Reunion in Barsaloi (5 page)

J
ames disturbs my train of thought to say: ‘I’ll show you around later. Right now let’s go and say hello to Mama. This is her hut.’ He’s pointing to a hut about the height of an average person. I’m about to bend down and crawl through the little opening when James stops me and whispers: ‘No, no, let Mama come out or else you won’t be able to say hello properly with all that smoke in the little hut. And it’s an excuse to get Mama to come out for once.’

He says a few words in Maa at the door and I hear her rattling around inside, bending down to crawl out of the
manyatta
. And then suddenly after fourteen years, she’s standing there in front of me again. To my complete astonishment I realize that in all this time she’s hardly changed at all. I had imagined her much older and weaker. Instead the Mama standing in front of me is a dignified and still imposing woman. We each reach out a hand and as they meet we look each other in the eyes silently, trying to say as much as we can without speaking.

My God, what an aura this woman projects! I do my best to read her emotions in her faintly clouded eyes. It’s not the done thing in Samburu culture to throw your arms around each other and give vent to emotional outpourings. People try to suppress their strongest feelings and look as serious and unmoved as possible. We remain there clutching each other’s hands for what seems like an eternity.

I’d love so much to be able to tell her how important it is to me to see her again, that for all these years I have lived in the hope of being able to come face to face with her again, that she has been in all my prayers, that she has been one of the most important figures in my emotional life.
Instead, all I can do is stand there mute and do my best to convey what I feel with my eyes and my heart.

Suddenly she reaches out her right hand and touches my face, squeezes my chin tenderly and, smiling happily, whispers: ‘Corinne, Corinne, Corinne!’ Now the taboo has gone and I put my arms around her and can’t stop myself planting a kiss on her grey head. At this moment I’m overwhelmed with happiness that I managed to find the courage to come back, and I get the impression that for her too it’s a very emotional experience.

For a fleeting second my thoughts flash back to the first time we met, when I had finally found Lketinga after a long and adventurous search and the two of us were sitting on a cowhide in the
manyatta
talking merrily when the crouched form of Mama had appeared in her hut, sat down opposite us and stared at me in what seemed like stony disapproving silence, with the smoke from the fire rising between us. Just like today we probed one another with our eyes and tried to read the other’s soul in her face. Back then she broke the ice by reaching out a hand to take mine, just as today she reached out to stroke my face.

Now all the pent-up tension and emotion of the two meetings subside and I simply start talking to hold back the tears. I compliment her on her appearance. She still has a full face with scarcely a wrinkle. At most she has simply become a little bit smaller and thinner. Her hair is cropped close and has gone grey, which only has the effect of making her eyebrows look darker. Many Samburu have problems with their eyes because of the open fire in their
manyattas
and the smoke from them. She is wearing several layers of coloured bead necklaces around her neck and earrings of glass beads and brass. On her arms and feet I recognize the narrow silver bands she always wore, now digging deep into her flesh. They are like the jewellery Lketinga gave me at our wedding and I wore them until I began to get painful cuts on my ankles that wouldn’t heal for months at a time. The scars are still there.

Mama’s clothing is an old blue kanga thrown over her shoulders and a brown skirt stained in several places. I’m glad I have three new skirts for her in my luggage. James might have bought her a skirt from time to time from the money we sent him. But here they will wear a piece of clothing until it falls apart and the old people at least are of the opinion that you can only wear one at a time.

I move aside to let Albert pay his respects to Mama too. She remembers his last visit and is pleased to see him. Klaus, on the other hand, she regards with some suspicion. She doesn’t know him and with his camera he looks potentially dangerous to her. James and Lketinga act as interpreters so we can have a conversation. I fetch the new blanket and hand it to her but instead of being pleased, a frown passes over her face. Somewhat disconcerted, I wonder what it is she doesn’t like. Only later do I discover that she doesn’t approve of other people seeing what presents she gets, because it can cause envy and suchlike problems.

To put her in a better mood I rummage in my rucksack and produce the little album of photos of Napirai that I’ve put together for Lketinga and her. I’ve arranged them with the most recent photos at the front, so that the further back it goes, the younger Napirai gets. Immediately Mama and Lketinga sit down together and start looking at the pictures. Her father is amazed to see how big his daughter is and laughs: ‘She’s nearly as tall as I am.’ Mama asks of every photo if it’s still Napirai. Somehow all the different scenes, which I deliberately picked out, confuse her. But as we get to the younger photos of Napirai, she perks up more. By now there are nearly a dozen heads gathered around the little album. Everybody wants to see Napirai. Even Papa Saguna, Lketinga’s big brother, is interested and now and then breaks out in a laugh displaying his faultless white teeth. When we get to the picture in which Napirai is photographed next to some of the family goats, quite a discussion breaks out. Then when we reach the very last pictures Mama reaches out her hand to stroke the photographs and says, ‘Yes, now I recognize the little girl, my little Napirai,’ and smiles happily at me. When we get to the final picture, she claps the album closed, shoves it under her kanga and thanks me with the words: ‘
Asche oleng
’.

