He uses a towrope but our two four-wheel drive vehicles together fail to pull the lorry out. So the one hundred sacks, each weighing two hundredweight, have to be transferred to our vehicles. We can take eight at a time. Father Giuliani makes five trips before he’s had enough and goes back to the Mission. I do another seven before we’ve got everything to the shop. It’s night now, and I’m exhausted. The shop is an unimaginable mess, but we close up and leave sorting it out to the next morning.
Frequently people offer to sells us goatskins or cowhides but up until now I’ve always declined, and the women get upset and leave the shop cursing to sell their fleeces to the Somalis. Recently, however, the Somalis have only been buying from those who get their maize or sugar from them. This gives us something else to think about, and so I decide that I’ll buy skins too and store them in the back of the shop.
Barely two days pass before the sly little local boss man turns up and asks for our licence to trade in animal skins. Of course we don’t have one because we didn’t know it was necessary. Then he announces he could close the shop because it’s forbidden to store skins in the same building as foodstuffs. There has to be a distance of at least one hundred and fifty feet between them. I throw back that the Somalis up until now have kept their fleeces in the same room, but the boss man says this isn’t so, and now I know who’s put him on to us. As I’ve accumulated some eighty skins in the meantime, with the intention of selling them next time we’re in Maralal, I need to win time to find a lockable storage place. I offer the boss man a couple of fizzy drinks and ask him to give me until tomorrow.
After a long discussion with my husband it’s agreed that by tomorrow we’ll have the hides out of the shop. But where? Hides like these are effectively cash. I go up to the Mission for advice. Only Father Roberto is there, and he says he has no room and we’ll have to wait for Giuliani. That evening he comes by on his motorbike and delights me by offering us his old water pumping shed where he keeps old machinery. There’s not much room but it’s better than nothing, because we can fit the lot in, and once again I have to realize how much I owe to Father Giuliani.
Business in the shop is going well, and Anna is better and now turns up on time. Then one ordinary afternoon there’s complete pandemonium. The boy from next door rushes into the shop and starts talking excitedly to Lketinga. ‘Darling, what happened?’ I ask. He tells me that two goats from our herd have gone missing and he’ll have to set out straight away to find them before it gets dark and the wild animals take them. He’s just about to set off armed with his two long spears when the bush teacher’s servant girl turns up with a pale face and says something to him. I gather that it’s to do with our car and Maralal. Worried I ask Anna, ‘What’s the problem?’ and she replies hesitantly that the teacher’s wife is expecting a baby and urgently needs to be taken to hospital, but there’s no one at the Mission to help.
A Matter Of Life And Death
‘Darling, we have to go with her to Maralal,’ I urge my husband, but he says that’s not his business, he has to go after his goats. I simply don’t understand him and ask angrily if the life of a human being isn’t more important than that of an animal. He doesn’t see what I’m talking about, it’s not his wife but if he doesn’t find his goats within two hours at most they’ll have been eaten. And with that he leaves the shop. I’m left speechless and can hardly believe that my good-natured husband can be so heartless.
Anna says I should go to see the woman and then decide what to do. Her wooden cabin is just two minutes from the shop. I nearly have a heart attack when I enter the house: there are blood-soaked cloths everywhere; the young woman is lying bent double on the bare floorboards groaning loudly. I speak to her because I know from the shop that she speaks English. Haltingly she manages to tell me that the bleeding began two days ago but that she couldn’t go to the doctor because her husband is very jealous and opposed an examination. Now that he’s away she wants to go.
She looks at me for the first time, and I see blind fear in her eyes. ‘Please, Corinne, help me, I am dying!’ She lifts her skirt, and I see a small blue arm hanging from her vagina. I summon all my strength and promise to fetch the Land Rover immediately from home. I charge out of the house, tell Anna in the shop that I’m off to Maralal straight away and if my husband isn’t back by seven o’clock she’s to close the shop.
