Africa, My Passion

by Corinne Hofmann

  Eventually we get to the end of the meal and Father Giuliani is still telling tales of the old days. A couple of old men come up to us looking curiously at our plates, and fairly obviously hungrily. Lketinga gets up, and goes over to offer them something to eat. Then he goes back to his daughter and I watch the two of them chatting and laughing, Napirai with her little half-brother on her lap.

  Giuliani is obviously delighted to see us and is chatting away and joking with Albert. The two of them are recalling the last time we came when we went to Sererit. The time flies by and before long we have to be getting back; Giuliani and his guests have a lot further to go. I also want to go back to see Mama, as she’s going to be wondering why we haven’t come round for tea. There are also the gifts we brought to be handed out; so far all we’ve distributed was the food.

  We bid Giuliani a hearty farewell and promise him that next time we come we’ll also visit him in Sererit. As they drive off, he calls out to me, ‘Corinne, next time you come I’ll put your bed out under the stars so you can listen to the lions roar in the night.’

  I laugh and say, ‘Then I’ll definitely come.’

  By late afternoon we’re back in Barsaloi. First we have to take the empty pots back to Stefania and thank her for the delicious meal. Then Napirai and I go over to Mama’s house. We take with us the beautiful fluffy blue blanket we bought for her in Maralal. I announce our arrival in the traditional way by saying ‘Godie,’ outside the door. She replies, ‘Karibu.’ Welcome.

  This clay house isn’t as low as a manyatta so we don’t have to crouch as much. Mama is sitting on the right of the doorway on a cowhide. In front of her is the hearth, marked out by three big stones, and she has a mosquito net hanging over her. We scramble over the gently smoking hearth and sit down on another cowhide. Mama asks us if we want chai and of course we say we do. Her tea is always the best. She calls out and the Papa Saguna’s youngest daughter comes in, a pretty, jovial girl, who must be wearing several kilos of red jewellery around her neck. She’s nothing like as shy as Saguna was at her age. She has, in any case, a different mother. Mama tells her to light the fire and the girl blows on the embers and places a couple of thin twigs on top. Immediately the air is filled with acrid smoke, which keeps up until finally a little flame appears. Napirai almost chokes to death. I remember being the same the first time I visited Mama in her manyatta some twenty years ago. Even now we both have tears running down our cheeks and my daughter looks ready to make a run for the door. It’s not helped by the severed goat’s head sitting on a tin box directly opposite her, left over from last night’s dinner.

  Meanwhile Lketinga’s sister has joined us, bringing some goat’s milk in a gourd. Mama takes one of the three dented metal pots sitting next to the hearth and puts exactly the right amount of water into it before putting it on the fire which by now is burning nicely. Then she adds some powdered tea. The sister wants to talk to us but without somebody to translate it’s impossible. I get angry with myself for having learnt so very little of the maa language. But even without words there is an atmosphere of affection and mutual trust in the little room.

  The water has come to the boil and Napirai and I are sweating from the heat given off. Mama tips some sugar from a full jar into the pot and pours some milk from the gourd in. That’s the chai done and to me it tastes absolutely delicious, although my daughter doesn’t seem to be quite so taken by the sweetness mixed with the unique local flavours of smoke and goat. She can only get a couple of sips down, even though Mama keeps on at her, ‘Napirai, tamada, tamada’. Drink, drink, she says, clapping her hands. At that moment Lketinga appears in the doorway, comes in and sits down next to us. Seeing that our daughter is having a few problems with the chai he says to her, ‘No problem, my child,’ and empties the cup himself. Even so, Napirai can’t take being in the hut much longer not least because she gets claustrophobic. She disappears out the door into the sunlight and fresh air.

  Napirai writes: My granny is really happy to see us again when we visit her a second time. We sit down in her hut with her. Somehow I had thought it would be bigger. I hadn’t realised the hearth would take up so much room. She offers us chai and although I normally like tea, in this heat I would rather have had a glass of water. But I still accept the offer with thanks.

  My father arrives and the four of us sit there in the hut drinking tea. It’s really nice us all being together like this but after a while the heat and the smoke are too much for me and I have to go outside. I stand there hoping that my sudden exit hasn’t offended anybody but I really couldn’t take it any more.

  With the best will in the world I can’t understand how my mother managed back in the old days. But I have to admit the experience is interesting. When my mother comes out a little later she looks at me and has to laugh. I reckon she knew how I was going to react. She understands that the mixture of sweet chai, smoke and heat is something you have to get used to. She tells me she’s pleased I came along to take tea with her and Mama. I know it’s something she always wanted to see.

  We head back to James’s house where the rest of the family have got together. Albert and Klaus are already there so we reckon it’s a good opportunity to hand over our presents. I’ve mainly brought clothes: children’s things, skirts and shawls for the women, polo shirts, shirts and hats for the men. Everybody is pleased with their presents, even Lketinga’s wife, who seems pleased with a skirt. Nobody grabs for anything, even the children, who sit and wait patiently, happy to get a T-shirt or a little skirt. The real hit among the boys is the World Cup football, which Albert has brought them. Within minutes they’re out kicking it around the village square.