Now it’s James’s turn to invite us into his home to introduce us to his family. His wife has made
chai
, the traditional very sweet tea with goat’s milk. It’s just twenty yards from Mama’s
manyata
to his modest little house. A few children playing outside fall in behind us. At the doorway a pretty, plump young woman appears and he introduces her as his wife, Mama Saruni. Saruni, a hyperactive three-year-old, is their eldest daughter.

Married people amongst the Samburu are never referred to by their first names. If anyone does so by mistake they have to hand over a goat by way of recompense. First names are considered very personal. While a couple are still without children they call themselves ‘
mparatut
’ – wife – and ‘
lepayian
’ – husband. But as soon as a child is born everybody refers to them as Mama or Papa and then the name of the child. It’s only considered acceptable to use someone’s name when they aren’t physically present. Strangers are addressed by their family name and the names of their father and mother.

All these complicated customs with names cause me some embarrassment as to what I should call Lketinga. In the old days I always called him ‘darling’ which would be more than a little out of place now. But nor do I want to call him ‘
lepayian
’ – husband – as I’ve divorced him and I don’t want to give him false expectations. ‘Papa Napirai’ is a possibility but I can’t bring myself to say it. It’s going to be hard to start a conversation with him from two or three yards’ distance. One way or another we’re going to have to either go over to one another, catch each other’s eye or prod one another on the arm to get their attention to speak to them.

My first impression of James’s wife is rather good. Superficially I wouldn’t have taken her for a Samburu. Like James she’s been to school, and instead of traditional tribal jewellery she’s wearing a fashionable fine necklace of black and gold beads. Also she hasn’t shaved her head as most women here do but has covered it with a rather original and fashionably arranged headscarf. She’s dressed in modern style with a knitted twin-set and a dark red skirt. It’s as if James and she live in a different century to the rest of the family. She’s carrying her youngest baby on one arm and shakes hands with the other. But despite her modern appearance she seems shy, speaking softly and only meeting our eyes briefly.

We go in to the living room, which is spacious and furnished with simple wooden chairs, tables and stools. The wall decoration, however, is to say the least, eclectic. Next to two wedding photos in which James is dressed as a traditional warrior is a picture of him in a dark suit and tie. What a contrast! A picture of some Kenyan ministers, a giant poster of the Brazilian football team and a teddy bear hanging on a nail next to a Christian cross create a collage of contrasts that makes me smile to myself. Seen from a central European point of view it all seems rather spartan and yet slightly comic, yet when I recall our life in the
manyatta
it has to be seen as baronial.

I sit down on one of the stools with Lketinga on the other side of the table. He crosses his long legs and wraps one of his hands around the thin stick he never goes anywhere without. It is sort of a substitute spear. His whole bearing is at once dignified and yet somehow feminine. I’m delighted to see him in such good shape because, after all, he’s still the father of my daughter and I want her to be proud of him. He watches me constantly.

I let my eyes wander around the room while James’s wife fetches enamel teacups and Thermos flasks from the kitchen. I can hardly believe my eyes. Thermos flasks! That’s how she could keep the tea she’d made in advance hot. Here’s one example where plastic has actually been a good thing. Progress indeed. Firewood is hard to come by and now when they’ve got a fire burning they can make tea for the whole day without wasting more wood.

While I’m talking to Lketinga, James carries on a conversation with Albert, Klaus and our bemused drivers. Lketinga’s older brother is crouched down by the wall next to him, listening to this unaccustomed torrent of English. I ask Lketinga to translate for me that I would like to
see Saguna again to give her my present in person. Papa Saguna says his daughter is out with the cows every day but tomorrow he’ll go back and take her place so she can come here the day after.

I’m looking forward to seeing the little girl from the old days who shared a
manyatta
with Mama and me once again. At first she had been scared of my white face, but later she had pined after me when I was away fetching stores for our shop and only started eating properly again when I came back. Whenever I went down to the river to fetch water or wash clothes I used to take her along sometimes, and she would splash in the puddles and squeal with delight. Once I brought her a brown doll from Switzerland that nearly caused a riot in the village because they thought it was a dead baby. I can hardly wait to see how Saguna has turned out and whether or not she remembers me.

