The White Masai (3 page)

I
t takes two months before I find a new apartment outside Biel. Moving is easy: I take only my clothes and a few personal items, the rest I leave to Marco. The hardest thing is leaving my two cats, but seeing as I’m leaving anyhow, it’s the only solution. I keep working at the shop but with less enthusiasm because Kenya is on my mind all the time. I get hold of everything I can find about the country, including its music. All day long in the shop I listen to Swahili songs. My customers notice I’m not as attentive as I used to be, but I can’t or won’t explain.

Every day I wait for the post and then finally, after three months, I get a letter. Not from Lketinga, but from Priscilla. She tells me that Lketinga was let out of prison three days after we left. That same day I write to the address I got from Lketinga and tell him of my plan to return to Kenya in June or July, alone this time.

Another month crawls by, and finally I get a letter from Lketinga. He thanks me for my help and says he’d be happy if I were to visit his country again. That same day I charge into a travel agent’s and book three weeks in July at the same hotel.

There’s nothing to do now but wait. Time seems to stand still; days crawl one after another. Of the friends Marco and I had in common, there’s only one left who still calls me up from time to time, and we meet for a glass of wine. At least he seems to understand me. The departure day draws steadily closer, and I get restless because only Priscilla answers my letters. And then my resolve steels itself again, and I am as convinced as ever that this man is all I need to be happy.

In the meantime I have learned to make myself more or less understood in English. My friend Jelly gives me daily lessons. With three weeks still to go, my little brother Eric and Jelly, who’s going out with him, decide to come with me. I’ve got through the longest six months of my life. We fly out.

J
uly 1987. After more than nine hours’ flying time we land in Mombasa. We plunge into the same heat, the same incredible atmosphere. Only this time, everything is familiar: Mombasa, the ferry, the long bus journey to the hotel.

I can hardly wait. Will he be there, or won’t he? We’re standing in reception, and immediately there’s a ‘Hello!’ behind me. We turn around and there he is! He laughs and comes up to me, beaming. All at once the six months are swept away. I nudge him and say, ‘Jelly, Eric, here he is: Lketinga!’ My brother fiddles embarrassedly in his pocket, but my friend Jelly smiles and gives him her hand. I introduce them but for the moment I dare no more than a handshake myself.

In the general chaos we settle in to our little hut while Lketinga waits at the bar. At last I can ask Jelly, ‘Well, what do you think of him?’ She’s searching for words and says, ‘He’s certainly something special, perhaps I’ll have to get used to him. Right now he seems a bit foreign and
wild-looking
.’ My brother has no opinion. The obsession is mine and mine alone, I think somewhat disappointedly.

I change and go to the bar. Lketinga’s sitting there with Edy. I greet him happily too. And then we try to exchange stories. I learn from Lketinga that after he was released he went back to his tribe and only came back to Mombasa a week ago. He heard from Priscilla that I was coming back. A special allowance had been made so that he could greet us in the hotel because blacks who don’t work there are normally not allowed in.

It occurs to me that without Edy’s help I can say hardly anything to Lketinga. My English is still pretty basic, and Lketinga knows barely a
dozen words. For a while we just sit on the beach beaming smiles at one another, while Eric and Jelly hang around the pool or in the room. Eventually it gets towards evening, and I’m wondering what we do next. We can’t stay much longer in the hotel and, apart from our initial handshake, nothing has happened between us. It’s hard when you’ve waited six months to see a man; in my mind’s eye I’d lain in this man’s arms often, imagined kisses and the wildest of nights. Now when he’s here next to me, I’m afraid even to touch his brown arm. I just give in to the happiness of having him next to me.

Eric and Jelly are off to bed, both tired out from the long journey and the insane heat. Lketinga and I slope off to the Bush Baby Disco. I feel like a princess with my prince. We sit down at a table and watch the dancers. He laughs all the time. Even if we can hardly have a conversation, we sit there together and enjoy the music. The atmosphere and his presence give me goose bumps. I want to stroke his face and know what it’s like to kiss him. When at long last a slow record comes on I grab his hands and point to the dance floor. He gets up and stands there helplessly, doing nothing.

Then suddenly we take hold of each other and start moving to the rhythm of the music. All the tension in me drains away. My whole body is shivering, but this time I can hold him tight. It seems as if time is standing still, and my desire for this man, suppressed for six long months, comes back to life. I don’t dare lift my head and look at him. What will he think of me? I know so little about him! Only when the tempo of the music changes do we go back to our seats, and I notice that we were the only ones on the floor. I imagine I can feel dozens of pairs of eyes following us.