I race back to the manyatta, barely noticing the thorn bushes tearing my legs. Tears of grief and anger at my husband are rolling down my face. If only we can get to Maralal in time! Mama’s at home and doesn’t understand why I grab all our woollen blankets and even the cowhide out of the manyatta and lay them out in the back of the Land Rover. I’ve no time to tell her the story. Every minute counts. I’m hardly thinking clearly as I roar off in the Land Rover. One glance at the Mission tells me there’s nobody there as both cars are gone. I stop outside the wooden house, and the girl and I help the woman into the car.
It’s difficult because she can’t stand up. We lay her out on the two blankets, which at least shield her from the cold metal but will be no protection against hard jolts. The girl gets in too, and we set off. At the ‘doctor’s hut’ I stop to see if the local doctor will come with us, but he isn’t there either. Where is everybody when you need them? Instead of him there’s a stranger there who comes from Maralal and wants a lift. He’s not a Samburu.
It’s a life and death mission, but I can’t go too quickly or the woman in the back would be tossed from side to side. Every bump causes her to cry out. The girl talks to her gently, holding her head on her lap. I’m dripping with sweat and have to keep wiping tears out of my eyes. This teacher has almost killed his wife through his jealousy! The man who translates the mass every Sunday in church, who can read and write. I could hardly believe it if I hadn’t seen the reaction of my own husband. The life of a woman obviously matters less to him than that of a goat. If it had been a warrior in distress, like the one we had in our hut a month ago, Lketinga would no doubt have reacted differently. But this was only a woman, and not even his. What would happen if I developed complications?
All of this is flying through my head as we make our slow progress in the car. The woman keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, and her groaning has ceased. We’re at the rocks now, and I feel sick at the thought of the car bouncing to and fro. There’s no point in driving slowly here. I tell the servant girl to hold on to the woman as tightly as she can. The man sitting next to me hasn’t said a word. In four-wheel drive the car climbs up over the rocks. The woman is screaming horribly. When we get to the top she quietens down for a bit, and I drive through the jungle as quickly as possible. Just before the ‘death slope’ I have to engage four-wheel drive again, and the car crawls up the hill. Halfway up, the engine starts to splutter. I immediately glance at the petrol gauge but am reassured. It settles down and then splutters again but makes its way to the top, then conks out, right beside the plateau where I was previously stuck.
In despair I try to fire the engine up again, but there’s nothing doing. Now the man next to me comes to life, and we get out and inspect the engine. I take out all the spark plugs, and they’re okay. The battery is topped up. What is the problem with this damn machine? I tug all the cables, look underneath, but I can’t see what’s wrong. I try and try again to spark the ignition, but it’s no good. Nothing’s working, not even the dashboard light.
By now it’s dark, and the giant horseflies are eating us alive. I’m starting to get really afraid. The woman in the back is groaning; the blankets are covered in blood. I tell the stranger that we’re as good as lost here because next to nobody uses this road. The only chance is for him to get to Maralal and get help. On foot, I reckon he can do it in an hour and a half, but he refuses to go on his own without a weapon. I lose my temper completely and swear at him angrily: doesn’t he understand that it’s dangerous anyway and the longer he waits here the darker and colder it’ll get? Our only chance is if he gets going. Eventually he
sets off.
The soonest help can get to us is in two hours. I open the rear doors and try to talk to the woman, but she’s lost consciousness again briefly. It’s getting cold, and I pull my jacket on. Then she wakes up and asks for some water. She’s very thirsty; her lips are all cracked. My God! In my mad haste I’ve made another colossal mistake, I’ve forgotten to bring drinking water. I search the whole car and can find only an empty Coke bottle but set off to find her some water. Everything is so green here there must be water somewhere. After a hundred yards I hear splashing, but I can’t see anything through the thicket. Carefully, step-by-step I venture into the jungle. In two yards the ground suddenly falls away, and down below is a little stream, but I can’t get to it because I’d never be able to get back up the rocky wall. I run back to the car and fetch the rope from the petrol containers. The woman is screaming like mad with pain. I cut one end of the rope and tie the bottle to it to lower it to the stream. It fills up, but incredibly slowly. As I hold it to the woman’s mouth I notice that she’s glowing with heat and at the same time so cold that her teeth are chattering. She empties the whole bottle and I go back to fetch more.
