Before long he flings open the door, pulls me out of bed and demands to know the names of everyone I’ve ‘done it’ with. Now he says he knows Napirai isn’t even his daughter and I only told him she was premature because of my illness when really I’d got pregnant by someone else. Every sentence he utters rips away a part of my love for him. I don’t even understand him anymore. In the end he storms out of the house, saying he’s off to find a better wife and is not coming back. Right at this moment I couldn’t care less. All I want is peace and quiet.
The next morning my eyes are so red with tears I can’t bring myself to go out. Lots of people heard us arguing. Around ten o’clock Mama turns up with Saguna wanting to know where Lketinga is. I have no idea. Instead James turns up with a friend. He says he doesn’t understand either, but says his brother never went to school and warriors don’t have any idea about running a business. James tells me what Mama thinks. She wants to talk to Lketinga, to tell him not to get so angry, and that he’ll come back. I shouldn’t keep crying, I should pay no attention to him, all men are like that and that’s why it’s better for them to have more than one wife. James disagrees with her, but none of it’s any help to me. Even the night watchman from the Mission has been sent down by Father Giuliani to find out what’s up. I find it all very unpleasant.
Lketinga eventually turns up late in the day, but we hardly exchange any words. Life gets back to normal, and nobody says anything more about it. Then a week later he disappears again for another ceremony.
The girl who fetches water for me has become ever more unreliable and so I have to drive down to the river to fetch a couple of canisters of water, leaving the boys to look after Napirai. But when I try to set off home again, I can’t get into gear, the clutch keeps slipping. Depressed to find myself broken down again for the first time in two months, I walk up to the Mission for help as I can hardly leave the car down by the river. Giuliani is not exactly delighted but comes down anyway and takes a look at the car. He works out that the clutch has indeed gone and says he can’t do anything about it. The only place I’ll get spare parts is in Nairobi and he has no plans to go there for at least another month. I burst into tears with no idea how I’m going to get food for Napirai or myself. Gradually I’m coming to the end of my tether.
He tows the car home for us and says he’ll try to order the parts from Nairobi by telephone. If the Indians are coming back in the plane over the next few days, they might bring the parts with them, but he can’t promise anything.
But four days later he roars up on his motorbike to say the plane will be landing today at eleven a.m. – the Indians are coming to inspect progress on the school construction – but he can’t say whether or not they’ve got the parts.
And indeed the plane does land, at midday. Father Giuliani drives up to the temporary landing strip in his Land Cruiser, picks up the two Indians and drives them down to the river. When I see Giuliani drive off, apparently towards Wamba, and don’t know what’s going on I decide to walk down to the school and take Napirai to Mama.
The two Indians in their turbans look at me in surprise, greeting me with a handshake and offering me a Coke. They ask if I’m part of the Mission. I tell them no, that I live here and am married to a Samburu. That seems to make them even more curious, and they ask how a white woman can live out here in the bush. They had heard that even their workers find it difficult getting supplies. I tell them about my car and that it’s broken down. They ask me sympathetically if the clutch was for me then, rather than for the Mission. I say yes and ask hopefully if they managed to get it, only to have my hopes dashed when they say there are too many models and the only way to know which is correct is by looking at the vehicle. They see how deeply disappointed I am, and one of them asks where my car is. Then he tells the mechanic they’ve brought with them to take a look at the car and dismantle the faulty clutch. In an hour they’re flying back to Nairobi.
The mechanic is a quick worker, and in less than an hour I learn that not only the clutch but the entire gearbox is wrecked. He packs up the heavy parts, and we drive back. One of the Indians takes a look and reckons it ought to be possible to find the parts in Nairobi, but it won’t be cheap. The two of them confer for a few minutes and then ask me if I want to come back with them. I’m completely taken aback and tell them my husband isn’t here and in any case I have a six-month old child at home. No problem, they say, they have space to take the baby too.
