Over dinner he sits opposite me, with his daughter by his side. He looks better than he did back in 2004, which was the first time I had seen him since leaving fourteen years earlier. He seems more relaxed, more at peace with himself. He laughs at how many pieces of cutlery there are on the table and wants to know what we’re going to eat. Napirai keeps giving him sidelong glances. James and his friend are telling stories about the old days, when they came to visit me in hospital after I’d been taken in – along with Napirai – when I had a recurring bout of malaria. I glance at my ex-husband and notice he’s looking me straight in the eyes, so intently that it feels as if he’s trying to see into my soul. It’s almost spooky and I break off eye contact, even though I’d love to know what’s going on in his head. I try asking him, but he just shakes his head silently.
Nonetheless I’m happy that Lketinga is here and that the big meeting between father and daughter took place here rather than in Barsaloi. He has a new family with a young new wife and they already have three children. Six years ago he had only just married this young woman a month before I arrived. Despite the fact that they were married they still hadn’t spoken to one another, which is not all that unusual among the Samburu, because marriages are arranged by the girl’s parents. Most new brides are very shy because they have had to leave their own families at a young age and have often come from far away. Many of them never see their parents again. After they are married the wife is the property of her new husband who has usually paid a hefty price for her. When I was last here I saw his new wife two or three times but never spoke to her. I can’t wait to see how much she has changed now that she’s the proud mother of three children.
I’m really pleased for Lketinga that things have worked out so well with his third wife. His second wife, Mama Shankayon, is long gone. He sent her back home because she only produced one child. She lives with her blind mother now, helping her. We’re going to meet her in Maralal tomorrow as she is very keen to see us and wants to introduce her fourteen-year-old daughter, also called Shankayon, to her half-sister Napirai. Her daughter wants to come out to Barsaloi with us, Lketinga says. It’s nice of him to have let her know we’re coming as getting in touch with people around here is anything but easy.
When I’ve finished taking endless photographs of him, he turns to look at me with an amused expression on his face, and says, ‘Why do you keep taking photos? I’m an old man now, not as good-looking as I used to be.’ The truth is that I’m as fascinated as I ever was with his grace and the way he moves those long, thin fingers. He eats very slowly, and amazingly little. But hardly anything about him now reminds me of the young warrior who would have swallowed half a goat in one evening, sending the bones flying everywhere.
He seems to be looking me up and down the same way. ‘You eat a lot,’ he says. ‘You’ve really turned into a “Big Mama”. Only my child like me,’ and he smiles at Napirai. He’s not keen on the colour of my hair either. I’ve gone blonde, but to him it looks white. He’s teasing though rather than being malicious, and it really only shows that he’s in a good mood.
They leave the lodge late and we agree to meet up the next day at the petrol station, which is one of the few unmistakeable local landmarks. Then we need to go shopping for food to take to Barsaloi, and pick up a few final presents.
At last we fall into bed, exhausted by the long journey and the emotions of the evening. I’m tempted to overwhelm my daughter with questions, but I can see that what she needs right now is rest and calm.
Napirai writes: I really enjoyed our evening in the lodge with James and my father. It was an amazing feeling to sit around the fire with both my parents chatting peacefully, a wholly new experience for me.
Saying goodbye was really hard, but I know that tomorrow we’re moving on again and I’ll be meeting my half-sister for the first time. I’m really happy as I fall asleep and can’t wait for the morning.
We get up with the dawn and all set out together for the prearranged meeting point. I spot my father while we’re still in the car, standing at the side of the road with his daughter, my half-sister Shankayon, and her mother.
As soon as we get out of the car a few other curious locals gather round to stare at us. They make me a bit nervous and I’m glad when my mother makes the first move and says hello to everybody. My father is obviously really pleased to see me while Shankayon’s mother welcomes me too. I go up to my half-sister and take her by the arm. I can tell she’s really pleased to meet us too, and although she’s very shy, I immediately like her. I feel really drawn to her, and am suddenly aware how important it is to me to get to know her. Up until today I was an only child, now I have a sister. I can recognise a slight similarity between us and I think she notices it too. The two of us stand there, looking at one another all the time, and every now and then bursting out laughing.
Obviously I’ve brought a few presents for her, including some earrings and bangles. She’s really pleased by them and despite not being able to say much to one another we’re already starting to feel close. We all get back into the cars and drive into the centre of town, to do a bit more shopping. I sit in the back alongside my sister. After yet another emotional meeting, I’m starting to appreciate meeting my African family one at a time, so I can take stock of it all. To have met them all at once would have been a bit too much.
We park in front of one of the shops where we want to buy the food and things we’ll need, then Lketinga insists on taking Napirai and me on a walkabout around the centre of Maralal. I think I have some idea how proud he is, even though as usual he’s put on a stern and serious face. Shankayon follows close behind us, with her mother some distance after her. I’ve noticed that Lketinga doesn’t seem to talk to her much and didn’t seem keen on a photo of us all together. Even so, he’s given her some money to buy corn meal or maybe something else to eat before she sets off home.