Back at the car I hear a scream the like of which I’ve never heard before. The girl is holding the woman tight and sobbing. She’s so young, maybe just thirteen or fourteen years old. I look into the woman’s face and see the fear of death. ‘I’m dying, I’m dying, Enkai!’ she stammers. ‘Please, Corinne, help me!’ she begs. What am I to do? I’ve never been present at a birth. I’ve never even been pregnant before. ‘Please, take out this child, please, Corinne!’ I lift her skirt and see the same picture again, except that the violet blue arm is now hanging out as far as the shoulder.
This baby is dead, I’m thinking. It’s sideways on and can’t be born without a Caesarean. Sobbing, I tell her that I can’t help but with luck help will be here in half an hour. I take my jacket off and lay it over her shivering form. My God, why do you leave us so alone? What have I done that this car should once again let us down today of all days? I don’t understand the world anymore, and at the same time I can no longer stand her piercing screams and run despairingly, unthinkingly, into the dark jungle, only to turn around almost immediately and head back to the car.
Terrified she is dying the woman demands my knife. Feverishly I try to decide what to do and make up my mind not to give it to her. Then suddenly she rises up from the blankets and gets into a squat. The girl and I stare in horror at this woman battling for her life, as she sticks both hands into her vagina and pulls at the arm until eventually a blue-violet underdeveloped baby is lying on the woollen blanket. Immediately she falls back in exhaustion and lies there stock still.
I come to first and wrap up the bloody, dead, seven-month foetus in a kanga then I give the woman some more water. Her whole body is shaking but even so she exudes complete calm. I try to clean her hands and talk to her reassuringly. At the same time I strain my ears towards the bush where after a while I can hear the distant sound of an engine.
Shortly thereafter I make out headlamps coming through the jungle, and relief overcomes me like a stone falling from my heart. I wave my torch in the air so that they can see us. It’s a Land Rover ambulance from the hospital. Three men get out, and I tell them what’s happened. They put the woman on a stretcher and load her into their vehicle and take the bundle containing the baby too. The girl goes with them also. The driver takes a look at my car, turns the key and knows straight away what’s wrong. He shows me a cable hanging down behind the steering wheel. The ignition cable has come out. In a minute he’s fixed it, and the car starts up.
While the others go on to Maralal, I turn around and head home. I reach our manyatta totally exhausted and shaken. My husband wants to know why I’m so late back. I try to explain to him but see that he doesn’t believe me. I despair at his reaction and fail to understand why he has so little trust in me. It’s not my fault at the end of the day that the car keeps breaking down when he’s not there. I lie down to go to sleep and refuse any further discussion.
The next day I go to work with no enthusiasm. I’ve barely opened when the teacher comes by and thanks me effusively for my help but doesn’t once ask how his wife is. What a hypocrite!
A bit later Father Giuliani comes in and has me tell him everything. He regrets what we had to go through and generously pays me for the journey, although that’s not what I care about. He’s heard over the radio link, however, that the woman is as well as can be expected in the situation.
The stress in the shop is taking more out of me than I know. Ever since this event I’ve been sleeping badly and having horrible dreams about my own pregnancy. The third morning afterwards I’m so wrecked that I send Lketinga to the shop on his own. He can work with Anna, and I’ll sit at home with Mama under the big tree. That afternoon the doctor comes by and tells me the teacher’s wife is over the worst but will have to spend a couple more weeks in Maralal.
We talk about what happened, and he tries to ease my conscience by telling me it only happened because she didn’t want to have the baby. She brought the car to a standstill using her mental powers. When he’s leaving he asks me what’s wrong. I mention my weak state of health, which I put down to recent events, but he warns me to beware of the chance of malaria. My eyes, he says, have a yellow taint.
