There’s a surprise for me when we get back: Saguna has arrived. She’s sitting waiting for us with her two little children outside James’s house. I’m really pleased to see her, not least because James had hinted that it would be unlikely on this visit, as she’s married, has children and lives a long way away. But here she is! How wonderful! She must be in her mid-twenties by now. The last time I was here everyone was still just talking about marrying her off. I had begged for her to be spared the usual female genital mutilation. But it hadn’t done any good. She looks quite a bit older now and not exactly happy. There is a sad expression about her face. But she seems happy enough when I sit down next to her and we try, with James’s help, to have a conversation. She’s very curious and interested to see Napirai. Saguna was only three or four years old when we left Kenya. She lived with Mama in the hut and was very close to me. She couldn’t believe it when we moved from Barsaloi to Mombasa and was ill for weeks after we left.
Now here we all are sitting surrounded by children, outside James’s house, telling one another stories about the old days. Then Saguna takes me the by arm and looks in envy at the red bead bracelet I bought in Nairobi. I take it off and put it on her arm as a present. She smiles for the first time.
I haven’t seen Mama today so a little bit later I head over to her hut. From quite some distance I see her outside lying down on a cow skin. I’m about to turn round, not wanting to disturb her, when Saruni, James’s oldest daughter, runs past me and calls out, ‘Gogo, the mungu is coming!’ Immediately Mama sits up and calls out, ‘Suba, Corinne, serian?’ I sit down next to her and we do our level best to talk to one another. She asks where the others are and I point to James’s house. Before long we hear the sound of the goats coming home. The children dash past to help with the milking or just play with them. I sit there with Mama watching it all. In the distance I spot Napirai trying to have a chat with Saguna, both of them laughing away.
A bit later James comes along and asks if I have time to have a chat with the priest. We walk over to the mission. Sitting under the tree where Lketinga welcomed me on my last visit are three of the village elders. They greet me with the usual ‘Supa Mama Napirai’, spit in token blessing on their hands and shake mine. Then there’s a torrent of talk, not one word of which I understand. But then I hear the name ‘Napirai’ and I begin to be a bit more careful about throwing in an automatic ‘yes’, and instead ask James exactly what it is they’re saying. He translates, ‘They’re asking which of them you want to give your daughter to as a wife.’ I can feel the blood drain from my face and with my heart pounding I reply, ‘Apana, – none of them, no way,’ shaking my head very definitely. Then one of them gives me a fixed stare in the eye and says, ‘But you know we have a right to your daughter? She is a Samburu child and belongs to us.’
I turn to James looking for help and explain that this is my only daughter and she has grown up in a completely different world and cannot stay here. A few anxious moments pass while James translates what I said, and I try to stay calm. Out here the old men are the law and take all the most important decisions. They chat among themselves for a few minutes and then laugh and say, ‘Okay, Corinne, we understand. But please don’t forget us back here in Barsaloi. We don’t have a lot and we need our children to go to school to secure a better future. Never forget that! When are you leaving?’
I tell them that unfortunately we have to go the next day, because Napirai has to be back at work in Switzerland. Then they smile and say, ‘Well, you can’t go without our blessing, that would be dangerous. We’ll come round to James’s house tomorrow at 11 a.m. and give the blessing, so you can start your journey well.’ I thank them, relieved at the outcome, and hurry off to the mission with James. I shan’t tell Napirai about this until we reach Nairobi, I tell myself.
The priest shows me which families get aid from charity money. It’s all written down with names and amounts down to the last euro. Obviously they hope we’ll continue to contribute. I make a contribution and promise that we’ll continue to support them, and then we head back to the corral for our last family meal together, which Stefania has been cooking. Later that evening we all sit under the stars outside the mission, regretting that it is time for us to leave. Lketinga sits there in silence looking from me to Napirai. I would love to know what’s going on in his head but his dark face, almost invisible in the dark, gives no secrets away.
More and more people come over to the mission and form a big semi-circle outside the door. I ask Lketinga what’s going on, but he just shakes his head and makes some incomprehensible gesture with his hands and says, ‘Corinne, I don’t know why people like this.’ And then I remember that they must still project films on the wall of the mission building. Around 10 p.m. James and Lketinga get up and leave. Napirai went to bed a couple of hours earlier so there is just Albert, Klaus, the driver and me left. As it’s our last evening we decide we deserve a good gin and tonic, and before long we’re all sitting there lost in our own thoughts. All that’s running through my head is how long will it be before I’m back again, and then tiredness wins me over and I head for bed.
The next day we don’t have much time as we’re going to have to detour via Maralal to reach Wamba. The Wamba River has burst its banks and is impassable. Lots of people have had cars washed away by it. But I really want to show my daughter the place where she was born and take her round the little hospital where I fought for my life against malaria. But instead of three hours, the journey there is likely to take six.