  Now there are presents for us too. Stefania gives Napirai a broad, brightly coloured necklace she made herself. She gets a headdress too, the sort worn by unmarried girls. It’s a sort of band that goes round the forehead, decorated with glass beads and with two little chains that dangle down the cheeks. Then she is also given a white shawl embroidered and decorated with beads to wear around her shoulders. She looks just like a Samburu girl! Her father is clearly so proud and tweaks it a bit here and there, though I can see that my oh-so-modern daughter finds it all a bit weird. There’s also a shawl for me, a little smaller, while Albert and Klaus get leather belts decorated with beads. We’re all very moved by the time and effort they’ve put into making the gifts for us.

  Later on we look through photo albums and even find some old pictures of me with Napirai as a baby. Just looking at them makes me realise how mad those days were and how much my life has changed since then. I regret none of it, but there’s no way I could live like that now.

  Suddenly we hear the bleating of goats, the signal that the herds are coming back, which is something we really want to see today. The newborns remain behind in a little hut while their mothers go out to graze. But now they know their mummies are coming home and go crazy with impatience. Mama is now sitting outside her hut again. also waiting to see the herds come home. A few of the children, already wearing their new clothes, are playing with waiting kid goats. Lketinga’s sister is already with her gourd to milk the goats. She seems to be in a good mood today with her pretty smile on display.

  Then the moment arrives. The white and speckled goats stream through the gates of the corral. The noise is phenomenal. The baby goats are released to seek out their mothers. Albert-Tonic, James’s oldest son, has been out with the goats all day, as this is the school holidays. The eleven-year-old doesn’t seem in the slightest tired, even though it must be hard work for a schoolboy. My publisher Albert is particularly glad to see him. For the past couple of years he has been sponsoring his godchild and hopes that one day he might even go to college. He has set up a savings account for him.

  Papa Saguna’s daughter and Saruni, James’s daughter, sit down to milk the goats. They ask Napirai and me if we want to help. We have a go but it’s not very successful, which gets a laugh from everyone.

  The animals don’t produce much mi
lk in any case, even though it’s an important element in the diet here. We stand around a while watching all the goings-on. It’s fun to watch the little children playing with the baby goats. There are virtually no toys here in Barsaloi but even so, or perhaps as a result, the children seem full of the joys of life.

  Shortly before dark we all go back to the mission buildings. On the way we notice how busy things are in all the manyattas. There’s the smell of fires and food in the air. We don’t want to impose too much on Stefania to make all our meals so tonight Albert and I are going to cook up spaghetti on the gas stove in the mission, and invite the missionary. Later that evening we accompany our meal with a glass of red wine in the open air, under the twinkling of millions of stars.

  The next morning we stroll up to the corral early. The goats haven’t left for the day yet and all you can hear is bleating. Papa Saguna is sitting on a tree stump in the sunshine in the middle of the herd cleaning his teeth with a piece of wood. It’s all very relaxed at this hour of the morning. Eventually James mentions that they normally go to a Samburu market on a Saturday to sell things they have in the shop here. People come to the market from all around so there’s a lot of business to be done. But today they’re planning to stay at home because we’re here.

  We simply can’t allow that, not least because the market has only been going six months. James is pleased we’re interested and within no time they’ve packed up a load of kangas and jewellery from the shop and loaded them into our car. Lketinga is sorry he doesn’t have enough of a choice of second-hand clothing. He takes Napirai into the shop and before long she comes out wearing a long black skirt which really suits her. I’m guessing the real issue here is that Lketinga doesn’t want his daughter going to a traditional market wearing jeans. Women in trousers are rare enough here.

  Lketinga, James and Stefania and the two little boys Lodunu and Diego get into our car and off we go through the dusty red savannah. If it weren’t for the tyre tracks it would hardly be recognisable as a road at all. There are no signposts. It takes us about half an hour to get there. I’m amazed to see how many people there are. Most of them have come on foot. But there are also car owners who’ve come specially to offer a matatu communal taxi service bringing buyers – and sellers with all their wares – to the market. Most of the others have brought their wares on the backs of donkeys.

  The market place is in the midst of the steppes at the foot of a mountain range. The stalls look a bit like manyattas but they’re built from the thorn-free cacti that grow round about. These are incredible plants: you can just pull one from the ground and plant it somewhere else and it will continue to grow just as well. They put branches across between two cacti supported on the long narrow leaves and then cover them with twigs and usually a sheet of plastic to provide shelter from the hot sun, and a screen against nosy onlookers.

  James and Stefania busy themselves spreading their plastic sheeting over their stall but I can’t get over just how many traditionally dressed girls and warriors there are here. It feels like twenty years ago. The only signs of the changes that have occurred almost everywhere else are the few cars, and a few visitors who, like James, are dressed in modern clothing.