Put on the spot, I don’t know what to do and tell them I don’t know my way around Nairobi. ‘No problem,’ says the other Indian: their mechanic knows every spare parts shop and will collect me from the hotel tomorrow morning and go with me to try to find the spares. In any case if I tried to look on my own as a white woman, people would try to charge me far too much.
I’m dumbstruck by the overwhelming kindness of these two strangers but before I can think any further they tell me to be ready in fifteen minutes at the aircraft. ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ is all I can stammer. The mechanic takes me home, and I hurry quickly to Mama’s to tell her I’m flying to Nairobi. I grab Napirai, leaving Mama standing there in total confusion. Back home I throw together all the essentials for the baby and me, tell the vet’s wife what I’m doing and that I’ll be back as soon as possible with the spare parts. She should give my love to my husband and tell him why I couldn’t wait for his permission.
Then I rush to the airstrip, with Napirai in a kanga sling and a travel bag in my hand. There’s already a crowd of curious sightseers gathered around the plane, and they’re dumbstruck when I turn up. The mzungu is flying off, the rumour soon runs, because her husband isn’t here. I realize this is likely to cause problems, but on the other hand I think how happy he’s going to be when his dearly beloved car is working again and he hasn’t had to go to Nairobi.
The Indians arrive in one of the works’ cars at the same time as Mama who stumps up to me frowning and tells me I have to leave Napirai here. I tell her I’m doing no such thing and promise to be back, and she gives both of us Enkai’s blessing. We get in, the engine screams, and the people standing around leap back in shock. I wave to them all, and already we’re bumping down the runway.
The Indians have loads of questions: how I got to know my husband, how I manage to live in this wilderness. Their amazement makes me laugh, and I feel happier and freer than I have done in ages. In ninety minutes we’re in Nairobi. It’s like a miracle to me to have covered such a vast distance in such a short space of time. Now they ask where to take me. When I tell them the Igbol Hotel near the Odeon Cinema they’re horrified and tell me that part of town’s far too dangerous for a lady like me. But it’s an area I know, and I insist on being dropped there. One of the Indians, clearly the more important of the two, hands me his visiting card and tells me I should ring at nine a.m. and his driver will pick me up. I don’t know what to say and am effusive in my thanks.
Only in the Igbol do I start to wonder if I’ve actually got enough money as I’ve only the equivalent of one thousand Swiss francs. That was all the money I had at home and even that was only because of the disco. I put a nappy on Napirai, and we go down to the restaurant. It’s hard eating at a table with her; she either throws everything on the ground or tries to climb down herself. Since she’s learned to crawl she can race along, and everything’s so dirty here I don’t want to put her down. But she screams and cries until I do. Within seconds she’s covered in dirt, and the locals are looking at me wondering why I give in to her. A few white travellers, on the other hand, are delighted when she crawls under their tables. One way or another she’s content, and so am I. When we get back to the room I give her a thorough wash in the sink. I have to wait until she’s asleep until I can have a shower myself.
The next day it’s pouring with rain. At eight-thirty a.m. I’m standing in the queue outside the telephone booth. We’re soaked to the skin before eventually it’s our turn. I get straight through to the Indian and tell him to pick me up at the O
deon Cinema. He says his driver will be there in twenty minutes. I dash back into the Igbol to change my clothes. My little girl is very brave and doesn’t cry even though she’s soaked through. When we get to the Odeon the driver is waiting for us and takes us to an industrial district where we’re taken into a grandiose office where the nice Indian is sitting behind a big desk, wanting to know if we’re all right. Then he makes a call, and immediately the African mechanic from yesterday appears. He gives him a few addresses to take me round to find the spare parts. When he asks if I have enough money, I reply: ‘I hope so!’