We sit together a little longer then get up to go. It’s long past midnight when he brings me back to the hotel. At the entrance we look in each other’s eyes, and I think I see a changed expression in his. In these wild eyes I think I recognize astonishment and excitement. At long last I dare to come close to his beautiful mouth and softly touch my lips to his. All of a sudden I feel his whole body go rigid, and he’s staring at me in horror.

‘What you do?!’ he asks and takes a step backwards. Brought down to earth with a bang I stand there, understanding nothing; then, suddenly ashamed, I turn around and run into the hotel distraught. In bed I’m overcome by a fit of crying, as if the whole world’s falling apart around
me. There’s only one thing going through my mind: that I desire him to the point of obsession and he obviously feels nothing for me. At some point, eventually, I fall asleep.

I wake late, long after breakfast. I don’t care because I don’t feel the slightest hunger. The way I look at the moment, I’m not fit to be seen, so I put on a pair of sunglasses and crawl down to the pool where my brother is romping around with Jelly like a dog with two tails.

I lie down on the beach, stare up at the blue sky and ask myself: was that it? Were my perceptions so totally wrong? No, something inside me screams. How could I have had the strength to break up with Marco, to shun sexual relations with any man for six months, if it weren’t for that man?

Suddenly I sense a shadow fall over me and a soft touch on my arm. I open my eyes and look straight into that man’s handsome face. He gives me his beaming smile and says, ‘Hello!’ I’m glad I’ve got my sunglasses on. He spends ages looking at me as if he’s studying my face. After a while he asks after Eric and Jelly and rather awkwardly tells me we’re invited to tea with Priscilla this afternoon. Lying on my back I look up into two soft, hopeful-looking eyes. When I don’t immediately reply, his expression changes, his eyes get darker and a proud glimmer shines in them. I struggle with myself and then ask what time we should come.

Eric and Jelly agree, so at the arranged time we’re waiting at the hotel entrance. After about ten minutes an over-filled
matatu
stops and two long legs emerge, followed by Lketinga’s long body. He’s brought Edy with him. I know the way to Priscilla’s from my first visit; my brother casts somewhat sceptical glances at the apes playing and eating along the route.

Seeing Priscilla again is great. She gets her little spirit cooker out and makes tea. While we’re waiting the three of them talk together, leaving us looking on, not understanding anything. Every now and then someone laughs, and I get the impression that I’m being talked about. We leave after about two hours, and Priscilla tells me I’m welcome to come with Lketinga any time.

Although I’ve paid for two more weeks at the hotel I decide to move out and lodge with Priscilla. I’ve had enough of eating without him and going to the disco. The hotel management warns me that I’ll end up without any money or clothes. Even my brother is more than sceptical, but he still helps me to carry all my stuff into the bush. Lketinga carries my big travelling bag and seems happy.

Priscilla has cleared out her hut and moved in with a friend. When it gets dark and we can no longer hold off the moment of physical contact, I sit down on the narrow little cot and wait with pounding heart for the minute I have longed for. Lketinga sits down beside me and all I can see is the mother-of-pearl button on his forehead, the ivory rings in his ears, and whites of his eyes. All of a sudden everything happens at once. Lketinga presses me down onto the cot, and already I can feel his erection. Before I can even make up my mind whether or not my body is ready for this, I feel a pain, hear strange noises and it’s all over. I feel like bursting into tears of disappointment. This was not at all what I had expected. It’s only now that I realize that this is someone from a completely alien culture. But my thoughts don’t get any further than that when suddenly the whole thing happens again. It happens again several times during the night; and after the third or fourth time we ‘do it’, I give up trying to uses kisses or caresses to prolong the experience. Lketinga doesn’t seem to like that.

At long last day breaks, and I wait for Priscilla to knock on the door. In the event it’s around seven before I hear noises outside. I peek out and find a basin full of water in front of the door. I bring it in and wash myself thoroughly; I’m covered in red marks from Lketinga’s body paint.

He’s still asleep when I go to see Priscilla. She’s made tea and offers me some. When she asks me how my first night in a real African home was, it all comes tumbling out. Obviously embarrassed, she listens quietly and then says: ‘Corinne, we’re not the same as white people. Go back to Marco. Come to Kenya for holidays, not to find a partner for life.’ She has learned that white men treat their women well, even at night. Masai men are different; what I have just experienced is normal. Masai don’t kiss. The mouth is for eating, and kissing – she makes a face – is contemptible. A man never touches a woman below the stomach and a woman is not supposed to touch a man’s penis. A man’s hair and face are also taboo.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I desire this wonderful man, but I’m not allowed to touch him. All of a sudden I remember the dreadful scene when I kissed him that first time and I realize that what I’m hearing is the truth.

