It turns out there is a young English couple there, and I explain my problem to them. The husband takes his toolbox out and has a look at my car. In next to no time he’s able to tell me that my battery is flat and empty. He tries a couple of things but without success. When I tell them I need to get back to Barsaloi today because I have a baby at home, he offers to lend me the battery from their car, but I have to promise to bring it back because they need to set off for Nairobi in two days’ time. I’m impressed by his good faith, leave my dud battery behind and promise to be back in time.
Back home I tell my husband what happened as yet again he wants to know what took me so long. I’m obviously upset too because once again we need to spend money and the car keeps eating up everything we earn. Very soon I’m going to need four new tyres. It drives me mad that we never seem to get anywhere, and I can’t bear the thought of having to go to Maralal again tomorrow.
Then we have a stroke of luck: the builders are sending a car down to fetch food and beer. I ask Lketinga to go with them, take the battery, buy a new one for us and then take the public matatu to Baragoi and give it to the English people, who’ll be bound to give him a lift back to Barsaloi.
I stress on him how important it is that these people get their battery back tomorrow. He assures me it’s no problem and sets off with the workers in their Land Rover to Maralal via the jungle route. I’m worried that things won’t work out, but he promised me and was proud to be asked to do something important. He’ll have to spend the night in Maralal and make sure he’s up in time to catch the only matatu to Baragoi.
I spend the time at home and in the shop, helping James sell the sugar and expecting Lketinga back at any moment. But it’s nine in the evening before we finally spot a light in the distance. I settle down to make some chai so that he’ll have something to drink as soon as he gets in. Half an hour later the English pair’s Land Rover stops in front of the shop, and I hurry over to them and ask where my husband is. The young man looks at me crossly and says he has no idea where my husband might be but he needs his battery back because he has to set off tonight to Nairobi to catch a flight back to England the next day. I feel wretched and deeply ashamed that I’ve let them down and broken my promise.
It’s even worse when I have to tell them that my husband has their battery and was supposed to bring it to them today in Baragoi. Unsurprisingly the young Englishman starts to get annoyed. He’s put our old battery in his car but it will only last until it drains and then there’ll be no way to recharge it. I don’t know what to do and am furious with Lketinga. They tell me the matatu arrived in Baragoi, but there was no Masai warrior on it. By now it’s ten-thirty, and I offer them a cup of chai while we try to work out what to do.
As we’re drinking our chai I hear the sound of a lorry engine stopping near our house. Immediately Lketinga turns up and gasping for breath dumps the two batteries on the ground. I shout at him, asking him where on earth he’s been as these people wanted to leave ages ago. Dubiously the Englishman changes the batteries over and immediately they set off. I’m fed up at having been let down so badly by Lketinga. He claims he simply missed the matatu, but I can smell alcohol on his breath. Also he has no money left and on top of that needs one hundred and fifty Swiss francs to pay the lorry driver. I’m left speechless by his empty-headedness. The battery cost us three hundred and fifty francs, and now there’s this to pay out on top, all because he was drinking beer in the bars and missed the cheap public bus. That means our whole profit for the last month and the next has gone.
I go to bed in a bad mood, but despite all my frustration and anger my husband decides he wants to make love to me. When I make it clear to him that right now he shouldn’t even think of trying his luck, he starts to get appallingly angry again. It’s midnight by now and as quiet as the grave except for the sound of us shouting at each other. Once again he accuses me of having a lover and meeting up with him last night, which was why I sent him off to Maralal. I can’t stand it anymore and spend my time trying to console Napirai who’s woken up and started crying.
Desperate Stakes
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. Fath
er 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.’
Anger and Impotence
My 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.
The White Masai Page 31
