Along the road Lketinga picks up two warriors, and after more than five hours we get to the great Wamba River. It’s notorious for quicksand that becomes active at the slightest drop of water. The Mission lost a car here years ago. I stop in stunned amazement at the steep slope down to the river – and there’s water in it! Unperturbed, the Masai get out and stroll down to the river. The water’s not deep no more than an inch or so, and a few sandbanks protrude here and there. But Father Giuliani expressly warned me to avoid the river if there’s any water at all. And it’s nearly five hundred feet wide. I’m sitting at the wheel of the car, thinking disappointedly that we’ll have to go back to Wamba. One of the warriors has already sunk in as far as his knees although the other, just a yard away from him, has no problem. Lketinga tests it too, but he keeps sinking. I think the whole thing is awful, and I’ve no intention of risking it. I climb out to tell my husband just that. But he comes towards me with a mad sudden decisiveness, takes Napirai from me and tells me to drive at full speed between the two warriors. I try desperately to put him off the idea, but he won’t see my argument – he wants to go home and if he can’t go with the car then he’ll go on foot. But I can’t drive back on my own with the baby.
The river is slowly building up, and I refuse to drive. Now he gets furious, pushes Napirai into my arms and wants to drive himself. He insists I give him the ignition key, but I don’t have it and think with some reason that it’s in the car, seeing as the engine’s running. ‘No, Corinne, please give me the key, you have driven the car, now you have taken it that we go back to Wamba!’ he says angrily, his dark eyes sparkling maliciously. I go to the car to show him, but ironically it turns out that the engine is running without the key in. Feverishly I search the seats and the ground but the key – the only one we have – is missing.
Lketinga blames me. Furiously he climbs into the car, engages the four-wheel drive and roars into the river. It’s all too crazy for me, and I burst into tears and Napirai starts crying at the top of her voice. The car is getting stuck in the river. The first few yards are fine, the tyres sinking just a little, but the further he drives the slower he goes and the back wheels slowly sink under the heavy weight. Just a few yards from a dry sandbank the car threatens to come to a stop, the wheels spinning uselessly. I’m crying and praying and cursing all at once. The two warriors splash their way to the car, lift it and push and actually do manage the last six feet. The wheels grip again, and with a flourish he shoots across the other half of the river. My husband has managed it brilliantly, but I’m anything but proud: he risked everything far too carelessly and in any case we still don’t have the key.
One of the warriors comes back and helps me across the river. I sink up to my knees in places. Lketinga’s standing there proudly and defiantly next to the car and demands I now hand over the key. ‘I don’t have it!’ I shout at him in despair. I go over to the car and search all over again, in vain. Disbelievingly Lketinga shakes his head and goes to search himself. In a couple of seconds he has it in his hand – it had fallen between the seat and the backrest and got stuck. How it could have happened is a mystery to me. But he’s convinced I hid it from him because I didn’t want to drive across the river. We drive home in silence.
When we finally get to Barsaloi it’s already dark. Of course we go first of all to see Mama in the manyatta, and my God she’s delighted to see us! Immediately she takes Napirai and blesses her, wiping spittle on her forehead, the palms of her hand and the soles of her feet and prays to Enkai. She says something to me too, but I don’t understand. The smoke is causing me problems, and Napirai is coughing too. Even so we will spend the first night here with her.
Next morning several people come to see the baby, but Mama says that in the first weeks I shouldn’t show the baby to anybody but those she permits. I don’t understand this and ask her, ‘Why? She’s so pretty!’ Lketinga mutters and says I shouldn’t say she’s pretty, it’ll bring bad luck. Strangers shouldn’t be allowed to see her in case they wish evil on her. In Switzerland we show off our babies proudly, here I have to hide mine away or if I take her out I have to cover her head with a kanga. I find it hard.
I spend three days sitting with my baby in the dark manyatta while Mama keeps guard on the door. My husband is preparing a party to celebrate the birth of his daughter. An ox has to be slaughtered. Several of the elders come, eat the meat and bless our daughter for it. I get the best pieces to build up my strength.
In the evening the warriors dance with my husband in his honour, and of course afterwards they have to be fed and watered. Mama has brewed me up a horrid-smelling liquid that is supposed to protect me from any more illness. Everyone watches while I drink it, and they pray to Enkai for me. I feel ill after the first sip and try to tip away as much as I can when no one’s looking.
The vet and his wife turn up at the party, which pleases me. To my surprise I find out that the wooden house next to theirs has become free, and I look forward to the possibility of having a new house with two rooms and a WC inside. The next day we move out of the shop into the wooden house, just five hundred feet away. First I have to give it a good clean. In the meantime Mama watches the baby outside, keeping it covered with her kanga so cleverly that you’d hardly know it was there.
People keep coming into the shop, looking for things to buy. It looks empty and dilapidated. The credit book is almost full, but there’s not enough cash in the till to pay for another lorry-load. But for now I can’t work and don’t want to, so it can stay closed.
Each day I’m busy until noon washing the previous day’s nappies. My knuckles have become completely raw. I can’t go on with this and look for a girl who can help me with the housework and above all the washing, so I have more time for Napirai and cooking. Lketinga fixes things with a former schoolgirl. For thirty Swiss francs a month plus food she’s prepared to fetch water and do the washing. Now at last I can enjoy my daughter. She is so pretty and happy and hardly ever cries. Even my husband can spend hours lying on the ground with her under the tree outside the house.
Slowly I get my routine under control. The girl is a slow worker, and I don’t easily get on with her. I notice that our washing powder is disappearing fast, and our stocks of rice and sugar too. When Napirai starts screaming every time her nappy is changed and I discover that she’s red and raw between the legs, I’ve had enough. I tell the girl that she has to rinse the nappies until there’s no trace of the Omo left. She pays no attention and then says that she’s not paid enough to fetch water more than once a day. I send her home in annoyance; I’d rather do the washing myself.