The White Masai (25 page)

S
ophia is at home and hugely pleased to see me. But when I tell her my situation she says there’s no problem about eating with her but I can’t sleep there as the rear part of the flat has been kitted out as a gym for her boyfriend. I’m left sitting there in a quandary, and we both try to find another solution. Her boyfriend goes off to see if he can find somewhere else for me and after several hours he comes back and says he’s found a room.

It’s nearby and is a room like the ones in the boarding houses but with a bigger, nicer bed. Apart from that, it’s empty. When we go to see it we’re immediately surrounded by a group of women and children. I take it.

The days drag by slowly. Mealtimes are the only real pleasure. Sophia is a fantastic cook. I’m putting on weight by the day. The nights, however, are awful. There’s music or chatter from every direction until the small hours, and the room is so poorly soundproofed that you would think you were in the same room as the neighbours. It’s torture getting to sleep every night.

Sometimes the noise is so bad I could scream myself, but I don’t want to lose the room. Each morning I wash in the room and wash my clothes every other day, so that I have a clean change. Sophia argues so much with her boyfriend that I make myself scarce rapidly after each meal. But my belly is growing steadily, and I’m very proud.

By the end of a week my husband still hasn’t been to see me once, which makes me sad. But I’ve met James with other boys in the village and sometimes Sali, Sophia’s boyfriend, brings work colleagues to dinner and then we play cards, which passes the time pleasantly.

One evening four of us are sitting there in the flat playing cards – we usually leave the door open so as to have more light – and suddenly my husband’s standing there in the doorway with his spears. But before I can get up to welcome him he’s asking who the other man is. Everyone laughs except for me. Sophia tells him to come in, but he stays there in the doorway and asks me brusquely, ‘Corinne, is this your boyfriend?’ I’m deeply embarrassed by his behaviour. Sophia tries to defuse the situation, but my husband just turns on his heel and leaves. Slowly my astonishment gives way to anger. I’m sitting here, nine months’ pregnant, and see my husband for the first time in two and a half weeks, and he accuses me of having a lover!

Sali goes off to find him while Sophia tries to calm me down. Their friend has made his excuses. When nothing happens I go off to wait in my room. Lketinga turns up later – he’s been drinking and he’s chewing
miraa
. I’m lying flat on the bed worrying about our future. Then after an hour, he finally actually apologizes: ‘Corinne, my wife, no problem. Long time I have not seen you and the baby, so I become crazy. Please, Corinne, now I am okay, no problem!’ I try to smile and forgive him. The next night he goes home again, and for the next two weeks I get a few messages but don’t see him again.

At last the day arrives when Sophia and I have to go into hospital. She’s due in a week’s time, and I’ve less than two to go. We’re advised to set off in plenty of time because of the bad state of the roads. We’re excited as we get into the bus. Sophia’s boyfriend comes with us.

In the hospital we get a room between us, it’s wonderful. The nurses are relieved when they weigh me and find that indeed I’ve nearly reached one hundred and fifty pounds. I spend almost every day knitting for the baby while Sophia spends her time reading books about pregnancy and birth. I don’t want to know anything about it; it can all come as a surprise. Sali fetches good food for us from the village.

Time drags again. Every day babies are coming into the world. We can hear the mothers even in our room, and Sophia’s getting increasingly nervous. She must be due any day now. During the daily examinations they discover that my uterus has already begun to dilate, and so I’m ordered to stay in bed. But it doesn’t get that far because no sooner has the doctor left the room than my waters break. I look over at Sophia in surprise and delight and say: ‘I think my baby is coming!’ She doesn’t
believe it because I’m not due for another week. She calls the doctor back and when she sees what happened she confirms, with a serious look on her face, that my baby will be born that night.