I sip the hot sweet tea and gradually all my stress ebbs away. The taste of the tea makes me feel as if I’m back home. Klaus finds it disgusting and Albert prefers water from a bottle fetched from the car, but to me it’s like the best champagne. For days on end this sweet drink used to be the only nourishment we had.

Two little girls are sitting outside the door and I ask Lketinga about Napirai’s half-sister. He turns round and says something to the two children. One of them comes into the room shyly and I immediately recognize a certain resemblance to my daughter, particularly around the eyes and forehead. Lketinga says something to her sharply and the girl makes a bit of an effort and says hello to me, but without looking up. Napirai was – and still is – shy too. I wonder if it’s in her genes. Shankayon has the proud nose of her father while Napirai quite clearly has the rounder nose of her African grandmother.

Lketinga tells me his daughter goes to school, but with an almost dismissive wave of the hand. As far as he’s concerned school has got nothing to do with real life, so I’m rather surprised that he allows his only daughter here in Africa the opportunity. Even though under the new government school is theoretically compulsory, it’s still up to the father whether or not his children attend. Shankayon is pretty and tall for her age. Little Saruni is hopping around by her side staring at us all curiously and without the slightest inhibition.

Her father James tells us proudly that apart from the oldest brother, the whole family lives here in the corral. Even Mama moved over from the
other side of the village where we used to live, to be closer to everyone else. There are no
manyattas
at all left on the hill now, everyone’s moved into the village. I’m surprised and ask why. James smiles and tells me: ‘You’ve seen how Barsaloi’s grown. We now have a standpipe in the village with running water. Nobody needs to go all the way down to the river to fetch water anymore.’

Once again I’m amazed at how much things have changed in the past fourteen years. James points at a little tin shack in the yard outside: ‘That is our bath and toilet,’ he declares proudly. Later I discover that the toilet is a simple squat affair and the bath a bare room with a red plastic basin on the ground. But despite how simple this ‘wet room’ is I’m delighted not to have to go and conceal myself in the bush and then burn the used toilet paper afterwards. Between the toilet cabin and a thorn tree there’s washing hanging on a line. The whole corral has a sense of peace and domesticity about it. James has really organized everything rather well.

Lketinga disturbs my thoughts to ask: ‘Do you know how many shops there are here now?’ I shake my head and stare at him in anticipation. ‘There are fourteen shops, three butchers and a beer bar in Barsaloi today. How about that!’ That really is a surprise. Sixteen years ago I was the first person to get a proper shop up and running here. When we were sold out there was nothing to be had in the whole of Barsaloi and the surrounding area. I’m really pleased to hear that nowadays there’s always enough food. Everything I’ve seen and heard in the short time we’ve been here has created the impression that, although life is still rough and ready, things have got a lot easier. Certainly the financial help we’ve provided over the years has made things easier for my African family than for others.

As if Lketinga was reading my mind he looks at me and says: ‘Really, life has got much better here. Perhaps you’ll decide to stay again?’ And he laughs with a flash of his white teeth. I answer rather embarrassedly but with a hint of mischief: ‘You’ve got yourself a new young wife. Where is she then?’ Suddenly he looks serious, flings his arm out at random and snaps: ‘I don’t know – somewhere!’ Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about her so I change the subject.

Every now and then James’s twelve-year-old son appears in the door. He’s called Albert after my publisher. The fact that they have the same names, however, doesn’t seem to impress him much as every time a white face looks at him he starts whining or runs off. His sister Saruni, on the
other hand, is much more trusting. Bit by bit she plucks up the courage to come over to me. She’s so cute that I’d like to pick her up straight away. She reminds me of Saguna.

Stefania – in the meantime we’ve learned James’s wife’s name – is standing in the doorway to the little room that serves as their kitchen. She only speaks when spoken to. All there is in the ‘kitchen’ is a fireplace, although not on the ground as normal but raised so she can cook standing up. The fireplace is made of concrete with a little work surface around it and a few pots and pans and plates hanging from the walls. On the ground is a four-gallon water canister.

James asks if we’re hungry, but Lketinga protests: ‘No, later you must eat a goat. I will slaughter the biggest and best for you.’ Albert says there’s no need and, as a former vegetarian and animal-lover, makes a face. But James adds his voice: ‘Absolutely, no question. What would people say if we didn’t slaughter the best goat for your return!’ The sight of the rather embarrassed faces of Klaus and Albert makes Lketinga burst out laughing. There are another few hours still before the herds return for the evening. We should use the time to sort out sleeping arrangements before darkness falls.