We drive the length and breadth of Nairobi and by midday we’ve found a clutch for just one hundred and fifty Swiss francs. Napirai sits in the back of the car, the rain has stopped, the sun is out and soon it’s hot, but I’m not allowed to open the windows because we have to go through some of the worst parts of Nairobi. The driver keeps doing his best, but we can’t find the rest. Napirai is sweating and screaming. She’s had more than enough when after six hours continuously sitting in the car, the driver tells us it’s hopeless: we’re not going to find the other parts. Tomorrow is Good Friday, and at five p.m. all the shops will shut. I had completely forgotten about Easter. I ask him stupidly when things will open again. He says the garages will be closed until Tuesday.
Suddenly I’m seized with pure horror at the idea of having to be on my own with Napirai for so long in this city. Lketinga will go mad if I’m away for a whole week. We decide to go back to the Indian’s office.
The friendly Indian is very concerned by my problems and examines the worn bearings in the gearbox before asking the mechanic if there’s any way of repairing it. There isn’t, he says, though I wonder if that’s just because it’s going home time. The Indian makes another phone call, and another man wearing an apron and protective goggles appears in the door. The Indian tells him to grind down the worn parts and re-weld them and makes a point of saying he wants it all done in half an hour because that’s as long as he can wait. Then he turns to me with a smile and tells me I can go home in half an hour.
I thank him enormously and ask how much I owe. But he waves his hand; it’s his pleasure to be able to help. When I get back to Barsaloi he tells me to go to the foreman and he’ll already know to see that everything is fixed for me. I can hardly believe how much he’s helped me, and all for nothing! In next to no time I’m leaving his office. The parts are heavy, but I’m proud that it’s all worked. That very evening I catch the bus to Nyahururu and catch the bus the next morning on to Maralal, but it’s hard work carrying the spare parts and Napirai on my back at the same time.
I have no idea, however, how to get from Maralal to Barsaloi. Exhausted, I drag myself into the boarding house for something to eat and drink after such a long, dusty and tiring journey. Then I have to wash not just Napirai and myself but also a few dozen nappies, before I can fall into bed, dead to the world. Next morning I ask if there’s anyone going to Barsaloi. My wholesaler tells me there’s a lorry going out for the Somalis. But after all our stress I don’t think Napirai or I are up to a lorry drive. I wait until I find a boy who’s come in on foot from Barsaloi, and he tells me Father Roberto is due to pick up the post in Maralal tomorrow. Filled with relief, I pack up all my stuff in the boarding house the next day to be ready and waiting outside the post office. For four hard, long hours we stick it out by the side of the road until at last we see the second car from the Mission. Expectantly, I approach Roberto and ask if he can take us home. No problem, he says, he’s going back in two hours’ time.
The Downhill Path
In Barsaloi I climb out of the car and see my husband striding towards me. He says hello coldly and asks me why it’s taken me so long to come back. So long? I’ve come as fast as I could, I tell him disappointedly. He doesn’t even ask if everything went okay. Instead he wants to know why I had to spend another night in Maralal. Who was I meeting? One question after another, and not a word of praise.
I’m embarrassed at having to answer such distrustful questions in the presence of Father Roberto and walk off home with Napirai. At least Lketinga carries my bag, and even he finds himself almost having to drag it. He gives me a surly look and starts up again with his questions. I’m just about to explode in anger and disappointment when James and his friend come in happily. He at least asks how it went and says how brave it was to just fly off like that. Unfortunately he’d been down at the river washing his clothes when he heard about my expedition or else he’d have loved to come with me. It’s his one great wish to fly some day.
His words cheer me up, and I try to calm down. The boys make tea for me and keep talking while Lketinga just goes off into the dark. I ask James what my husband said when he came home and found I had gone. He smiles and tries to tell me that his brother’s generation don’t understand the concept of independent women and don’t trust them. Lketinga thought I had gone off with Napirai and wasn’t coming back. I find it incomprehensible, even though I was beginning to have good reason. But where would we go? Napirai needs her father, after all.