S
ophia is confused because nothing’s happened with her. By eight p.m. I’m getting my first contractions, and within two hours they’ve become vigorous. From now on I get an examination every half hour. By midnight it’s almost unbearable. The pain makes me vomit repeatedly. Eventually I’m taken into the birthing room. It’s the same room in which I sat in the gynaecological stirrups for my earlier examination. The female doctor and two black nurses try to calm me down, but somehow I’ve lost all my English. In between contractions I stare at the women and see only their mouths opening and closing. I start to panic because I’m not sure if I’m doing everything properly. Breathe, breathe deep, keeps going through my head. Then they tie my legs to the stirrups. I feel helpless, out of control. Even when I want to cry out that I can’t take it anymore the nurse puts her hand over my mouth. I stare at the doctor in fear, and at that moment I hear them say they can already see the baby’s head. With the next contraction it’ll be out. I push with the last of my strength; and it’s as if there’s an explosion in my lower body. My little girl has been born. It’s one-fifteen a.m., and a healthy 6.52 lb girl has come into the world. I’m ecstatic. She is as beautiful as her father, and we’ll call her Napirai.

While the doctor is still dealing with the afterbirth and such like the door opens and Sophia throws herself into my arms. She watched the birth through the window. They show my baby to me again and then take her off to be with the other newborn. I’m happy enough about that because right now I’m too weak to hold her. I can’t even hold the cup of tea I’m offered. They put me in a wheelchair and bring me back to our room and give me a sleeping pill.

I wake up at five a.m. with terrible pains between my legs and wake Sophia who gets up straight away and goes to fetch the night nurse. They calm me down with painkillers. At eight o’clock I drag myself to the nursery to see my baby. I’m relieved when I finally find her, but she’s screaming with hunger. I have to do something to comfort her, but that’s not so easy. My breasts may have grown enormous, but there’s not a drop to be had from them. Trying to express milk doesn’t work either, and by evening I can’t stand it: my breasts are as hard as rocks and hurt; and the whole time Napirai is crying incessantly. One of the black nurses tells me I ought to work harder to get the milk glands to open, or I’ll get an infection. In extreme pain I try everything. Two Samburu women come along and ‘milk’ my breasts for nearly half an hour before at long last it starts to flow. And then it won’t stop! There’s far more than my baby can drink. Not until mid-afternoon does everything seem to work properly.

Meanwhile Sophia’s contractions began hours ago, but there’s no sign of the baby. She’s screaming and crying and demanding a Caesarean, but the doctor won’t have it because it’s not necessary. I’ve never seen or heard Sophia use language like it. The doctor finds it a bit too much and tells her to control herself or he won’t carry out the delivery. The examination takes place in Italian because he’s from Italy. After a terrible thirty-six hours and the use of a vacuum extractor her daughter too is born.

The same evening, just as visiting time ends, my darling turns up. He had heard about the birth in the morning via the regular radio contact and immediately set out for Wamba on foot. He’s painted himself specially and had his hair done and greets me with joy. He’s brought meat and a wonderful dress for me and wants to see Napirai straight away. But the nurses tell him he’s too late and has to come back tomorrow. Although he’s disappointed he beams at me proudly and happily, which gives me some hope again. Because he has to leave the hospital he decides to spend the night in Wamba and is there for the first visiting time in the morning. He comes into the room laden with little presents, just as I’m feeding Napirai. He lifts his daughter devotedly in his arms and carries her into the sunshine. She looks at him with curiosity, and he can’t let her go. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him so happy, and it reassures me that everything will be fine again.

The first few days with the baby are tiring. I’m still very weak and don’t weigh enough and I have stitches in my vagina, which hurt when I sit
down. My little girl wakes up two or three times a night either because she wants the breast or needs changing. As soon as she goes to sleep Sophia’s baby starts crying. They use cloth nappies here, and the babies are washed in little basins. I’m not very good at nappy changing, and I don’t dare put the things I’ve knitted on her for fear of breaking her arm or leg. So she lies there on her baby blanket naked except for the nappy, while my husband looks at us and says with obvious satisfaction, ‘She is looking like me!’

