The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  ‘Some of them. People came from many places, even Arusha.’

  ‘Are these Maasai still there now?’

  Baraka looked reluctant to reply. ‘Why are you asking these questions? Things of past times should not be disturbed. Do you not have a baby to occupy your thoughts? You should see if Tembo is doing his washing to a high standard.’

  ‘You are right.’ Essie spoke lightly, as though the intensity of the conversation was already forgotten. She released the brake on the pram. ‘I will talk to him.’

  The smell of dung baking in the sun reached Essie even before the manyatta came into view. She heard goats bleating and the occasional lowing of a cow. A rooster called – running very late with his announcement of the day. Somewhere, a man was singing.

  From the crest of a low hill, Essie saw the village spread out in front of her. There was an outer perimeter fence made from piled thornbush. Within it were several smaller enclosures where goats and donkeys were separated from the sacred cattle. At the heart of it all was the cluster of huts made from woven sticks daubed with grey mud. Surrounding the manyatta was a wide arc of semi-denuded land; it was tracked with red lines where cloven hooves had pressed into the sparse covering of vegetation exposing the bare earth. Everything was round: the huts, the fences, the clearing, the layout of the whole place. Essie gazed down over the pattern of circles formed within circles. It looked as if it was meant to be read from far above – the vantage point of a plane, a mountaintop, the heavens.

  The manyatta was a long-established settlement, as far as Maasai villages went. Because the waterholes on the plains never dried up, there was some grazing to be had all the year round in this location. During the dry season – when the zebra, gazelle, wildebeests and other plains animals migrated – the cattle became thin, but they survived well enough. And no one had died inside their hut, which would have caused the village to be moved. Another reason, Essie knew, for this group of Maasai to have virtually abandoned their nomadic ways was the presence of the research camp. The Europeans provided a market for the women’s produce, a source of employment for men and an opportunity to sell artefacts to visitors. The dynamics that had ruled the lives of the tribespeople for as far back as their oral histories reached had been tipped out of balance.

  Moving on, Essie pushed the pram down towards the manyatta. It would have been easier to carry Mara over this terrain, but there was the nappy bag, the insulated bottle container and all the other accessories to be considered. Also, Essie felt that it was better for Mara to be in the pram as much as possible. It would help develop her independence.

  As people caught sight of the visitors, they must have called out to others. Soon there was a crowd awaiting Essie’s arrival. The bright daubs of their shukas – the red, purple and black plaids – stood out against the muted palette of their surroundings.

  When Essie drew near she saw that some of the women looked puzzled. She realised they’d been expecting to see her and Mara in their coloured dresses. They eyed Essie’s work clothes with open disappointment. When they peered into the pram they looked only slightly more approving of Mara’s pink frock.

  An old woman came forward. She had white, wiry hair and her face was covered with fine wrinkles that puckered around her ritual scars. Essie recognised her as one of the group that had come to the camp.

  ‘Karibu, Mama Mzuri,’ the woman said. Welcome to the Beautiful Mother.

  Essie shook her head. ‘I am not the mother of this baby.’

  She knew she had made this very clear back at the camp. However, she’d then let herself be drawn into the women’s dance, which had encouraged the false identity to stick. If she didn’t correct the mistake, it would only be a matter of time before Ian or Julia heard the name being used.

  ‘I am looking after her for the dry season only.’ Essie spoke slowly and clearly. ‘When the Short Rains come, she will return to her family.’

  Her words – translated and passed from tongue to tongue – sparked murmurings. Then a younger woman walked up to Essie. She wore only a cloth tied round her waist. In her arms was a naked baby, suckling at her breast. The second breast, hanging free, was full and round. Milk leaked from the nipple, dripping onto the ground. Essie could see that the baby was a little girl, like Mara. She was longer, though – fatter. Essie felt a pang of anxiety. Was she older, then? Perhaps she was healthier. Happier . . .

