I’m looking forward to seeing the little girl from the old days who shared a manyatta with Mama and me once again. At first she had been scared of my white face, but later she had pined after me when I was away fetching stores for our shop and only started eating properly again when I came back. Whenever I went down to the river to fetch water or wash clothes I used to take her along sometimes, and she would splash in the puddles and squeal with delight. Once I brought her a brown doll from Switzerland that nearly caused a riot in the village because they thought it was a dead baby. I can hardly wait to see how Saguna has turned out and whether or not she remembers me.
I sip the hot sweet tea and gradually all my stress ebbs away. The taste of the tea makes me feel as if I’m back home. Klaus finds it disgusting and Albert prefers water from a bottle fetched from the car, but to me it’s like the best champagne. For days on end this sweet drink used to be the only nourishment we had.
Two little girls are sitting outside the door and I ask Lketinga about Napirai’s half-sister. He turns round and says something to the two children. One of them comes into the room shyly and I immediately recognize a certain resemblance to my daughter, particularly around the eyes and forehead. Lketinga says something to her sharply and the girl makes a bit of an effort and says hello to me, but without looking up. Napirai was – and still is – shy too. I wonder if it’s in her genes. Shankayon has the proud nose of her father while Napirai quite clearly has the rounder nose of her African grandmother.
Lketinga tells me his daughter goes to school, but with an almost dismissive wave of the hand. As far as he’s concerned school has got nothing to do with real life, so I’m rather surprised that he allows his only daughter here in Africa the opportunity. Even though under the new government school is theoretically compulsory, it’s still up to the father whether or not his children attend. Shankayon is pretty and tall for her age. Little Saruni is hopping around by her side staring at us all curiously and without the slightest inhibition.
Her father James tells us proudly that apart from the oldest brother, the whole family lives here in the corral. Even Mama moved over from the other side of the village where we used to live, to be closer to everyone else. There are no manyattas at all left on the hill now, everyone’s moved into the village. I’m surprised and ask why. James smiles and tells me: ‘You’ve seen how Barsaloi’s grown. We now have a standpipe in the village with running water. Nobody needs to go all the way down to the river to fetch water anymore.’
Once again I’m amazed at how much things have changed in the past fourteen years. James points at a little tin shack in the yard outside: ‘That is our bath and toilet,’ he declares proudly. Later I discover that the toilet is a simple squat affair and the bath a bare room with a red plastic basin on the ground. But despite how simple this ‘wet room’ is I’m delighted not to have to go and conceal myself in the bush and then burn the used toilet paper afterwards. Between the toilet cabin and a thorn tree there’s washing hanging on a line. The whole corral has a sense of peace and domesticity about it. James has really organized everything rather well.
Lketinga disturbs my thoughts to ask: ‘Do you know how many shops there are here now?’ I shake my head and stare at him in anticipation. ‘There are fourteen shops, three butchers and a beer bar in Barsaloi today. How about that!’ That really is a surprise. Sixteen years ago I was the first person to get a proper shop up and running here. When we were sold out there was nothing to be had in the whole of Barsaloi and the surrounding area. I’m really pleased to hear that nowadays there’s always enough food. Everything I’ve seen and heard in the short time we’ve been here has created the impression that, although life is still rough and ready, things have got a lot easier. Certainly the financial help we’ve provided over the years has made things easier for my African family than for others.
As if Lketinga was reading my mind he looks at me and says: ‘Really, life has got much better here. Perhaps you’ll decide to stay again?’ And he laughs with a flash of his white teeth. I answer rather embarrassedly but with a hint of mischief: ‘You’ve got yourself a new young wife. Where is she then?’ Suddenly he looks serious, flings his arm out at random and snaps: ‘I don’t know – somewhere!’ Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about her so I change the subject.
Every now and then James’s twelve-year-old son appears in the door. He’s called Albert after my publisher. The fact that they have the same names, however, doesn’t seem to impress him much as every time a white face looks at him he starts whining or runs off. His sister Saruni, on the other hand, is much more trusting. Bit by bit she plucks up the courage to come over to me. She’s so cute that I’d like to pick her up straight away. She reminds me of Saguna.
