cover her head with a kanga. I find it hard.
I spend three days sitting with my baby in the dark manyatta while Mama keeps guard on the door. My husband is preparing a party to celebrate the birth of his daughter. An ox has to be slaughtered. Several of the elders come, eat the meat and bless our daughter for it. I get the best pieces to build up my strength.
In the evening the warriors dance with my husband in his honour, and of course afterwards they have to be fed and watered. Mama has brewed me up a horrid-smelling liquid that is supposed to protect me from any more illness. Everyone watches while I drink it, and they pray to Enkai for me. I feel ill after the first sip and try to tip away as much as I can when no one’s looking.
The vet and his wife turn up at the party, which pleases me. To my surprise I find out that the wooden house next to theirs has become free, and I look forward to the possibility of having a new house with two rooms and a WC inside. The next day we move out of the shop into the wooden house, just five hundred feet away. First I have to give it a good clean. In the meantime Mama watches the baby outside, keeping it covered with her kanga so cleverly that you’d hardly know it was there.
People keep coming into the shop, looking for things to buy. It looks empty and dilapidated. The credit book is almost full, but there’s not enough cash in the till to pay for another lorry-load. But for now I can’t work and don’t want to, so it can stay closed.
Each day I’m busy until noon washing the previous day’s nappies. My knuckles have become completely raw. I can’t go on with this and look for a girl who can help me with the housework and above all the washing, so I have more time for Napirai and cooking. Lketinga fixes things with a former schoolgirl. For thirty Swiss francs a month plus food she’s prepared to fetch water and do the washing. Now at last I can enjoy my daughter. She is so pretty and happy and hardly ever cries. Even my husband can spend hours lying on the ground with her under the tree outside the house.
Slowly I get my routine under control. The girl is a slow worker, and I don’t easily get on with her. I notice that our washing powder is disappearing fast, and our stocks of rice and sugar too. When Napirai starts screaming every time her nappy is changed and I discover that she’s red and raw between the legs, I’ve had enough. I tell the girl that she has to rinse the nappies until there’s no trace of the Omo left. She pays no attention and then says that she’s not paid enough to fetch water more than once a day. I send her home in annoyance; I’d rather do the washing myself.
Hunger
People get impatient when they’re hungry. For more than a month the shops have been empty, but every day people come to our house to ask us when we’re going to open up again. For the moment, however, I don’t see how I can go back to work. I’d have to go to Maralal and organize a lorry. I’m afraid that in our car I’d get stuck somewhere with the baby. The gearbox has only been patched up, the ignition lock is wrecked, and there’s a lot of other work that needs doing.
One day the little boss man comes to us complaining that people are hungry. He knows there are still a few sacks of maize meal in the shop and asks us at least to sell these. Reluctantly I go into the shop to count the sacks. My husband comes with me but when we open the first sack I’m almost sick. The top is covered with fat white maggots with little black beetles scurrying amidst them. We open the other sacks, and it’s the same story every time. The boss man roots around in the sack and says it’s not so bad beneath the top layer. But I refuse to serve it in that state.
In the meantime, however, people seem to have got wind of the fact that we have meal, and there are more and more women in the shop willing to buy it. We talk it over, and I offer just to give it away. The boss man says no because before long we’d have people committing murder, the best thing is to sell it cheap. By now there are fifty or more people outside with cloth and plastic bags. I can’t face putting my hands into these sacks and having the maggots crawl over them. And in any case, I’m holding Napirai. I set off to fetch Lketinga’s big brother from Mama’s. He’s there and comes back with me. I give Napirai to Mama. We’re just in time. Lketinga is serving, but the little boss has to stop people from storming the shop. Each person is allowed a maximum of six and a half pounds. I put the weights on the scales and take the money, while the two men dole out the unappetizing maize meal. We work like mad and are glad that the boss man somehow manages to keep order. By eight p.m. all the sacks have been sold and we’re exhausted, but at least there’s some money in the till again.
Selling the meal and realizing how necessary our shop has become occupy my thoughts a lot that evening. But I don’t have much time before I’ve got to get back home to my baby. Worried, I hurry to the manyattas in the dark. For more than six hours now my baby hasn’t had any breast milk, and I’m expecting to find her in total despair. But when I get closer to the manyatta I don’t hear a chirp from her, just the sound of Mama singing. I creep in and am amazed to see my baby sucking on Mama’s big, long, black breast. I can only stare in astonishment. Mama laughs and holds out my naked baby to me. When Napirai hears my voice s
he cries out immediately, wanting my breast, but I’m amazed that Mama could keep her quiet for so long with her empty breast.