  Stefania’s best sellers are the kangas and the multi-coloured beading local women use as jewellery. Most of her customers are young warriors buying presents for their girlfriends. The more jewellery a young woman wears around her neck, the more she attracts attention and the higher the price she will fetch as a bride. The one thing that is taboo is for her to marry her boyfriends. Her father will choose her husband and obviously he will pick someone with a good reputation, but also able to pay a high price. That’s the way it always used to be done and it seems in that respect nothing has changed.

  As usual Napirai is busy entertaining her little half-brother and his cousin Diego. Lketinga and I take a walk around the market. Here there’s a group of women sitting under a shady acacia tree, over there a group of young warriors all splendidly attired are standing around talking. Not far away from them is a group of richly bejewelled young women. It looks a bit like a market for prospective brides.

  A little bit further on they are slaughtering goats, and building fires to roast them on for sale. Every now and then older people come up to me and say, ‘Supa, Mama Napirai, serian?’ More than once Lketinga has to explain that I’m only here on a visit.

  It’s all very self-contained and after a while it feels a bit awkward to be a white person here. But I can’t get enough of the wonderful colours and the people all dressed in such traditional fashion. I’m particularly amused by the new fashion for headwear: the most popular would seem to be the sort of plastic tulips we get at markets back home, except that here two or three of them are tied together and woven into a hairdo. I notice though that none of the men have painted their faces. In his warrior days Lketinga had decorated his face every morning with ochre applied using a little matchstick. It looked magnificent. Nowadays it seems they just colour their long hair, and that in turn spreads to their backs. We wander around a bit longer but I’m not sure which is the bigger attraction: us, the rare white visitors, or the gaudily attired Samburu. I’m glad Napirai’s had the chance to see a traditional market like this because they might not still be around in a few years’ time.

  Napirai writes: Before we set out for the market my father invites into his shop. It’s quite small and there isn’t much in the way of furniture but he has got a few things on offer. There are some items of clothing hanging on the wall, and a few more folded up on the ground. He points at the things hanging on the wall and asks me which I prefer. He takes down a white jacket, which is far too big for me, and puts it on me. He asks if I like it, and I nod. But then I spot a pretty black skirt hanging on the wall and point to it. He laughs and asks if I’d prefer the skirt to the jacket. I nod, relieved to be able to swap. He’s happy that he has something he can give me, and I’m really happy to get a present from him.

  I put the skirt on straight away, before we head out to the market, and show my new acquisition to my mother who seems to be as delighted by it as I am. It takes us a while to get to the market. One of my legs has gone to sleep because Diego was asleep on my lap the whole time and I didn’t want to wake him. I can’t believe the kids here can sleep travelling over such bumpy roads.

  The market place is big and I’m not sure where to start. Everything is very colourful and it’s the first time I’ve seen so many women and men in traditional dress. It’s something very out of the ordinary for me. Albert and Klaus are really excited and are dashing around trying to see everything. I go over to James’s stand and sit in the shade for a while with the little children. I can see it all just as well from here.

  Eventually my mother comes over to fetch me, telling me there are some women I absolutely have to meet. I notice everybody looking at us behind our backs and whispering to themselves. I’m really glad I put the skirt on because there isn’t a single woman here in jeans or trousers.

  The women are very pleased to meet us and stand there staring at us, but we can’t talk together so the meeting doesn’t last very long. I go back to play with the children again. I’m glad they came. I had to ask James specially as normally they stay at home.

  The market is really enjoyable and I’m sure it makes a nice change for the locals to come here. Just sitting here watching all that’s going on makes my home in Switzerland suddenly seem a long way away.

  After a while we begin to get hungry and James takes us to one of the huts where they serve food, indicated by the empty teacups hanging between the cactus leaves outside. They have huge tin pots on a fire, one with rice in it, another with meat, and a third with vegetables and potatoes. We load up a plate and sit down at a cobbled-together bench inside this little cactus-built restaurant. Normally people use their right hands to eat but they fetch spoons for us. It’s very tasty. A few locals come in, but disappear again as soon as they lay eyes on us.

  On the way ba
ck to Stefania’s stall, Lketinga introduces me to his former father-in-law. The old man doesn’t miss the opportunity to get a few shillings from his son-in-law.

  It seems Stefania is doing good business. There is a crowd of young, colourfully decked-out warriors standing around, being photographed by Klaus and admiring their own images on the digital display. Nobody here is exactly stressed out or in a rush. Napirai is sitting playing with Lodunu and Diego on the floor of the hut and just throws the occasional glance in the direction of these exotic warriors. The two little ones are singing Samburu songs for her. I’m very moved to see how well the two of them get on with their half-sister and cousin. I could sit here for hours, watching them and taking photographs. But I have to be careful taking pictures here because I can tell not everybody is that keen on it.

  Eventually a few of the shoppers start to wander off, the warriors striding out boldly for home, their plastic bags in their hands. The women load up their donkeys who’ve been standing in the shade of the acacias, or wait by the sides of the cars they’re hoping will give them a lift. We pack our things up too and happily head for home. For us all it was a real treat to have been at a market like this, but particularly for my companions.