We have just a little time before the elders turn up to give us their blessing, so James takes us to where my little shop used to be, though it has long since fallen down. Then he takes Napirai and me to meet one of his friends who lives in the blockhouse we lived in just behind where the shop used to be. I recognise Steven straight away. He’s one of the schoolboys I used to bring home from school in Maralal for the holidays. He’s only too happy to show us his house, which used to be mine. It strikes me as funny. More than twenty years ago I used to play cards here with him when he was a fifteen-year-old on his school holidays. Back then he was my guest in this house; now I’m his. Not much has changed apart from the decor. They still cook on a charcoal stove on the floor in the living room and the bedroom is still separated by just a curtain.
We don’t have much time though and after looking round we go to see the third of the old school chums. Charles now works in the building trade. He’s beaming all over his face as he shakes my hand and stares in amazement at Napirai. He can hardly believe how big she’s grown, and fetches out an old photograph of him with baby Napirai when he came to visit us at Wamba hospital. I’m surprised because I don’t even recognise the photograph. But he remembers the occasion perfectly. We chat about the good old days and I’m pleased to see that some of that first generation of schoolboys have done well for themselves. It wasn’t something that could be taken for granted, given how few jobs there were.
We hear our cars starting up down at the mission. That means it’s nearly time to go. We must go and see Mama again before we get our blessing for departure. We head down to her hut, still followed by a train of children. She’s sitting outside waiting for us. As always she has one leg straight out in front of her, the other bent towards her, the typical sitting position for Samburu women. I sit down next to her and James translates for us. Smiling, but serious at the same time, she thanks us for coming and declares: ‘I thank God, Enkai, that he has let me grow old enough to see my granddaughter Napirai again. I thank Enkai for giving me back sight in one eye so that I might look on Corinne and Napirai and recognise them. I thank Enkai for giving Corinne the strength to come back here to see us again.’ As she is talking, Lketinga slowly slips away. His sister is sitting on the ground a little bit away from us, looking sad again. Saguna is peering round the corner, listening.
I have a heavy heart, though not as heavy as after my first return visit. I’m happy that Mama and Napirai had a chance to meet. I even
hope that they might be able to meet again. I would love to come back in two years when they celebrate the great traditional ‘Feast of the Warriors’. It only takes place every twelve to fifteen years. They take great care in choosing a venue and spend a week singing and dancing, slaughtering lots of cows and performing all sorts of rituals. The traditional warriors cut off their long hair and divest themselves of virtually all their normal trinkets and decorations. It is a festival of great emotional importance because it marks the end of the most important part of a Samburu man’s life. It marks the end of his life as a warrior, renounces all the pride and vanity that goes with the role and relinquishes his special status in society. From now on he will be seen as a ‘young elder’, and will be allowed to marry and start a family.
I would love to attend the festival with my daughter and if God is good, maybe Mama will still be with us. When James suggests this, she laughs and says, ‘E na – of course I will.’
I joke that maybe I should take Lodunu and Diego with us as they get on so well with Napirai, but she doesn’t go for that idea at all, shaking her head decisively. Everybody laughs. I thank her warmly in return and shower her with compliments. She is an amazing woman and has set a hugely important example for me. I would love to be as content with my life at her age as she is.
We put our arms around one another and hug for the last time, or try to as well as we can, given that she can’t stand up. I breathe in deeply to soak up that aroma to remember her by. Then she puts her arms round Napirai too and blesses her, before Albert and Klaus come to say their goodbyes with a simple handshake. Finally we go over to James’s house. I look back and see Mama drawing one open hand over her face, which is what she always does when she is trying not to show her emotions. I find it a sad sight.
In the meantime, the fifteen leading elders of the village have gathered outside James’s house. Papa Saguna is one of them. Their faces are all old and lined. Each of them has some form of headgear on, either a woolly cap or a proper hat, intended as a mark of age, and they all have the same red-orange striped blanket over their shoulders.
James explains to us the ritual about to take place. ‘All these men were born in Barsaloi and all of them remember you, Corinne, from the old days. Only the youngest of them speaks any English, so he is going to be their spokesman and perform the blessing. Then you must depart immediately, because they have to continue praying until you are gone.’
The English-speaking elder stands there in front of Napirai and me and says, ‘Once again we warmly welcome you, Corinne, our daughter Napirai and your companions. We are very happy that you have come back to see us. We now know that you never really left us and that we remain in your thoughts. We hope that in the future too we will be always in your thoughts. You have already done much for us and when God allows, you and your friends will continue to help us here in this little patch of earth. America has its Obama, but we have our own Obama in Switzerland.’
He points to Napirai and directs his speech at her. ‘Napirai, our child, we hope that you will one day come back to us again and visit your relatives. Since the day you were born you have been a part of us. We have all trusted in God that one day we would meet again. And so it has come to pass. Here we all dream that one day we will have a high school named after you. That will not be easy to achieve but it is not impossible. We can wait five or ten years if we have to. One day the children here in Barsaloi will attend Napirai High School. We thank you all and our friends in Europe who have supported us.’
And with that he takes his place again among the others. I find myself so moved that I come up with a little spontaneous speech of my own. ‘Thank you all for your hospitality here in Barsaloi, now as so many years ago. I will never forget this little patch of earth; the years I spent here were the most valuable in my life even though, as a mzungu, it wasn’t always easy for me, as I am sure many of you recall. I am still grateful to Lketinga that he dared take up with a white woman and to you for giving your permission. Our daughter Napirai is the result of that, and symbolises a bridge between black and white. I will continue to support Barsaloi as best I can, and perhaps together we can make your dream a reality. Than you all very much, and may God preserve you!’