A little later my husband turns up, and I tell him about it. He laughs and says it’s normal here. Even Saguna did the same thing as a little baby, because it’s usual. The sons’ first baby is given to their mother as housemaid. I look at my baby and, even though she’s filthy and stinks of smoke, I’m quite content, although I know that I’d never hand over her to anyone.
We drink chai with Mama and then go back to our house. Lketinga carries Napirai proudly. The little boss is waiting at the door. Of course I have to make tea for him too, even though I don’t want to. Suddenly Lketinga gets up, takes two hundred shillings from our box of money and hands it to the chief. I don’t know why but say nothing. After he leaves I learn that he demanded the money for his crowd control work. I’m annoyed by that because he forced us into it all. He was determined we should open the shop and it was his duty to keep order, that’s what the government pays him for. I try gently to tell this to Lketinga and am pleased to note that he agrees with me and is cross too.
After that the shop stays closed. The boy who Lketinga brought into the shop comes by often. He doesn’t pay any attention to me, which annoys me, but from his conversations with Lketinga I gather he’s after something. My husband dismisses it, saying he’s demanding his last lot of wages, which he’s already been paid. I keep out of it; I was in Maralal and at the hospital and know nothing about it.
Life goes on quietly and Napirai grows into a proper little podge. I’m still not supposed to show her to strangers, and when anyone comes near Lketinga hides her head under the baby blanket, which she hates.
One day we’re on our way back from the river and are about to go to the chai-house when an old man comes up to Lketinga. There’s the usual conversation, then Lketinga tells me to wait and he goes over to the little police post. There I see the proper chief officer, the game warden and the boy from the shop. From a distance I watch the conversation with growing concern. Napirai is asleep in a kanga at my side. When Lketinga hasn’t come back after fifteen minutes, I amble over to the men.
There’s something up, I can tell from my husband’s expression. He’s furious, and there’s an argument going on while the boy just looks off casually to one side. I keep hearing the words ‘duka’ and ‘shop’. As I know the chief speaks English I ask him what’s going on. I get no answer; instead everyone shakes hands, and Lketinga slopes off in a bad mood. In a couple of paces I’m alongside him and grab him by the shoulder to find out what’s happened. He turns round to me wearily and says he has to give the boy five goats for his work in the shop or else the boy’s father will report him to the police, and he doesn’t want to go to jail. I’ve no idea what this is all about.
I ask my husband forcefully whether the boy got his pay every month or not. ‘Yes, Corinne, I don’t know why they want five goats, but I don’t want to go again in prison, I’m a good man. The father of this boy is a big man!’ I believe Lketinga did pay the money. To threaten him with prison for absolutely nothing is really the last straw, particularly when this boy is the cause of it. In a furious temper I rush back to him and shout: ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘From you nothing, only from your husband,’ he smiles at me stupidly. I can’t take it anymore and lash out at him with hand and foot. He tries to dodge me, but I grab his shirt and pull him over cursing at him in German and spitting.
The men standing round restrain me, and Napirai starts screaming her head off. Meanwhile Lketinga has come over and says angrily: ‘Corinne, you are crazy, go home.’ ‘I’m not crazy, really not crazy, but if you give goats to this boy, I don’t open again this shop!’ The boy’s father has to restrain him to stop him attacking me. Furiously I tear myself free and run back to the house with Napirai howling all the way. I don’t understand my husband, why he lets himself be cowed like this, and I don’t understand the chief either. From now on I’m going to take the money myself for every handful we sell. Nobody will get a lift in the car unless they’ve paid first. People stare at me as I rush past, but I couldn’t care less. I’m aware that I’ve deeply offended the boy and his father because here it’s men who beat women, not the other way round.
Before long Lketinga and the chief appear at the house. They immediately demand to know why I did what I did. My man is upset and horrified, which makes me even angrier. I produce our credit book and lay it on the table, so the chief can see how many thousands of shillings we’re out because of the boy. And he himself owes us three hundred shillings. And now he’s demanding five goats, the equivalent of half a year’s pay. Now even the chief frowns and apologizes for his ruling, but we’ll have to sort it out with the old man because Lketinga has already accepted the verdict with his handshake.