Fears For My Child
In the evening we slaughter a sheep. This is the first time I have eaten lamb or mutton out here, and I’m curious. Mama prepares our share. She simply boils a few pieces in water, and we drink the bland fatty broth from cups. Mama reckons it’s good for when you’re pregnant and need strength. But it’s obviously not good for me because during the night I get diarrhoea. I manage to waken my husband, however, and he helps me to open the gate in the thorn stockade. I barely make it twenty yards further. Then I drag myself back to the manyatta to find Lketinga seriously worried about me and the baby.
It’s the same story next morning, and I throw up afterwards. Despite the incredible heat I’m shivering, and now I notice my yellow eyes and send Lketinga to the Mission. I’m afraid for the child because I’m certain this is the beginning of a new malaria bout. Barely ten minutes pass before I hear the Mission car engine, and Father Giuliani comes into the hut. When he sees me he asks what’s happened, and I tell him for the first time that I’m five months’ pregnant. He’s surprised because he hadn’t noticed. He immediately suggests taking me to the Mission hospital in Wamba because otherwise the child could be premature and I might lose it. I gather a few things together and we set off, leaving Lketinga behind because the shop is open.
Father Giuliani’s car is more comfortable than mine. He drives at breakneck speed because he knows the roads so well, but even so I struggle to hold on because I’m using one hand to support my stomach. We don’t talk much on the three-hour trip to the hospital. Two white nurses are waiting for us, and they help me to an examination room where I can lie down on the bed. I’m astounded by the tidiness and cleanliness, but then, lying there on the bed, I’m overcome by a deep sadness. When Giuliani comes to say goodbye, I can’t hold back the tears. He’s shocked and asks me what the matter is, but I don’t even know myself! I’m afraid for my child. And then I’ve left my husband alone in the shop. He tries to calm me down, promising to check the accounts every day and keep the sisters informed by radio. Overwhelmed by his sympathy, I burst into tears again.
He fetches one of the nurses, who gives me an injection. Then the doctor turns up to examine me. When he hears how many months pregnant I am, he shows concern that I’m far too thin and haven’t enough blood. That’s why the baby is so small. Then he makes his diagnosis: early stages of malaria.
I ask him worriedly what that might mean for the baby. He dismisses the question and says the first thing is for me to rest, that’ll be best for the baby. If I had delayed coming any longer, my body would have initiated a premature birth itself because of my anaemia. But he says he’s hopeful, at least the baby’
s still alive. Those words make me so happy that I determine to do everything to get well again as soon as possible. They put me into a four-bed ward in the maternity department.
It’s totally unlike Maralal: outside the window are bushes with red flowers. I’m delighted to have been looked at so quickly. The nurse comes and tells me I’ll get two injections a day and at the same time a saline drip which is needed urgently to stop my body losing fluids. That is also the best way to treat the malaria, and I realize how narrowly I escaped with my life in Maralal. The nurses take tender care of me, and on the third day they remove the drip, but I will still need the injections for another two days.
Back in the shop everything’s going really well, the nurses tell me. I feel as if I’ve been reborn and can’t wait to get home again to my husband. On the seventh day he turns up with two other warriors. I’m pleased to see him but wonder how he managed to leave the shop. ‘No problem, Corinne, my brother is there,’ he answers with a laugh. Then he tells me he’s got rid of Anna because she was stealing from us and giving away food. I can’t believe it and ask him worriedly who’s going to help us in future. He’s put a boy in, and he and his brother are keeping tabs on him, he says. I can hardly refrain from laughing: I don’t see how two men who are unable to either count or read can keep tabs on a former schoolboy.
In any case there’s not much left in the shop. That’s why he’s driven here in the Land Rover and now intends to go on to Maralal where he and the two warriors will organize another lorry-load. ‘With what money?’ I ask, and he shows me a bag full of notes. He’s picked it all up from Father Giuliani. I’m in a panic about what to do. If he and these two warriors go to Maralal they’ll be treated like turkeys turning up before Christmas. All the money is loose in a plastic bag, and he doesn’t even know how much there is.
The White Masai Page 22