The naked light bulb shows the whole horrid little room for what it is. The blue paint is peeling from the walls, and everywhere there are brown patches with thin trickle lines beneath them: disgusting remnants of spat-out tobacco. Back home in the manyatta Mama and all our visitors used to do the same thing until I complained about it. Since then Mama spits under one of the flints. I find the boarding-house room particularly nauseating. The boy lies down on the bed with his clothes on and immediately turns to face the wall. We turn off the light and don’t speak.
There’s a thunderous knocking at the door. I start in shock from a deep sleep and ask what’s happening. But before anyone can answer, the boy says it’s nearly five a.m. We have to go! If the pick-up is full it’ll simply leave. We grab our stuff together and run to the rendezvous spot. There are little groups of schoolchildren everywhere. Some are getting into a vehicle, the rest waiting in the cold and dark. I’m absolutely freezing. The dew at this hour of the morning makes Maralal cold and damp. We can’t even drink chai because none of the boarding houses have opened up.
At six a.m. the overcrowded regular bus trundles by blaring its horn. Our driver hasn’t even turned up yet. He seems to be in no hurry as we’re captive passengers. It’s getting light, and we’re still waiting, and I’m getting angry. I want out of here, to get to Nairobi today. The boy despairingly asks around for a lift but the few cars are crammed full, and our only possibility is a truck laden with cabbages. I jump at the chance, as it’s the only one we’ve got. But after the first few yards I’m already wondering if I made the right choice. It’s absolute torture sitting on the things because they’re hard and keep moving. I can only hang on by grabbing the side rail, and that keeps hitting me in the ribs. Every pothole throws us into the air and then we fall back down onto the hard cabbages. There’s no way to talk, it’s much too noisy and too dangerous – the bumps are so hard you could easily bite through your lip. But somehow or other I survive the four and a half hours to Nyahururu.
Completely wrecked, I climb out of the lorry and say goodbye to my young travelling companion. I want to go into a restaurant to find a toilet. When I pull down my jeans I see big violet bruises on my thighs. My God, before I get to Switzerland the whole of my skinny legs will have turned blue. It’s going to be a shock for my mother because, since my last visit just two months ago, I’ve changed enormously physically. She still doesn’t know that I’m coming home, still unmarried and in a bad state.
In the restaurant I order cola and a proper meal. There’s chicken, and I wolf down a whole half bird with some floury chips. It’s too early to think of spending the night here so I drag my bag to the bus station, which is still busy. I’m in luck: a bus for Nairobi is about to go. The road is tarmac, which is a blessing, and I fall asleep in my seat. When I next look out of the window we’re only an hour from my destination. If I’m lucky, we’ll reach the metropolis before dark. The Igbol isn’t exactly in the safest part of town, and it’s already turning to dusk as we drive through the suburbs.
People start piling out with their possessions while I’m still sitting with my face against the window trying to get used to the sea of lights. I still don’t recognize anything. There are just five people left on the bus, and I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just get out because I don’t want to go all the way to the bus station, which is too dangerous for me at this time of day. The driver keeps looking back at me in his mirror wondering why the mzungu doesn’t get out. Eventually he asks me where I want to get to. ‘To Igbol-Hotel’. He shrugs his shoulders. Then I remember the name of a huge cinema very close to the Igbol. ‘Mister, you know Odeon Cinema?’ I ask hopefully. ‘Odeon Cinema? This place is no good for mzungu-lady,’ he lectures me. ‘It’s no problem for me. I only go into the Igbol-Hotel. There are some more white people,’ I reply. He changes lanes a couple of times, takes a left, a right and stops right in front of the hotel. Thankful for his help, I tip him a few shillings. In my exhaustion I’m pleased for every few feet I don’t have to walk.