Lots of other people follow us, staring. A few run up to me and my ex-husband has to explain things, which he does in his usual serious, self-confident manner. It would seem we’re the main attraction in town today: out here white people still attract attention and Napirai is even more unusual. Lketinga and I look for a woollen blanket for Mama. We haggle with the shopkeepers – something he’s still good at – until the price comes down to what he wants to pay, or rather is happy for me to pay. Eventually we do a deal that leaves everybody happy.
The word gets around fast that I’ve come back with our daughter. We keep coming across women in traditional dress and jewellery or old men who greet me like a long-lost friend, before welcoming Napirai with a hearty handshake and a torrent of words, occasionally reinforced with a good luck spit in the hand. My daughter endures it all remarkably bravely, considering she doesn’t know any of them and can’t understand a word they say. Even I have difficulty recognising most of them. Lketinga, however, stands there helpfully and patiently reminding me who is who. It’s easier for them to remember me as I was the only white face they’d ever seen. For my part, however, I had to get to know hundreds of people. There is also the fact that the Samburus’ hard lifestyle means they age faster than Europeans, which makes recognising them more difficult.
We put together the remaining supplies of corn meal, tea powder and chewing tobacco for Mama, making sure we have enough for her to give some to her neighbours. It is traditional that those who have more than others share their good fortune.
Eventually we’re all stocked up, the cars full to the roof, and it’s time to set off for Barsaloi. Lketinga sits up front next to the driver, giving Martin instructions, while Napirai, Shankayon and I sit in the back. We have a good three hours’ driving ahead of us because the cars can’t go fast on the rough mountain tracks. It’s a testing experience in every way. Even Martin is astounded how bad the road is. He regularly has to engage four-wheel drive, dodge lumps of rock lying in the middle of the track and take care not to send us careering down too steep a slope.
We come across children w
ith herds of goats or cows who wave as we pass in the hope that we’ll throw them a sweet. Of course we bought some just for that purpose. The kids run after them excitedly as if it were Christmas. Martin laughs at the way the kids all pile on top of one another trying to get at the sweets. He tells us, ‘That was the way I first came across tourists too! We would stand for hours on end outside school waiting for the safari buses. The minute somebody threw a handful of sweets in the air we would all scramble for them. Whoever was fastest was luckiest, because nobody ever shared, unless sometimes we swapped. The one who got most was effectively king!’
He has us laughing again the way he tells this even though we can hardly believe the children wouldn’t share their booty. Martin adds shyly, ‘It was back then that I made up my mind that I would become a driver with one of the tourist firms – all because of the sweeties!’
We pass a woman with a baby in a cloth on her back and two more in front of her who has to move to the side of the road to let us pass. A bit further on we come across an old man struggling with the slope, carrying a red plastic bag, a stick and a spear. He waves at us, asking for a lift. Lketinga recognises him and asks me if we can make room for him with us in the back. First the old man has to dismantle his long spear to get it inside. Then he spots that there are ‘white’ people inside and hesitates, but Lketinga tells him we’re his family, not ordinary tourists. With a sigh of relief the gaunt old mzee climbs in. All of a sudden the whole vehicle is filled with the smoky smell of a manyatta, reawakening old memories in me and making me long for the moment when I’ll sit down once again with Mama.
After more than an hour and a half we reach Opiroi. This little place has really grown. Back in the day there were just a couple of manyattas but today there are wooden houses and a few basic food shops, not to mention a tearoom, a school and a big church. There are people waiting for us and James, who took his motorbike and went on ahead, comes up and tells me that the local chief wants to invite me in for tea. I climb out of the car, but Napirai decides to wait for me. Lketinga strolls over to a shop and buys his daughter a Coca-Cola. I allow myself to be led to the tearoom, although I can’t see inside because there’s a big jute sack across the door. It is an old tradition that women aren’t allowed to see warriors eating or drinking chai. I’m just about to enter the tearoom with the chief when I spot five armed warriors inside about to go off to hunt. I shrink back in horror at offending local custom and instead follow the chief to his private hut. I sit down on a chair while he offers us tea from a Thermos. Then Albert and Klaus come in. The chief thanks us for sending so much money to the mission, which has made it possible for lots of little children to go to school. He tells us he’s very happy that thanks to our donations two of his sons have got an education. I’m astonished by this, and moved too. I had no idea that people as far out as this were benefiting from my story. We’ve still got another two hours’ drive ahead of us before we reach Barsaloi.
After a thirty-minute break we set off again. I really am looking forward to seeing Mama soon. Walking over towards the car I notice my daughter trying to have a conversation with a couple of women in traditional dress. She takes a photograph of them and shows them it, which gets them very excited. I’m just pleased to see that she’s not afraid of making contact with the locals. We set off, the two women waving goodbye to us as we leave.
Just before we get to the great Barsaloi River, Lketinga turns to us as and with a big smile on his face says, ‘Napirai! Napirai, my child, this is my home. I want to show you everything, yes, everything.’ The car takes us over the broad sandy riverbed and gradually up the other side. I can see the white mission building from afar, then all the wooden houses and a few manyattas between them, as ever surrounded by thorn fencing. We park under the same tree where fourteen years ago, last time I was here, Lketinga welcomed me back and put his arms around me for the first time since I fled from him. That really brought the tears to my eyes.