Priscilla hasn’t looked at me while we’ve been talking, and I realize too that it must be hard for her to talk about things like this. Everything is rushing through my mind, and I’m not sure if I’ve understood it all properly. The night’s experiences force themselves into the back of my
mind, and the only thing I know is that I want this man and nobody else. I love him and beyond that everything else can be dealt with, I tell myself.

Later on we take an overcrowded
matatu
to Ukunda, the next biggest village, where me meet more Masai sitting around in a native teahouse. It’s nothing more than a few planks nailed together, a roof, a long table and a few stools. The tea is brewed in a white pot hung over the fire. We sit down together and people look me over with an eye that’s partly critical, partly curious. And then they’re all talking at once, obviously about me. I look each of them over in turn, and none of them looks as handsome or as peaceful as Lketinga.

We sit there for what seems like hours, but I don’t mind not understanding anything. Lketinga is touchingly attentive, continuously getting me something to drink and then fetching a platter of meat: little pieces of goat that I can hardly bring myself to swallow, they’re so bloody and tough. Three is as much as I can manage without choking, and I indicate to Lketinga that he should finish it, but neither he nor any of the other men will take anything from my plate even though it’s obvious that they’re hungry.

After half an hour they get up, and Lketinga tries to explain something to me using his hands and feet. The only thing I understand is that they all want to go and eat but that I can’t come with them. I’m determined, however, that I should. ‘No! Big problem! You wait here,’ I hear. I watch them disappear behind a wall, followed minutes later by mountains of meat. After a while one Masai comes back. He looks like a man with a full stomach, and I ask him why I had to stay behind, but all he says is: ‘You wife, no lucky meat.’ Something else I’ll have to ask Priscilla about.

We leave the teahouse and take the
matatu
back to the beach. When we get to the Africa Sea Lodge we decide to get out and visit Jelly and Eric. We’re stopped at the entrance, however, and I have to explain to the doorman that we just want to visit my brother and his girlfriend before he lets us in without saying a word. At the reception desk the hotel manager greets me with a smile and says in English: ‘So you will now come back into the hotel?’ I say no and tell him I like it just fine in the bush. He shrugs his shoulders and says: ‘We’ll see how long it lasts!’

We find Eric and Jelly at the pool. Eric comes up to me and says irritably: ‘About time you showed yourself.’ He asks if I slept well, which makes me laugh, and I reply: ‘Well, I’ve spent more comfortable nights, but I’m happy.’ Lketinga’s standing there, and he laughs and says: ‘Eric, what’s
the problem?’ A few white people in swimsuits stare at us. A couple of women stroll past noticeably slowly and gape openly at my beautiful Masai in his finery and freshly applied body paint. He pointedly ignores them, rather embarrassed at the sight of so much flesh.

We don’t stay long; I have shopping to do – paraffin, toilet paper and above all a torch. Last night I didn’t need to go out in the middle of the night to find the bush toilet, but I might not always be so lucky. The toilet is outside the village, reached by a rickety chicken ladder six feet above the ground – a little hut made out of woven-together palm leaves with two boards for your feet and a hole in the middle.

We get everything in one shop, obviously where the hotel employees do their shopping, and for the first time I notice how cheap everything here is. Compared to what I’m used to, all my purchases – apart from the batteries for the torch – cost next to nothing.

A bit further along there’s another shack with the word ‘Meat’ painted in red. I follow Lketinga inside. A hunk of goat carcass is hanging from a big hook fixed to the ceiling. Lketinga looks at me questioningly and says: ‘Very fresh! You take two pounds for you and Priscilla!’ I shiver at the very thought of having to eat this meat, but even so I do as he says. The butcher takes an axe and chops off a rear leg, then with another two or three blows he measures out our piece and hangs the rest back up on the hook. He wraps it all up in newspaper, and we head back to the village.

Priscilla is really pleased to get the meat. She puts tea on and goes to get another little cooker from a neighbour. She cuts the meat up, washes it and boils it for two hours in salted water. In the meantime we drink our tea, which I’ve come to like. Priscilla and Lketinga talk non-stop. After a while Lketinga gets up and says he has to go but will be back soon. I try to find out where he’s going, but he says only: ‘No problem, Corinne. I come back,’ smiles at me and disappears. I ask Priscilla where he’s gone but she says she doesn’t really know, it’s not something you can ask a Masai, it’s his business, but probably he’s gone to Ukunda.

‘For God’s sake,’ I protest. ‘What does he want in Ukunda? We’ve just come from there.’

‘Maybe he wants something more to eat,’ replies Priscilla.

I stare at the simmering meat in the big iron pot: ‘Who’s this for, then?’

‘That’s for us women,’ she tells me. ‘Lketinga can’t eat this meat. No Masai warrior ever eats anything that a women has touched or even
looked at. They are not allowed to eat in the presence of women, they can only drink tea.’