He comes to see us every day, but he’s starting to get impatient. He wants to take his family home. But I’m still too weak and am a bit worried about being on my own with the baby. Washing nappies, cooking, fetching wood and maybe working in the shop again are unimaginable. The shop has been closed for three weeks now as there’s only maize flour left and, according to Lketinga, the boy no longer seems so reliable.

Apart from anything else there’s no transport; he had to walk here because there are problems yet again with our car. This time Giuliani’s worked out that it’s the gearbox. So first of all he’ll have to get back home to see if the Land Rover has been fixed before he can come and fetch us.

That at least gives me a bit more time. The doctor is pleased too that I can stay for a few more days. Sophia, on the other hand, is leaving the hospital just five days after giving birth and on her way back to Maralal. After a further three days my husband comes back in the fixed car. I really don’t know what we’d do without Father Giuliani. I’m ready to leave Wamba because since Sophia left I’ve already had two Samburu mothers in the room. The first, an old looking, emaciated woman having her tenth child, and premature at that, died the same night from weakness and anaemia. It simply wasn’t possible to get in touch with her family to find a suitable blood donor. The events of that night took so much out of me that I’m now desperate to leave.

The new father stands proudly at reception with his new daughter in his arms while I settle the bill. The twenty-two days in the hospital, including the baby’s delivery, cost a mere eighty Swiss francs – I can hardly believe it. On the other hand, I have to delve somewhat deeper into my pocket for the air ambulance, which costs eight hundred francs. But what’s that, against both our lives!

For the first time in ages I’m back behind the wheel while my husband holds Napirai. But after barely a hundred yards the baby’s screaming because of the awful noise the car makes. Lketinga tries to calm
her down by singing, but it’s no good. So he drives, and I hold Napirai to my breast as well as I can. One way or another we get to Maralal before evening. I need nappies, some clothes and baby blankets. We want to buy food too, because there’s been nothing in Barsaloi for weeks now. There’s no alternative but to book into the boarding house. Just to find a dozen nappies, I have to search the whole of Maralal, while Lketinga looks after our daughter.

The first night out of hospital isn’t very comfortable. I have difficulty in changing Napirai because it’s so cold in Maralal at night, and I’m not so good at breastfeeding in the dark either. The next morning I’m tired and I’ve got a runny nose already. Half of the nappies are already used so I wash them here. By midday the car is loaded up with food, and we set off. There’s no question of taking the jungle route this time. But my husband reckons it’s raining up in the mountains towards Baragoi and there’s a risk of the rivers filling up and becoming impassable. So we decide to take the road back via Wamba in order to approach Barsaloi from the other direction. We take turns at driving, as Lketinga can handle the car well now; he only drives too fast into large potholes occasionally. Napirai doesn’t like the car at all. She cries continuously and only quietens down when the car stops, so we take frequent breaks.

A
long the road Lketinga picks up two warriors, and after more than five hours we get to the great Wamba River. It’s notorious for quicksand that becomes active at the slightest drop of water. The Mission lost a car here years ago. I stop in stunned amazement at the steep slope down to the river – and there’s water in it! Unperturbed, the Masai get out and stroll down to the river. The water’s not deep no more than an inch or so, and a few sandbanks protrude here and there. But Father Giuliani expressly warned me to avoid the river if there’s any water at all. And it’s nearly five hundred feet wide. I’m sitting at the wheel of the car, thinking disappointedly that we’ll have to go back to Wamba. One of the warriors has already sunk in as far as his knees although the other, just a yard away from him, has no problem. Lketinga tests it too, but he keeps sinking. I think the whole thing is awful, and I’ve no intention of risking it. I climb out to tell my husband just that. But he comes towards me with a mad sudden decisiveness, takes Napirai from me and tells me to drive at full speed between the two warriors. I try desperately to put him off the idea, but he won’t see my argument – he wants to go home and if he can’t go with the car then he’ll go on foot. But I can’t drive back on my own with the baby.

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.