It’s mad busy in the Igbol. All the tables are laid, and there are rucksacks everywhere. The man at reception, who’s got to know me by now, greets me with ‘Jambo, Masai-lady!’ He still has one bed free in a three-bed room. In the room I find two English girls studying a guidebook. I go straight out again to have a shower, taking my passport and money purse with me. I strip off and am horrified to see the state my body is in. My legs, lower back and underarms are covered in bruises. But the shower makes me feel human again. Then I find a table in the restaurant to get something to eat at last and watch the tourists, but the more I look at the Europeans, in particular the men, the more I long for my handsome warrior. It’s not long before I retire to bed to rest my weary bones.
After breakfast I make my way to the Swissair office, but to my disappointment they don’t have a free seat for five days. That’s too long. With Kenya Airways the wait would be even longer. Five days in Nairobi, that would depress me deeply. So I try round the other airlines until I find an Alitalia flight in two days’ time, although it involves a four-hour stopover in Rome. I check the price and book it. Then I go to the nearby Kenya Commercial Bank to draw out money.
There’s a queue at the bank. Two policemen armed with machine pistols are guarding the door. I join the queue and within half an hour reach the counter. I have written a cheque for the sum, but it’s going to be a huge bundle of cash to carry through the streets to the Alitalia office. The man at the counter turns the cheque over and asks me whereabouts Maralal is. Then he goes off and comes back to ask me if I’m sure I want to withdraw so much cash. ‘Yes,’ I answer with annoyance. I’m worried myself about it. After I’ve filled out various forms I’m handed heaps of banknotes, which I immediately conceal in my rucksack. Luckily there’s next to nobody about. The bank clerk asks me what I want to do with so much money and whether I need a boyfriend. I say thanks but no thanks and leave.
I reach the Alitalia office without incident. Once again I have to fill out forms, and my passport is checked. One of the staff asks why I don’t have a return ticket to Switzerland. I explain to her that I live in Kenya and am just going back to Switzerland for two and a half months’ holiday. The woman says politely that surely I am a tourist, however, because it doesn’t say anywhere on my passport that I live in Kenya. All these questions confuse me. I simply want a ticket and to pay for it in cash. But it turns out that’s the problem. I have a form that says I’ve withdrawn the money from a Kenyan bank. As a tourist, I’m not allowed to have a bank account and must be able to prove that the money has been brought in from Switzerland, otherwise she’d have to assume that it’s illegal earnings; tourists are not allowed to work in Kenya. I’m speechless. My mother did the transfers, and the paperwork is all in Barsaloi. I’m standing in front of this woman with a heap of money, and she won’t take it. The African woman at the counter tells me that regrettably, unless I can prove where the money came from, they can’t issue the ticket. I burst into tears of fury and say I’m not leaving the office with all this money because it would be suicide.
The African woman stares at me in shock and drops her arrogance at the sight of my tears. ‘Wait a moment,’ she says kindly and disappears. A few minutes later a second lady appears, tells me the same thing and assures me she’s just doing her duty. I ask her to call the bank in Maralal where the manager knows me well. The two of them talk it over. Then they simply make a photocopy of my exchange slip and my passport and ten minutes later I leave the office with my ticket. Now I have to find an international telephone to tell my mother to expect a surprise visit.
On the flight my feelings keep swinging between happy anticipation of the comforts of civilization and homesickness for my African family. At Zurich Airport my mother can hardly conceal her horror at my appearance, but I’m grateful that she doesn’t mention it. I’m not hungry because I’ve eaten on the plane, but I’d love to drink some good Swiss coffee before we drive back to the mountains. Over the next
few days I’m spoiled by my mother’s cooking and gradually become a bit more presentable. We talk a lot about my future, and I tell her about my plans for a shop. She understands that I need a job and an income.
On the tenth day I have an appointment with a gynaecologist for an examination. Unfortunately the results are negative: I’m not pregnant. I’m far too anaemic and undernourished for that. Afterwards I realize how disappointed Lketinga will be, but I console myself with the thought that we’ve got plenty of time to have children. Every day I walk through the green landscape, thinking of Africa. After two weeks I’m already planning my departure and book my flight for ten days’ time. Once again I buy lots of medicines, various herbs and packets of pasta. I send a telegram to Lketinga via the Mission to tell him I’m on my way back.