James takes me away from such morbid thoughts by asking me when we plan to open up the shop again. He would really like to work there and earn some money. And money is something we’re definitely going to have to start thinking about if the car isn’t to take all we have. As soon as the Datsun is fixed we’ll open up the shop again, this time really properly, selling clothes and shoes along with beer and soft drinks. There’s no question that there’s money to be made as long as the workers from Nairobi are here, and after that there’ll be teachers from outside with their families. With James as my sales assistant I can see it working. One way or another I make clear to him that this is my last chance and I’ll be investing the last of my money. The boys’ enthusiasm is infectious and makes me forget the problems I’ve had with Lketinga recently. When he comes back the boys take off.
The next morning Lketinga goes over to the workers of his own accord and tells them the spare parts are ready. At the end of the working day one of the mechanics comes over and works on our car but doesn’t manage to finish it all that day. In the end it takes three days before our luxury vehicle is back on the road. Now we can open up the shop again. We set off as a foursome, with James holding Napirai. He simply doesn’t get tired of playing with her.
In Maralal I check if my last four thousand Swiss francs have arrived. The banker says no, but the next day the money does arrive, and we start our shopping. First of all, obviously, are twenty hundredweight of maize meal and sugar, then as much fruit and vegetables as I can find. The rest I plough into clothing, shoes, tobacco, plastic cups, water canisters: everything in short that can be sold on at a decent profit. I even buy twenty loaves of bread, handing over my last shilling in the hope of doubling it.
The reopening of the shop is a big event, and people come from near and far. Within two days we’ve sold out of kangas, clothing and water canisters. The workers on the school buy up the vegetables, rice and potatoes in lots of twenty or forty pounds. It’s almost like a bush supermarket. In these first few days we find ourselves happy, proud and content, even though we’re tired out. James is such a keen worker that he asks me if he can move into the shop in order to open up early.
We don’t put the beer on the open shelves but keep it behind the counter so as not to have any trouble. The few cases we bring back are almost gone after two days. I don’t like being without goods for more than a day or two and feel responsible therefore for ensuring supplies. With our profits I immediately buy in more clothing because the workers on the school need lots of shirts and trousers. Every three weeks I make a special journey to Nanyuki to the big clothing market there. Clothes for the women and children sell like hot cakes, and I even take orders. It’s amazing how suddenly everybody has money, partly because of the school project on which many people have found jobs.
Business booms, and the shop has become a meeting place for many of the construction workers. In short, everything is going w
ell until Lketinga starts getting his jealousy attacks again. I’m never in the shop in the morning because I do the housework first and only turn up in the afternoon, strolling over with Napirai. It’s usually fun with the boys, and even Napirai enjoys being the centre of attention as there are always children to play with her or carry her around. Only my husband dislikes it when he sees me happy because he says I never laugh or smile around him. It’s all to do with his suspicions against anyone who spends five minutes with me. Primarily he’s suspicious of the workers who turn up every day at the shop. He’ll bar one or another of them from coming in or accuse them of coming just to see his wife. I find it embarrassing and leave the shop every time he does it. Even James can do nothing about his big brother and the unnecessary scenes he creates.
We argue more and more often, and it begins to occur to me that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this. We do the work, and he stands there scowling at me or the customers, or else he’s off with the other warriors slaughtering a goat and I come home to find the floor covered with blood and bones.
Once or twice a week I drive in to Baragoi, which is much closer than Maralal, to stock up on food supplies. Yet again we’re out of sugar because there’s about to be a big wedding ceremony for a warrior. He wants to buy six hundredweight himself and will pay extra to have it delivered to an encampment some distance away. Just after midday I set off in a hurry – it’s only an hour and a half each way – and reach Baragoi without any problems. I only buy twelve hundredweight of sugar, though, because I have to get across two rivers and I don’t want to put unnecessary strain on the car.
With the car loaded up I turn the key in the ignition, but the engine won’t start and after a couple more tries it’s completely dead. Before long I’m surrounded by Turkana tribespeople staring into the car. The shop owner comes out to ask what’s up, and a few of them try to bump start me but with no luck. The shop owner suggests I check out a tent some three hundred yards down the road where there are other mzungus who have a car.
The White Masai Page 30