Stefania – in the meantime we’ve learned James’s wife’s name – is standing in the doorway to the little room that serves as their kitchen. She only speaks when spoken to. All there is in the ‘kitchen’ is a fireplace, although not on the ground as normal but raised so she can cook standing up. The fireplace is made of concrete with a little work surface around it and a few pots and pans and plates hanging from the walls. On the ground is a four-gallon water canister.
James asks if we’re hungry, but Lketinga protests: ‘No, later you must eat a goat. I will slaughter the biggest and best for you.’ Albert says there’s no need and, as a former vegetarian and animal-lover, makes a face. But James adds his voice: ‘Absolutely, no question. What would people say if we didn’t slaughter the best goat for your return!’ The sight of the rather embarrassed faces of Klaus and Albert makes Lketinga burst out laughing. There are another few hours still before the herds return for the evening. We should use the time to sort out sleeping arrangements before darkness falls.
Our Camp
We walk over to the nearby Mission. Every few steps I have to shake hands as people call out: ‘Mama Napirai! Supa! Serian a ge?’ The welcome after all these years is really incredible. At the gate to the Mission I recognize the doorman and another employee. We’d already been told Father Giuliani was no longer here, but a young Colombian priest welcomes us. He has no objection to us erecting our tents up here for a couple of nights. He’s been in charge of the Mission for a couple of years and has already heard the White Masai story.
Our cars are brought up into the Mission enclosure and a relatively flat piece of land found to park them on as there’s going to be a tent on the roof of each. The drivers set to it and half an hour later the sleeping quarters for my companions are all ready.
While the drivers are setting up a tent on the ground for me, Lketinga wanders up and stares at the roof tents in amazement. ‘What is this?’ he asks irritably. I laugh and explain to him that these are ‘houses’ for Albert and Klaus. As ever when something new and unusual is explained to him, he shakes his head and mumbles, ‘Crazy, really crazy! How can anyone sleep up there?’ Cautiously he climbs up a couple of steps on one of the two ladders and sticks his head in the tent. Before long we hear his amused laughter as he tells us: ‘Yes, oh yes, that looks just great!’
He’s almost certainly never seen a tent before, let alone one erected on the roof of a car. I know the whole business must seem extremely odd to him. It’s not at all normal among the Samburu for guests to bring their own accommodation with them. Whenever they are out and about they can always rely on a roof over their head. The only thing that matters is following the rules of hospitality. I recall that my ex-husband was only allowed to spend the night in the homes of women who had a son of around the same age as him. Obviously a rule designed to avoid hanky-panky.
After Lketinga has finished inspecting the roof tents he asks with some concern where I’m going to be sleeping, here or in Mama’s manyatta. I point to the drivers who’re already putting up my tent. ‘Okay, no problem,’ he says calmly and goes over to help them.
I watch him in amazement. Normally among the Samburu building houses is something done by women. They cut down the thick and thin branches that
make up the framework of the manyatta, drag them to the site and collect the cow dung and clay used to plaster the walls and the roof. As a result, houses – including all the domestic equipment – belong exclusively to the women. Men never own houses.
As youths they learn in their warrior years the art of surviving in the bush without a manyatta. After circumcision they leave their mother’s home and live in a male commune out in the bush. During this time they spend most nights in the open along with their cattle. If it rains they spread a cow skin over their heads and wait until the sun shines and they can dry out their kangas. They are, however, allowed to keep a few personal belongings in their mother’s hut and eventually spend the odd night there. But they must never eat anything in front of their own mother. Women who have been ‘circumcised’ – that is, married women – are not allowed even to see a warrior’s food.