The next nine days pass without event. The only big thing is my brother Eric’s wedding to Jelly, but for me the whole event is like something experienced in a trance, and I find the luxury and the lavish meal unappealing. Everybody wants to know what life is like in Kenya, and each and every one of them tries to bring me to my senses. But for me common sense is in Kenya where my great love and a life with meaning are. It’s time for me to get out of here.
Farewell And Welcome
I arrive at the airport heavily laden. Leaving my mother is particularly hard for me this time because I don’t know when I’ll be back. On June the first, 1988 I land back in Nairobi and take a taxi to the Igbol Hotel.
Two days later I arrive back in Maralal, drag my luggage to the boarding house and think about how I’m going to get back to Barsaloi. Each day I trawl through the village, looking for a car. I think of calling on Sophia but discover that she’s on holiday in Italy. On the third day I hear that in the afternoon a lorry with maize meal and sugar is leaving for the Mission in Barsaloi. I wait all morning next to the wholesalers where the bags are to be loaded. And indeed the lorry turns up around noon. I do a deal with the driver and settle a price to sit up front, and that afternoon we finally leave. Our route is via Baragoi so it will take six hours and it will be late before we get to Barsaloi. There are at least fifteen people on board the lorry: good money for the driver.
The journey takes forever. This is the first time I’ve done it on a lorry. We cross the first river in pitch darkness, only the beam of the headlights feeling our way across the broad emptiness. By ten p.m. we’re there and stop in front of the Mission compound where lots of people are waiting for the ‘lori’. They’ve spotted the lights in the distance, and all Barsaloi is excited. Many people reckon on earning money offloading the sacks.
Tired but happy, I climb down. I’m home, even if the manyattas are a few hundred yards away. A few people say a friendly hello. Father Giuliani turns up with a torch to give instructions, says hello briefly and then vanishes again. I’m standing helplessly with my heavy bags, unable to drag them in the dark as far as Mama’s manyatta. Two boys, who obviously don’t go to school because they’re wearing traditional garb, offer to help me, but half way there someone comes towards us with a torch. It’s my darling. ‘Hello!’ he beams. I throw my arms around him with joy and press a kiss on his lips. The emotion takes away my breath and silently we make our way to the manyatta.
Mama too is delighted to see me. Straight away she lights the fire to make the obligatory chai. I hand out my presents. Later Lketinga taps lovingly on my stomach and asks, ‘How is our baby?’ I feel uncomfortable as I tell him that unfortunately there is no baby. He frowns: ‘Why? I know you have baby before!’ As calmly as possible I try to explain to him that it was only because of the malaria that I missed my period. Lketinga is very disappointed, but nonetheless that night we make wonderful love.
The next few weeks are very happy, life takes its usual course until at last we set off again for Maralal to see about the wedding. Lketinga’s brother comes with us, and this time we’re in luck. When we have our appointment and hand over my forms with their stamps, as well as the paper from the chief which Lketinga has managed to get in the meantime, there seem to be no more problems.
Registry Office And Honeymoon
On the twenty-sixth of July 1988 we get married. There are two new witnesses, Lketinga’s older brother and some other person I don’t know. The ceremony is conducted by a nice official: first in English, then in Swahili. Everything goes without a hitch, except that at the decisive moment my darling fails to say his ‘Yes’ until I kick his leg. Then the wedding certificate is signed. Lketinga takes my passport and says I need a Kenyan one, as my name is now Leparmorijo. The officer tells us that this has to be done in Nairobi because Lketinga will have to apply for my permanent residency. Now I’m confused again. I thought we’d done everything and the battle with red tape was over. But no, the wedding notwithstanding, I’m still a tourist until I have a right of abode stamp in my passport. My joy fades, and Lketinga doesn’t understand it all either. In the boarding house we decide to go to Nairobi.