  The young mother bent over the pram, studying Mara closely. After a while, the sharp, curious gaze began to soften. She made a gentle clucking sound. Mara reacted by reaching out with both hands. The Maasai turned to Essie. The two women shared a smile.

  ‘You are her mother at this moment,’ the Maasai stated. Her use of Swahili was clear. ‘The future is another time.’

  Essie nodded in response, even though she was not sure exactly what the woman meant. On face value it sounded as if Essie was being advised to think only of the present – however, concepts of time were much more complex in the African setting than one might think. Essie had heard anthropologists struggling to understand how in many traditional societies time was viewed not as a continuum that went only one way, but as something almost organic, more like a tangled web. Things that hadn’t even happened yet might have an effect on the events of here and now.

  When this topic was under discussion Essie soon found herself out of her depth. People referred to Einstein’s theory of relativity, which apparently stated that there is no single present time – that the distinction between past, present and future was only an illusion. They talked about the Lagrangian schema, which sounded like an impossibly complex scientific explanation for what many tribespeople seemed able – presumably instinctively – to understand with ease. Essie had never actually tried very hard to grasp the concepts. For one thing, they undermined the whole premise of archaeology, which was that the present world was the outcome of all that had gone before. Every layer of rock, every step of evolutionary progress, led on one from another. All these considerations aside, Essie wished in this moment that she could be free to live only in the present, as the young Maasai seemed to be recommending. She wouldn’t have to keep walking the fine line between engaging with Mara and holding back in order to prepare them both for the future that was coming. She sometimes felt like a flower that longed to open but was forced to hold itself shut.

  The people were now watching her curiously, no doubt wondering why the white woman was here. Essie had only ever come to the village with Ian. The visits were rare, and always tense, with her husband raising the issue of cattle being grazed inside the Archaeological Reserve, or some other damage being caused. On one occasion, all three of the Lawrences, along with a government official, had come to make a complaint. Some of the young men had lit a fire in an excavated Neolithic hearth. It was unclear if it had been a matter of ignorance – the fireplace was there, and they didn’t see the harm in using it – or an act of deliberate, disrespectful vandalism.

  Essie wasn’t sure what protocol should be applied now that she’d turned up on her own. Ian’s arrival always sparked instant action – whoever was most senior in the village would present himself. Essie looked towards a spindly thorn tree, wondering if she should just go and sit down in the shade.

  As if on cue, a teenage girl appeared holding a battered safari chair. It must have made its way here from Magadi, or perhaps been exchanged for tribal artefacts with tourists or hunters. As the chair was set down under the tree, Essie pushed the pram across to it. She put on the brake, the simple manoeuvre prompting a flutter of interest. Then she checked on Mara. The baby was gazing contentedly up at the fringed edge of the sun canopy, kicking the air with her white-clad feet.

  Essie took her place on the chair, lowering herself cautiously in case the canvas was rotten. A few onlookers wandered away, but most of the people who had gathered began settling themselves on the ground in front of her. Some squatted on their heels; others sat with their legs stretched out in front of them. The old woman
who had greeted Essie remained standing. She called out something in Maa. While Essie was still waiting for a translation, she strode across to the pram and picked Mara up. Essie jumped to her feet, alarm running like an electric current through her blood. She knew the old woman wouldn’t mean any harm, but she couldn’t help reacting to seeing Mara in the arms of a stranger.

  The old Maasai smiled, her grey gums almost as bare of teeth as those of the baby. She held Mara tenderly against her chest, where her wasted breasts formed only the slightest mound under her shuka. Her hands, knotted with age, supported the baby’s heavy head. The gesture was obviously second nature to her.

  Essie sank back into her chair. Mara was in more than expert hands. The tribeswoman had most likely given birth to a baby every couple of years from the time when she was married until she was no longer able to conceive. Her offspring would have grown into adults by now or died along the way. The grandmother probably spent her days caring for the next generation. There was a lot of hard work to be done by members of the family who were stronger than she was now.