Yesterday evening in Maralal Lodge James was telling us how hard the warrior period was for him. He had been brought up more in the school than in a manyatta and slept with his fellow pupils in ordinary rooms. But then after he was circumcised at sixteen he was obliged to go off into the bush for several months herding cows and carrying out all the traditional rituals, which was something he was not at all used to. The first time he settled down for the night on a cow skin in the open air, he could hardly sleep because of all the strange noises. Every time he woke up he kept groping around him in the dark for the walls.
Meanwhile my igloo tent has been finished and Lketinga is hammering the last peg into the ground. I’m moved by how helpful he’s being. In the old days when there was some work he wasn’t familiar with to be done, he used to say: ‘Oh, I don’t know how to do that, do it yourself.’ We start sorting our luggage out and I drag my two huge bags into my tent. Before long Lketinga is sticking his head in and pointing to the bags asking, ‘Have you got any presents for me in there? Did James write to tell you what I’d like?’ All this with a face like a small child on Christmas morning.
I have to laugh and tell him proudly that one of the bags contains nothing but presents for the family, but he’ll have to wait as I’m going to give out the presents at my leisure in the morning when there aren’t so many nosy onlookers around. He finds this hard to cope with and in the end just before it gets dark I give in and between us we carry the heavy bag down to the corral where James is already waiting for us.
In The Corral
By now some sixty mostly white goats have come back to the corral and everyone’s very busy. The tiny kid goats are crying for their mothers and they themselves run around bleating if they’re not milked soon enough. Everywhere women and young girls are milking goats. They hold one hind leg of the goat between their knees and a calabash or tin cup under the udder while they milk it, usually with the goat’s own kid suckling one of the other teats.
This is the best time of day in the corral, the liveliest, when all the animals and the people who’ve been looking after them come home. Half an hour before the goats are due, Mama always sits outside the manyatta waiting for them, usually with one or two other women. As soon as she’s got the first fresh milk, she starts making chai for the child who’s been out with the goats and then cooks ugali for the other children and herself – the same meal every night.
Klaus is filming everything that’s going on. When the children realize what he’s doing they stop being so wary and start acting up for him, grabbing the baby goats and carrying them around. Even three-year-old Saruni jumps behind one of the littlest ones and expertly throws an arm around all four legs, lifting the little animal up and holding it towards Klaus with a look of triumph. He hardly knows where to point his camera next. Then when he starts showing them snatches of what he’s taken on his little monitor and they see pictures of themselves for the first time they all pile out of the house and cluster around him. Before long he’s surrounded by both young and old clamouring for a look at the little screen. Curiosity is the greatest ice-breaker.
While I’m sitting there watching all this revelry Lketinga’s younger sister comes up and greets me effusively. She was out with some of the goats and has only just come back. Of course, she asks about Napirai and I have to tell her everything. I was always very fond of her. She was married to a much older man when she was just a young girl and he died after her first child was born. Since then she has lived on her own, though she has had a few more children, but still cannot marry again. She always had a great sense of fun and still has, repeatedly hugging me and rubbing her head against my throat.
Lketinga comes over and interrupts his sister’s effusive outpourings to grab my arm and pull me to one side. In a serious voice he says, ‘Come and see which goat I am going to slaughter for you!’ Papa Saguna and James are already going through the herd and pulling one goat or another to one side. Lketinga joins in and the three of us white people are left standing there like witnesses to a death sentence. Eventually they make their decision: it is to be the biggest male.
Lketinga takes the animal by the horns and leads it out of the herd. At first it goes along quietly, but then suddenly starts bleating loudly. The noise is bloodcurdling. The other goats stand there chewing the cud while the big male struggles to get free. Albert goes off, saying he’ll come back when it’s all over.
Lketinga grabs my arm with his free hand in passing and says: ‘Come and watch. It’s your goat!’ I know it’s an honour for a woman to attend and don’t show my feelings as I watch the killing ritual. Papa Saguna grabs the animal by all four legs and throws it onto the ground on its side. Immediately Lketinga puts his hand around its nose and mouth to cut off its air supply. The animal writhes and jerks in its attempts to free itself, its stomach heaving up and down. It seems to me to take forever. Thank God it’s already dark and the only light is from the moon. It is a Samburu tradition that no blood should be spilled before the animal is dead.