James translates my words, which everybody has listened to carefully. Then they all nod or clap. Now we have to stand in front of the elders, facing west. Albert, Napirai and I stand, with our backs to them, as they begin the blessing ritual. First of all is Papa Saguna, speaking in his strong voice a few short but passionate sentences. At the end of each they all respond, ‘Enkai!’ and wave their sticks in the air, which is their way of reinforcing his words. It comes across as a prayer and I feel myself almost slipping into a trance, although my lips automatically form the word ‘Enkai’ along with them. Napirai is standing next to me, not at all sure what to make of the whole thing. This is the first time she has undergone this ceremony. Eventually Papa Saguna stops speaking and all of them spit in their hands. I look round and spot Lketinga and his wife standing a little way back, both of them praying too. Then another of the elders starts speaking and the whole thing repeats itself.
Eventually it is time to go. We are not allowed to turn round and have to leave the corral immediately while the elders all hunker down repeating their blessing over and over again, faster and faster. They will keep on like that until our vehicles have left Barsaloi. I walk straight to the car like someone hypnotised and embrace the old women waiting for us. Stefania, James and the children are there too. Lketinga leaves his wife and children and comes over to the car and, with a stiff but serious expression, hugs first Napirai and then me.
Napirai writes; I always knew that we wouldn’t be here for ever but I honestly didn’t expect it all to go so fast. The day of our departure has come far too soon.
My mother tells me, ‘The old men want to give us a blessing before we leave’. I’m not really sure what she means by that, and as soon as they start, I’m really interested to know just what’s going to happen. One of the men starts speaking and it goes on and on until they’ve all done the same. I find it very moving that they all need to say so many prayers for our journey. The whole ritual is amazing and quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. After the blessing comes the hard part, which I’ve not been looking forward to at all: saying goodbye to everybody. I start with James and his wife, hugging them hard and thanking them for the good time they’ve shown us. It’s sad saying goodbye but it’s not a sad occasion: I’m really pleased that James tells me to come back any time and that they will think of my mother and me and pray for us. It’s really great to hear him say that and I’m very touched. Then we say goodbye to the rest of the family and the other people of the village. I shake hand after hand, but at least this time I know most of them, although that only makes saying goodbye harder.
I can’t say goodbye individually to all the children; there are far too many of them. So I just wave to all of them. I’ve grown really close to the children in our family and find it hard to leave them. It almost breaks my heart to say farewell to my little half-brother Lodunu. I wish I could take them all with me.
The little ones are very sad to see us go and don’t really understand what’s happening, Diego in particular. When he sees we’re about to leave, he starts crying and holds on tight to my leg. It takes Stefania to come and prise him off.
As we’re finally about to leave I look around for my father, Lketinga, and see him sitting on a wall watching it all. When he spots me looking at him, he comes over and hugs me, gives me a kiss on the cheek and tells me to look after myself and come back soon. Saying goodbye like this is hard for both of us.
Then we get into the car and slowly set off. I wave and wave until they’ve all vanished from sight, and the tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I climb into the car, with the voices of the elders still in my ears. I wave goodbye again to Lketinga and he nods to me and replies in a rough voice, ‘Ayia!’
It’s very
quiet in the car, Napirai and I both sunk in our own thoughts. Of course, I am sad that it’s all over but on the other hand I’m pleased everything went so well and that the elders gave us such a powerful and dramatic farewell blessing. That means a lot to the locals and it’s important for us too. For a long time I sense I can still feel its effect.
From now on my daughter can make up her own mind if and when she wants to go and see her African family. I am quite certain that in time she will be able to understand how important this visit was. And I am equally certain that she will come back again.
Shankayon is sitting in the back with Napirai, but doesn’t say a word during the whole journey to Maralal. She had to get out there because we are heading on to Wamba. But when Martin, the driver, asks where we should let her out, she doesn’t reply. Martin turns and looks at us and says, ‘I think she’d rather go with you.’
The next few minutes are heartbreaking. It’s quite clear Shankayon doesn’t want to be separated from Napirai. Tears run silently down her cheeks as she reluctantly gets out of the car. I get out with her, give her a big hug and the money for her bus fare so that at least she doesn’t have to walk all the way home to her mother. But even as we set off again Shankayon’s sadness travels a long way with us.
The trip to Wamba is long and the road dry and dusty, but eventually, late in the afternoon, we reach the hospital. The doors are locked, however, and I have to explain to the confused doorman that my daughter was born here, and all I want to do is show her round. At first he doesn’t believe me, but then he makes a telephone call and I have to tell somebody else the same thing, and at last we’re allowed in.
The hospital isn’t as busy as it used to be. It doesn’t take me long to find the maternity department and even the room I shared with Sophia. Everything looks just as it did twenty-one years ago. Even the bedclothes, the iron bed frame and the metal cupboards where the cockroaches used to make their nests if I stored anything edible inside, are all still there, as if time had stood still.