  Essie was reminded of an article written by the primatologist who’d befriended William – the one Julia disliked, who had a korongo named after her. It was in one of the faded old journals on display in the Dining Tent. Alice Jones had written about the function of menopause in humans. Strangely, the phenomenon occurred in virtually no other mammal, the only known exceptions being two species of whale. Even among our closest relatives – chimps, gibbons, and Alice Jones’ own beloved bonobos – the females remained fertile until death. Jones believed menopause had evolved so that there would be a group of women in society who were unhampered by pregnancy and breastfeeding and able to help look after other people’s children. Essie hadn’t been much interested in the research when she’d read it. But after even this short time of being responsible for Mara, she saw that it made sense. What she’d known for years in theory was now starkly clear in her mind. Human young needed a spectacular amount of care. They were so helpless for so long.

  The grandmother carried Mara across to Essie. Before handing her over, she glanced back at the pram with a frown. Obviously, she believed there was only one place for a baby to be, and that was in someone’s arms. Essie knew there was no point in trying to explain the strategy of fostering independence. She settled Mara on her lap, smoothing the lacy dress over her legs. Without making it too obvious, she quickly checked the baby over. She imagined germs swarming over the delicate skin. She doubted that the Maasai woman would have washed her hands very recently. She might even have fleas or lice. Essie wished she could get a cloth from the pram and wipe Mara’s hands and face. But even as she thought of this – how rude it would be – a different idea came to her: perhaps this encounter was a chance for the baby to build up her resistance to germs that would normally be part of her world. If that were true, Essie should be deliberately passing her around the crowd from one pair of hands to another. As was the case with so many of the decisions Essie had had to make since Mara came into her life, it was impossible to be sure what was best.

  Under the gaze of dozens of pairs of eyes, Essie felt as though she and Mara were on display – a strange version of a Madonna and Child statue. Their position, raised up on the chair, only added to the impression. As she smiled self-consciously, her gaze came to rest on the young mother who’d spoken earlier. She was squatting not far away. The baby was still feeding – kneading the breast with one tiny hand as she sucked and swallowed. Essie noticed how the two bodies, virtually bare, fitted closely together, skin sealed against skin as if they were one creature. She was suddenly aware of her own posture: her rigid back and the way her feet were planted together, her knees swept primly to one side. Her khaki shirt and trousers – designed to keep her well covered and protected from the hazards of the bush – felt out of place. Mara, too, seemed overdressed with her bulky nappy and long skirt.

  A small gourd was brought and offered to Essie. It was half full of milk. She took it with her free hand – she knew she had to accept some hospitality before she could begin to ask questions. There was a skin floating on the surface of the milk. At least that proved it had been boiled, and any brucellosis bacteria killed. There was a short straight hair there as well – probably from a dog. It turned in a slow spiral. Lifting the gourd to her lips, Essie swallowed cautiously, tasting rich cream tainted with charcoal.

  She scanned the gathering, seeking someone who appeared to be senior. It would be a mistake to address the wrong person. She noticed a strong-looking figure standing not far away. His ochred hair was held back from his face by an elaborate beaded headpiece. A sword hung from his belt.

  ‘Greetings, my father,’ she said when she’d caught his eye. ‘I am seeking information. Do you understand Swahili?’

  The man inclined his head, inviting her to continue. As she spoke, the air was gripped with the stillness of intense listening. Muttered translations flew.

  Essie outlined what she and Simon had learned from the Hadza about the existence of a cave at the foot of the volcano. Mindful of Baraka’s words outside the storeroom, she stressed that she was hoping to find very old paintings, but that if she did, they would not be harmed. She would show respect. Nothing would be disturbed. She described how carefully she had traced the images at the Painted Cave. Several heads nodded knowingly. Essie had a sense that everything she’d done at the site years ago had been observed, reported, remembered.

  The man shook his head. ‘We do not know this story that you have been told. It is probably a lie. You cannot trust a Hadza.’

  Essie’s hands tightened around Mara. She had to force a polite expression. ‘Nevertheless, I would like to investigate. Do you know if there is a tower made of rock over there, like the one near Magadi Camp?’