While they’re suffocating the animal silently, life all around goes on as normal. A few children are running after kids while others are watching the slaughter. At last the goat stops struggling and Papa Saguna calls on Shankayon to fetch a sharp knife and a bowl. He whets the knife on a stone and then with a practised hand slits the animal’s throat. Immediately the blood gushes forth and the bowl underneath fills slowly with the warm liquid while the goat’s head is tipped backwards. The animal’s yellow eyes stare lifelessly at the heavens.
Lketinga asks teasingly if I want to drink some of the blood. I say thanks but no, so he offers some to Klaus who’s already seen more than enough. James takes the bowl away and in the darkness I can just make out two warriors going with him. I ask Lketinga why he’s not going to drink any of the blood and he replies, ‘Because I’m not a warrior anymore.’ He then throws the dead animal onto a sheet of corrugated iron while his older brother slices through the pelt along the stomach from the breast to the genitals with a single cut. The little girls help him, one holding a torch, the others a leg each.
Now he begins to skin the animal, but for that he hardly needs a knife. With one hand he pulls at the pelt while keeping the body down with the other. Quickly and easily the pelt comes away from the flesh. I watch in fascination as the whole scene unfolds without a drop of blood being spilled. It takes barely twenty minutes before the animal is lying in front of us completely skinned. Now the belly has to be opened up and the intestine and internal organs removed. Papa Saguna sorts everything out neatly, laying the various body parts separately on the corrugated iron. I get out of the way as I remember from the old days how awful the stench is. After all I’m intending to eat some of this meat later.
I join the others in the house to drink hot chai poured from the thermos. Little Albert runs off to hide behind his mother again and watches me with fearful eyes. James starts telling us how the locals in the village reacted when I wasn’t among the first of our party to arrive. ‘You know, most of them didn’t believe that you would really come back after fourteen years. And when only Klaus got out of the first car th
ey thought they had been proved right. Here’s a mzungu, they thought, come to tell us Corinne’s not coming after all. But I calmed them down and told them you were just visiting the school first. Then I heard people saying to one another: she’s coming like a queen with two cars and two drivers. First just one car turns up and a white man gets out to explain things and set up a camera. And then she only turns up later. They all agreed: only a queen is moving in this way.’
We all burst out laughing. I really hadn’t been expecting to be compared to a queen, although I was aware that turning up with two big four-wheel drives and chauffeurs was going to cause a bit of a fuss. After all, they only knew me driving my clapped-out old Land Rover myself. James repeats the story a couple of times, getting the same laughs each time. This afternoon he’d heard that even people who didn’t know me but had simply heard of me were excited by our visit.
Outside, under the full moon and thousands of stars, there is nothing to be seen of the goat’s body. Instead Lketinga is already sitting by the fire turning a few pieces of meat on a grill. It has already been decided which pieces will be served to the older men, which to the women, and which may be given to the uncircumcised boys and girls. I remember Mama cooking the offal, feet and head in the manyatta. I sit down next to Lketinga by the fire and watch the fat dripping from the roasting meat. It’s hard to believe that just an hour ago this was a live animal standing in front of us.
We try to start a conversation but it’s not easy to find the right things to talk about. When I go to talk about the book he says: ‘Later. Not now.’ When I try to tell him some of the things that happened after I left, he says: ‘I don’t want to talk about our time in Mombasa, or else I’ll go crazy again. I have changed my lifestyle. I don’t drink anymore. I’m content. I have three wives and I’m happy.’ Well, up to a point – I don’t think he’s still entitled to count me among his wives but this isn’t the moment to go into that. So I tell him about Napirai, our daughter, what she’s doing in school, which subjects she likes and which she doesn’t, that she might like to get a job instead of staying on at school. That’s something he understands straight away of course: ‘Yes, she is clever like me.’