The next day we set out for Nairobi along with both of our witnesses. Lketinga’s brother has never been on such a long journey before. We take our Land Rover as far as Nyahururu and then catch the bus to Nairobi. The brother just gapes at everything. For me it’s entertaining to be with someone who, at the age of forty, is seeing a city for the first time. He is speechless and even more helpless than Lketinga. He can’t even cross a road without our help. If I didn’t take his hand, he would almost certainly stay rooted to the same spot until nightfall because he’s afraid of all the traffic. He looks at the big blocks of flats and doesn’t understand how the people can live on top of one another.
Eventually we get to the Nyayo Building. I stand in the queue to fill out more forms. When I finally finish the woman at the counter tells us to check back in three weeks or so. I protest and try to explain to her that we’ve come a long way and there’s no way we are leaving without a valid stamp in my passport. I almost beg her, but she says everything has to take its course and she’ll try to get it done in a week or so. When I realize that that’s her last word on the subject I say thank you and go.
Outside we debate what to do. There are four of us, and we have to wait a week. Hanging around in Nairobi with my three men is inconceivable. Instead I suggest we go to Mombasa so Lketinga’s brother can see the sea. Lketinga agrees because he’ll feel safe in their company, and so we set out on the eight-hour journey – which will have to make do as a honeymoon.
The first thing we do in Mombasa is go to see Priscilla. She’s delighted about our marriage and thinks everything will be fine now. Lketinga’s brother is eager to see the sea, but when he’s confronted with the vast expanse of water he has to hold on to us. He won’t go closer than thirty feet from the sea, and after ten minutes he’s so afraid that we have to leave the beach. I show him a tourist hotel too but he doesn’t believe what he sees. On one occasion he asks a man if we’re really still in Kenya. It’s a remarkable feeling to be able to show the world to someone who can still be amazed. Later we go for a meal and drinks, and for the first time he tastes beer, which has a bad effect on him. We find ourselves a shabby little boarding house in Ukunda.
These days in Mombasa cost a fortune. The men drink beer, and I have to just sit there because I don’t want to go to the beach on my own. Gradually it starts to grate on me to be paying the bar tab for three people, and so we have our first few quarrels. Lketinga, who is now officially my husband, doesn’t understand and says it’s my fault we have to wait such a long time before going back to Nairobi. He doesn’t understand in any case why I need a stamp. He’s married me, hasn’t he, and that makes me a Leparmorijo and a Kenyan. The others agree, and I’m left sitting there wondering how to explain bureaucracy to them.
After four days we set off sullenly. With a lot of effort I drag Lketinga one more time – the last, so he says – to this office in Nairobi. I keep hoping that the stamp will be there. Once again I explain our situation and ask for someone to check if it’s been done yet. Once again I’m told to wait.
The other three look at each other and me nervously. Everyone else stares at us in curiosity: a white woman with three Masai is not something you see everyday in a government office.
At long last my husband and I are called out and told to follow a woman. When we stop at a lift I already guess what’s going to happen if Lketinga has to get in. The lift doors open, and a horde of people pile out. Lketinga looks at the empty cabin with horror and says: ‘Corinne, what’s that?’ I try to explain to him that this box will takes us up to the twelfth floor. The woman is already waiting impatiently inside. But Lketinga doesn’t want to get in. He’s scared of going up so high. ‘Darling, please, this is no problem, if we are in the twelfth floor you go around like now,’ I say, begging him to get in before the woman gets fed up and in the end, with bulging eyes, he does it.
We’re taken in to an office where a stern African lady is waiting for us. She asks me if I am really married to this Samburu. She wants to know from Lketinga if he is really able to provide food and shelter for me. He turns to me and asks, ‘Corinne, please, which house I must have?’ My God, I think to myself, just say ‘yes’. The woman looks back and forth between us. My nerves are so stretched that I’m sweating from every pore. She stares straight at me and asks, ‘You want to have children?’ I answer promptly: ‘Oh yes, two.’ There’s a silence. Then eventually she goes over to her desk and picks out one of a multitude of rubber stamps. I hand over two hundred shillings and get my passport back, stamped. I could weep with joy. At last, at last, it’s done! I can stay in my beloved Kenya. All we have to do now is get out of here, back to Barsaloi, back home!
The White Masai Page 18