  The man shrugged. ‘We do not trespass on the home of Lengai. How would we see it?’

  ‘What about the trackers who helped search for mtoto wa siri? Maybe they have seen this tower?’

  There was a sudden hush. A baby’s cry was soothed by a mother’s crooning. A large bird flew overhead, wings beating the air. Essie chewed her lip. Perhaps she’d pushed too far in mentioning the lost boy. Africans were often superstitious. They believed the act of simply talking about someone or something could have consequences. She was about to backtrack and find a new approach when she saw a man emerge from behind a nearby dwelling. As he walked towards Essie, every eye followed him.

  He was tall, like most of the Maasai, but his figure was stooped. Instead of a shuka he wore a plain black cloth knotted at one shoulder. Where it hung open at the side, Essie caught a glimpse of protruding ribs and a bony hip. His hair was dusted with silver.

  ‘I am Kisani. I was Mrs Lawrence’s field assistant.’ The words, delivered in English, sounded more like a confession than an announcement.

  Essie’s lips parted. Baraka had not told her the man was still living here; perhaps he was following the code of silence about anything to do with Robbie. She wondered if Kisani had been here all along, or if he’d gone to work elsewhere and had now returned in his old age.

  Essie cleared her throat. After introducing herself, she asked him if he spoke English fluently.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘When I worked for the Lawrences, I translated for other Maasai workers.’

  Essie was glad; she had enough to think about without having to worry about making any mistakes with her Swahili.

  ‘I hope you can tell me something,’ she began. She tried not to picture how outraged Ian and Julia would be if they knew whom she was talking to. ‘Do you remember the tall rock near Magadi Camp that is called the Tower?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kisani said again.

  ‘Is there one like it, near the bottom of Ol Doinyo Lengai?’

  ‘It is there.’

  Essie’s mouth fell open. The answer was so short and certain. ‘Can you tell me where?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed as though he was focusing on a distant place. ‘I saw
that rock many times when we were searching for mtoto wa siri. We gave it a name . . .’ He paused, as if scouring his memory. ‘The Meeting Place.’

  ‘Did you see a cave?’ Essie held her breath.

  ‘I did not. But there are many big rocks there. Some are broken. Some have fallen over. It is caused by Lengai.’ He looked at the ground, moving his open hands to give an impression of an earthquake.

  ‘Was there anything that looked like a cave with rocks over the entrance?’

  Kisani lifted his face. ‘I was searching only for one thing. A small boy.’ His lower lip pushed up. His eyes blinked. Essie could see him struggling to preserve a calm façade.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask you these things,’ she said.

  ‘It is just that you . . . remind me of her.’

  Essie looked at him blankly.

  ‘You are a young woman,’ he added. ‘You wear the same clothes. You speak English.’ He pointed at Mara. ‘You are a mother.’

  At first Essie couldn’t think what the man meant. Then it came to her. ‘I remind you of Julia?’

  Kisani didn’t reply. He was gazing down at the ground. ‘I will never forget how she cried. She was like an animal that has been shot by an unskilled hunter. No one could comfort her. The child she loved best was gone. Her little son.’ He looked up, scanning the faces of the crowd. The people listened intently, even though only a few of them could be following his English. It was as if the power of his emotion transcended the language barrier. Or perhaps it was a story they already knew.

  ‘I tried to help her,’ Kisani continued. ‘Together we searched for a long time, just Mrs Lawrence and me, after the others gave up. Bwana Lawrence and everyone at Magadi – they all returned to their work. But we walked on the mountain from sunrise until it was dark. We only stopped when the rains came.’

  ‘Where was Ian?’ Essie broke in.

  ‘He was sent away to Arusha. His mother could not look after him. She had only one thought in her mind. She had to find her son. Even when we knew it was not possible for him to be alive any more, we searched for his body. She wanted to bury him. She wanted to know how he died. But we could not find anything. There was no piece of his shirt. No bone. Not even one hair.’