I’m still recalling that event as he steps out and opens the car door for his daughter. Immediately there are children all round us, particularly Napirai. The grown-ups take their time coming over, then a few of them call to me, ‘Mama Napirai, supa, serian a ge? Hello, how are you?’ A few of them shake my hand so long and hard I think my arm’s about to fall off. Others rattle their necklaces in a sign of welcome and hold out their hands, in particular to my daughter, who just stands there in amazement, as people all around her call out, ‘Supa, serian a ge, garai? Hello, how are you, my child?’ Napirai returns their greeting with a shy smile, giving me a sideways look as she hasn’t really got a clue what’s going on.
Napirai writes: At long last we’re on the way to Barsaloi! I’m pleased Shankayon is coming with us. Her presence helps me keep calm. I had no idea how tough the journey was going to be. I kept having to pull myself together to stop falling asleep: the last thing I want is to fall asleep as we get to Barsaloi. The closer we get though, the more my mother gets excited and keeps telling me stories from the old days, pointing out places where such and such a thing happened.
I can hear people’s voices even before we reach Barsaloi, particularly children’s voices. I can feel myself starting to get nervous again. How will they react to me? I just hope for the best as we drive into the centre of the village. There are lots of women and children already waiting for us. When we get out they all rush up to my mother, saying they can’t believe she has come back. They all seem to remember her, which I find incredible.
Then they all want to meet me, and I’m shaking one hand after another. It’s really nice that all these people I’ve never met before are so happy just to see us. It’s all a bit embarrassing.
But what I like most are all the village children who rush up to us laughing. Before long I have a little boy or girl holding on to my hands. I’m just trying to take stock of where I am, but I have children clambering all over me.
The village is bigger than I had imagined, the houses a bit like Maralal, although it’s not so busy here. After all these years, here I am finally in Barsaloi. I can’t believe it. It seems like a dream.
In the wake of the women the first old men now come over to us and I recognise Papa Saguna, Lketinga’s older brother, shuffling towards us. As always he has a very serious look on his face, but I can tell he is glad to see us as he holds out his hand to me. He has aged enormously and his eyes have taken on a pale blue translucence, almost certainly due to cataracts. Like Lketinga he is very slim and still wears mostly traditional dress. Instead of trousers he is wearing a loincloth and has white plastic sandals on his feet. He has a thin, red-striped blanket over a red T-shirt. Sadly I can only exchange a few words with him as he speaks only maa and I have forgotten nearly all of the little I once learned. He holds out a hand to Napirai too, laughing so loud that he shows off a row of perfect white teeth. For a brief moment his eyes light up and he says, ‘Supa, Napirai, serian?’ Everybody greets one another in the same formulaic way. He’s not the type to throw his arms round people, but the warmth in his greeting is real enough.
James invites us into the corral to meet the rest of the family. But Lketinga wants to show us round his shop, which he has called ‘Inter White Masai’. It’s quite dark inside and I can hardly make out what he has for sale apart from secondhand clothing, some washing powder and a few bars of soap. What light there is, is partly blocked by the horde of village children standing in the doorway watching us.
Lketinga’s wife squeezes past us and goes to the door to fetch two of her children. She wears the traditional neck ornaments and looks very pretty. I guess she must be in her mid-twenties. She’s very shy but when it comes to handing out the gifts later it’s clear that she doesn’t dislike me. After all, her three children, all of them born within the last six years, are also half-brothers and -sisters to Napirai.
We leave the shop and enter the corral, which is rather big now, with a little toilet hut complete with pump flush loo to one side along with a few manyatta-style
huts for the younger goats. Hens and chickens are scrabbling around in the grey dust. James takes us over to his house where his wife Stefania is waiting for us and immediately embraces me and then hugs Napirai. She is a very pretty woman and just right for James. They already have five children and, judging from her shape, number six is on the way. But people don’t talk about things like that here.
James’s older children charge straight at Napirai and me, obviously delighted to see us. Only the youngest, a girl of about a year or so, cries at the sight of our light-coloured faces. Stefania takes her off to somewhere she can’t see us to calm her down. Her older sister, however, comes over to Napirai and takes her by the arm.
I’m still trying to find out which children are James’s and which Lketinga’s when I hear a sob behind me. It’s Lketinga’s sister. I used to really like her, even if she was often as serious and sad-looking as her oldest brother. Now here she is, coming over to me and throwing herself into my arms, sobbing. She presses her head against my neck, wetting it with her tears. Her entire body is shaking and I do what I can to try to calm her down. I’m incredibly touched and find it hard to hold back the tears myself. Lketinga merely looks the other way, but James laughs, with a hint of embarrassment, for displays of emotion are frowned upon. All I hear from his sister is, ‘Corinne, Corinne,’ and then she breaks free and goes over to Napirai, only to repeat the whole scene. She sobs in her arms while Napirai strokes her naked back, trying to calm her down, and looks at me asking what to do.
Africa, My Passion Page 17