We finally arrive in Mombasa just after five a.m. A few people get out at the bus station. I go to get off too, but Lketinga holds me back, saying that there are no buses along the coast before six, and it’s less dangerous to wait on the bus. We’ve arrived at last, but we still can’t get off the bus. I’m bursting. I try to tell Lketinga this, and he says: ‘Come!’ and gets up. We get out, and between two empty buses, with no one to be seen save a few roaming cats and dogs, I finally empty my bladder. Lketinga laughs as he watches my ‘river’.
The air on the coast is wonderful, and I ask him if we can’t just go to the nearest matatu rank. He grabs my bag, and we set out in the pale dawn light. A night watchman brewing chai on a charcoal brazier outside a shop even offers us our breakfast cuppa. In return, Lketinga gives him some miraa. From time to time huddled figures pass by: some babbling to themselves, others silent. Here and there people are sleeping on newspapers or cardboard boxes on the ground. This time, before the shops open, is given over to ghosts. But with my warrior at my side I feel totally safe.
The first matatus start hooting just before six, and within ten minutes or so the whole area is alive. And we get on board a bus to the ferry, and once again a feeling of great happiness comes over me. Then there is the last hour on a bus to the south coast. Lketinga seems nervous. I ask him: ‘Darling, are you okay?’ ‘Yes,’ he says and then starts talking to me. I don’t understand everything he says, but I gather he intends to find out who stole my letters to him and which of the Masai told me he was married. He looks so grim that it almost scares me. I try to calm him down, tell him that none of it matters anymore, but he doesn’t answer and just looks out of the window.
We go straight to the village, where Priscilla is astounded to see the two of us. She greets us warmly and makes chai. Esther has gone. All my stuff is hanging neatly folded over a string behind the door. Lketinga and Priscilla talk, amicably at first, but then the discussion takes a serious tone. I try to find out what’s going on, and Priscilla tells me he’s accusing her of knowing that I’d written. Eventually Lketinga calms down and goes off to sleep on our big bed.
Priscilla and I remain outside and try to find a solution to our sleeping arrangements: the three of us together, particularly with a Masai woman, is not an option. Then another Masai who’s planning to move to the northern coast offers us his hut. So in the end we clean my new home, drag my big bed across and when I’ve sorted things out as best I can, I’m happy with the arrangement and a rent which costs the equivalent of ten Swiss francs a month.
The next two weeks are an idyll. I start teaching Lketinga to read and write. He’s delighted and shows real enthusiasm for learning. The English picture books are a great help, and he takes pride in every letter he learns to recognize. In the evenings we sometimes go to watch Masai dances for the tourists and sell Masai trinkets that we make ourselves. Lketinga and I make pretty armbands and Priscilla embroiders belts.
On one occasion there’s a daylong sale of paintings, trinkets and spears at the Robinson Club. A lot of people from the north bank come over for it, including Masai women. Lketinga has gone into Mombasa and bought some things from local traders to give us more to display. Business is brilliant. The white people swarm around our stand and swamp me with questions. When we’ve sold nearly all our stuff I join some of the other sellers to help them. Lketinga doesn’t like that because some of these Masai are still to blame for keeping us apart so long. On the other hand, I don’t want any ill feeling because they have generously allowed us to join in.
Time and again one or other group of tourists at the bar invites us to join them for a drink. I join a few of them, but once or twice is enough. It’s more fun selling. Lketinga hangs around the bar with a couple of Germans. From time to time I glance across but only see their backs. After a while I go over to join them briefly and am horrified to see Lketinga drinking beer. For a warrior alcohol is forbidden. Even if the Masai on the coast drink occasionally, Lketinga is from the Samburu District and certainly not used to alcohol. I ask him worriedly: ‘Darling, why you drink beer?’ But he just laughs: ‘These friends invited me.’ I tell the Germans to stop buying him beer immediately because he’s not used to alcohol. They apologize and try to calm me down, saying he’s only had three! I just hope it’s okay.
Eventually the sale comes to an end, and we pack up what remains. Outside the hotel the Masai are sharing out money. I’m hungry, tired from the heat and standing all day and want to go home. Lketinga, a bit tipsy but still in a good mood, decides to go to Ukunda to eat with a couple of the others. I pass and go back disappointed, alone.
That is my biggest mistake as I learn later. In five days’ time my visa is due to run out, I realize on the way back to the village. Lketinga and I intend to go to Nairobi, although I can’t bear the thought of the long journey, let alone the Kenyan authorities! It’ll be okay, I tell myself as I open the door to our hut. I cook some rice and tomatoes for myself, which is all there is in the kitchen. The village is quiet.
A little earlier it had occurred to me that since my return with Lketinga, hardly anyone comes to visit anymore. I miss that a bit now because the evenings spent playing cards were fun. Priscilla isn’t there either, and so I lie down on the bed and start writing a letter to my mother. I tell her what a peaceful life we’re leading and how happy I am.
It’s already ten p.m., and Lketinga isn’t back yet. I’m starting to get worried, but the clicking of the cicadas calms my nerves. Just before midnight the door flies open with a bang, and Lketinga appears in it. First of all he stares at me, taking in the whole room. His face is hard, and there’s no trace of his former merriness. He’s chewing miraa, and when I say hello he asks, ‘Who was here?’ ‘Nobody,’ I reply. At the same time my pulse is racing. Never before has he asked who else has been in the house. Angrily I repeat that there’s been no one here while he, still standing in the doorway, insists that he knows I have a boyfriend. Of all things! I sit up in bed and give him a frosty glare. ‘Where did you get such a stupid idea from?’ He knows, because they told him in Ukunda that I had a different Masai in the house every evening, and they stayed with me and Priscilla until late. All women are the same, he says, I’ve had someone all the time!
His harsh words shatter my little world. At long last I’ve found him again, we’ve had two wonderful weeks together, and now this! The beer and the miraa have completely addled his wits. To stop myself bursting into tears, I pull myself together and ask him if he’d like some chai. Eventually, he comes away from the door and sits down on the bed. With trembling hands I light a fire and try to be as calm as possible. He asks where Priscilla is, but I don’t know; her house is in darkness. He gives a nasty laugh and says: ‘Maybe she’s down the Bush Baby Disco trying to score with a whitey!’ I have to keep from laughing, trying to imagine anyone falling for Priscilla’s more than ample figure. Instead I stay silent.
We drink our chai and I ask cautiously if he’s okay. He says he’s fine, except that his heart is pounding and his blood rushing. I try to work out exactly what he’s trying to tell me but I’m not sure I know. He keeps walking around the hut or going out and roaming around the village and then he’s back, chewing his weed. He looks nervous, restless. I wonder what I can do to help. Obviously, he’s had too much miraa, but I can’t just take it away from him.
After two hours he’s finished it all, and I hope he’ll come to bed and tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten. He lies down, but he can’t sleep. I daren’t touch him so instead I squeeze up against the wall, glad that the bed’s so big. After a while he jumps up and says he can’t sleep in the same bed as me. His blood’s rushing like mad, and he thinks his head’s going to burst. I’m wracked by confusion: ‘Darling, where will you go?’ He says he’ll go and sleep with the other Masai and disappears. I’m dejected and furious all at once. What on earth have they done to him in Ukunda? I ask myself. The night goes on forever. Lketinga doesn’t come back. I don’t know where he’s sleeping.