Out of politeness I’m obliged to make chai for the chief. I light the charcoal in our little stove and set it outside so that the air can get the coals glowing more quickly. It’s a clear starry night, and I’m just about to go back into the house when I see a figure with something shining. Immediately I sense danger and go back into the house to tell my husband. He goes out with me close behind him. The chief stays in our hut. I hear Lketinga ask who’s there and shortly afterwards recognize the voice and the figure of the boy with a machete in his hand. Angrily I ask him what he’s doing here. He says brusquely he’s here to settle accounts with the ‘mzungu’. Immediately I rush into the house and ask the chief if he’s heard. He nods and comes out too.
The boy is shocked and goes to run away, but Lketinga holds on to him and takes the dangerous machete off him. I look at the chief triumphantly: now he’s witnessed an attempted murder. He should arrest him, and tomorrow we’ll all drive to Maralal. I don’t want this idiot danger to the community around us anymore. The chief goes off with the boy. My husband disappears too, and for the first time I lock and bolt the house door.
A bit later there’s a knock and after cautious questioning, I open to the vet. He’d heard the noise and wants to know what happened. I offer him chai and tell him. He says what I want is right and offers to help me. He says he never understood why we let this crazy kid work for us in the first place because his father’s already had to get him out of more than one tight spot. While we’re talking, my husband comes home. He’s somewhat taken aback and looks at me and then the vet. The vet starts to talk to him, and I say good night and creep under the mosquito net to Napirai.
I can’t get the incident out of my head and find it hard to get to sleep. A bit later Lketinga comes to bed too and tries to make love to me but I’m not in the mood and Napirai is lying between us. He simply wants sex. We have a go but it just hurts me, and in extreme pain I push him away and ask him to have a bit of patience. Lketinga doesn’t understand me and accuses me angrily of having just done it with the vet. When he hurls that at me, I’ve really had enough for one day. After everything that’s happened for him to throw that one is too much, and right now I can’t stand the sight of him. So he finds somewhere to sleep in the front room. During the night I have to feed Napirai two or three times and then change her nappy.
At six in the morning, when the baby’s already demanding attention again, there’s a knock on the door. It must be the chief, but after my row with Lketinga I’m not in the mood to drive to Maralal. Lketinga opens the door to find the boy’s father standing there with the chief. While I’m putting on my skirt they start arguing. Half an hour later my husband and the chief come into the house. The men almost make me feel sorry for them. The chief gives me an apology from the boy and his father and says that if we don’t go to Maralal, the father will give us five goats. I respond that that won’t mean I’m out of danger, perhaps he’ll try again tomorrow or the day after, whereas in Maralal he’ll be put behind bars for two or three years.
The chief tells the old man my fears, and he promises to take the boy away to relatives for a while. He agrees to my insistence that his son never comes closer than five hund
red feet to our house. After the chief has given me this assurance in writing I agree, and Lketinga goes with the old men to fetch the goats before they leave the corral for the day.
I’m pleased he’s gone and in the afternoon I go up to the Mission to show them my daughter. Father Giuliani hasn’t seen her since Wamba, and Father Roberto doesn’t know her at all. Both of them are pleased to see me, and Father Giuliani is really entranced by my pretty little girl who stares curiously at his white face. When he hears that my husband has gone off, he invites me to stay for lunch. They feed me homemade pasta and salad. How long has it been since I’ve had a salad?! It’s like being transported to heaven. Over the meal, Giuliani tells me that he’s about to leave for three months’ holiday in Italy. I’m happy for him but not so happy to lose him for three months, especially when I think how many times he’s rescued me from the brink of disaster!
We’ve just finished eating when my husband turns up. Immediately there’s tension in the air: ‘Corinne, why do you eat here and not wait for me at home?’ He takes Napirai from me and leaves. I quickly thank the missionaries and hurry after Lketinga and the baby. Napirai is crying. When we get home he gives me the baby and asks: ‘What do you have made with my baby, now she cries only when she comes to me!’ Instead of answering, I ask him why he’s back so quickly. ‘Because I know you go to other men if I’m not here!’ Furious that he keeps making such allegations, I curse and call him crazy. ‘What do you tell me? I’m crazy? You tell your husband he is crazy? I don’t want see you again.’ And with that he gathers up his spears and leaves the house. I’m left sitting there like a statue, incapable of understanding why he keeps suspecting me of having affairs. Just because we haven’t had sex for a long time? I can’t help that I was sick and then in Maralal for so long. In any case the Samburus don’t have sex during pregnancy.
The White Masai Page 26
