On the twenty-sixth of July 1988 we get married. There are two new witnesses, Lketinga’s older brother and some other person I don’t know. The ceremony is conducted by a nice official: first in English, then in Swahili. Everything goes without a hitch, except that at the decisive moment my darling fails to say his ‘Yes’ until I kick his leg. Then the wedding certificate is signed. Lketinga takes my passport and says I need a Kenyan one, as my name is now Leparmorijo. The officer tells us that this has to be done in Nairobi because Lketinga will have to apply for my permanent residency. Now I’m confused again. I thought we’d done everything and the battle with red tape was over. But no, the wedding notwithstanding, I’m still a tourist until I have a right of abode stamp in my passport. My joy fades, and Lketinga doesn’t understand it all either. In the boarding house we decide to go to Nairobi.
The next day we set out for Nairobi along with both of our witnesses. Lketinga’s brother has never been on such a long journey before. We take our Land Rover as far as Nyahururu and then catch the bus to Nairobi. The brother just gapes at everything. For me it’s entertaining to be with someone who, at the age of forty, is seeing a city for the first time. He is speechless and even more helpless than Lketinga. He can’t even cross a road without our help. If I didn’t take his hand, he would almost certainly stay rooted to the same spot until nightfall because he’s afraid of all the traffic. He looks at the big blocks of flats and doesn’t understand how the people can live on top of one another.
Eventually we get to the Nyayo Building. I stand in the queue to fill out more forms. When I finally finish the woman at the counter tells us to check back in three weeks or so. I protest and try to explain to her that we’ve come a long way and there’s no way we are leaving without a valid stamp in my passport. I almost beg her, but she says everything has to take its course and she’ll try to get it done in a week or so. When I realize that that’s her last word on the subject I say thank you and go.
Outside we debate what to do. There are four of us, and we have to wait a week. Hanging around in Nairobi with my three men is inconceivable. Instead I suggest we go to Mombasa so Lketinga’s brother can see the sea. Lketinga agrees because he’ll feel safe in their company, and so we set out on the eight-hour journey – which will have to make do as a honeymoon.
The first thing we do in Mombasa is go to see Priscilla. She’s delighted about our marriage and thinks everything will be fine now. Lketinga’s brother is eager to see the sea, but when he’s confronted with the vast expanse of water he has to hold on to us. He won’t go closer than thirty feet from the sea, and after ten minutes he’s so afraid that we have to leave the beach. I show him a tourist hotel too but he doesn’t believe what he sees. On one occasion he asks a man if we’re really still in Kenya. It’s a remarkable feeling to be able to show the world to someone who can still be amazed. Later we go for a meal and drinks, and for the first time he tastes beer, which has a bad effect on him. We find ourselves a shabby little boarding house in Ukunda.
These days in Mombasa cost a fortune. The men drink beer, and I have to just sit there because I don’t want to go to the beach on my own. Gradually it starts to grate on me to be paying the bar tab for three people, and so we have our first few quarrels. Lketinga, who is now officially my husband, doesn’t understand and says it’s my fault we have to wait such a long time before going back to Nairobi. He doesn’t understand in any case why I need a stamp. He’s married me, hasn’t he, and that makes me a Leparmorijo and a Kenyan. The others agree, and I’m left sitting there wondering how to explain bureaucracy to them.
After four days we set off sullenly. With a lot of effort I drag Lketinga one more time – the last, so he says – to this office in Nairobi. I keep hoping that the stamp will be there. Once again I explain our situation and ask for someone to check if it’s been done yet. Once again I’m told to wait. The other three look at each other and me nervously. Everyone else stares at us in curiosity: a white woman with three Masai is not something you see everyday in a government office.
At long last my husband and I are called out and told to follow a woman. When we stop at a lift I already guess what’s going to happen if Lketinga has to get in. The lift doors open, and a horde of people pile out. Lketinga looks at the empty cabin with horror and says: ‘Corinne, what’s that?’ I try to explain to him that this box will takes us up to the twelfth floor. The woman is already waiting impatiently inside. But Lketinga doesn’t want to get in. He’s scared of going up so high. ‘Darling, please, this is no problem, if we are in the twelfth floor you go around like now,’ I say, begging him to get in before the woman gets fed up and in the end, with bulging eyes, he does it.
We’re taken in to an office where a stern African lady is waiting for us. She asks me if I am really married to this Samburu. She wants to know from Lketinga if he is really able to provide food and shelter for me. He turns to me and asks, ‘Corinne, please, which house I must have?’ My God, I think to myself, just say ‘yes’. The woman looks back and forth between us. My nerves are so stretched that I’m sweating from every pore. She stares straight at me and asks, ‘You want to have children?’ I answer promptly: ‘Oh yes, two.’ There’s a silence. Then eventually she goes over to her desk and picks out one of a multitude of rubber stamps. I hand over two hundred shillings and get my passport back, stamped. I could weep with joy. At last, at last, it’s done! I can stay in my beloved Kenya. All we have to do now is get out of here, back to Barsaloi, back home!