When we arrive in Nairobi my nerves are stretched to breaking, not knowing whether or not Lketinga will have come to the airport to meet us. If not and I’m left on the street with Napirai and all the luggage, it won’t be easy to find somewhere to stay in the middle of the night. We say goodbye to the stewardesses and make our way to passport control. We’re barely through when I spot my darling with James and his friend. I’m overjoyed. My husband has painted himself magnificently and done his long hair beautifully, standing there wrapped in his red cloth. He throws his arms around both of us in delight, and we set off for the accommodation they’ve already booked. Now Napirai has problems with all the black faces and starts to cry. Lketinga is worried in case she no longer even recognizes him.
When we get to the hotel they all want to see the presents straight away, but I only unpack the watches because we want to be on our way tomorrow and everything is carefully packed. The boys retire to their room, and we go to bed. We make love, and at last it no longer hurts. I’m happy and hope once again that everything will turn out for the best.
Amidst all the chat on the way home I discover that they’re going to build a proper big school in Barsaloi. A plane arrived from Nairobi with Indians on board who stayed a few days in the Mission. The school is going to be built on the other side of the big river, and lots of workers will come in from Nairobi – all Kikuyus – but nobody knows when they’re going to start. I tell them all about Switzerland and of course about the scabies because my husband’s going to have to be treated too or else he’ll just infect us again.
Lketinga had brought the car as far as Nyahururu and left it at the Mission there – I’m astounded at his courage – so we get back to Maralal easily, although suddenly the distances seem vast to me. We return to Barsaloi the next day, Mama welcomes us happily and gives thanks to Enkai that we have returned healthy and well from the ‘iron bird’, as she calls the aircraft. It’s good to be back home.
There’s a hearty welcome for me in the Mission too. When I ask Father Giuliani what all this is about a school he confirms what the boys told me and that the building work is actually going to start in a few days’ time. There are already people here putting up barracks for the workers to live in. The building material is coming on lorries via Nanyuki-Wamba. I’m astounded that such a major project is actually going to be realized, but Father Giuliani tells me it’s part of a government plan to end the Masais’ nomadic way of life and make them settle down. The area is suitable because there is always water in the river and enough sand to be mixed with stone to make cement. The presence of a modern Mission building also contributed to the government’s decision. The days go by happily, and we take regular walks over on the other bank of the river to watch what’s going on.
My cat has grown. It would seem Lketinga kept his promise and fed it, though apparently only with meat because it’s as wild as a tiger. Only when she snuggles up next to Napirai in bed does she start purring like a tame moggy.
After two weeks the first workers from outside arrive. The first Sunday most of them turn up in church as the mass is virtually the only entertainment for these townsfolk. The Somalis have put up their prices for sugar and maize drastically, which has led to a lot of arguments and a village meeting with the elders and the little boss man. We take part too, and people keep asking me when the Samburu shop will finally open again. Some of the workers who’ve turned up ask me if I wouldn’t consider using my car to fetch beer and soft drinks. They say they’d pay me well as they get good wages and have nothing to spend them on. As Muslims, the Somalis won’t sell beer.
When the workers keep coming by I start thinking seriously about doing something to earn money again at last. I get the idea of opening a sort of disco with Kikuyu music, where we could grill meat and sell it along with beer and soft drinks. I talk it all over with Lketinga and the vet, with whom he’s started spending a lot of time. Both think it’s a great idea, and the vet reckons we could sell miraa too as people are always asking for it. In next to no time it’s settled, and we decide to start up at the end of the month. I clean up the shop and knock out fly posters, which we pin up around the place and distribute among the workers.
The feedback is huge. On the very first day a few people come to ask why we can’t start that very weekend. But that’s too little notice as, apart from anything else, sometimes there’s no beer to be had in Maralal. We do our usual trip there and come back with a dozen cases of beer and soft drinks. My husband sorts out the miraa. The car is so packed that the journey home takes longer than normal.
When we get back we store all the goods in the main part of the shop because our previous living space out back is going to be the dance floor. Before long the first customers are there looking for beer. Then the little boss man turns up and demands to see my disco licence! Of course, I don’t have one and ask him if I really need to. Lketinga has a chat with him, and he promises that the next day, for a consideration of course, he’ll sort things out: for a handful of cash and a few free beers he’ll grant us our licence.
At last it’s the day of the disco, and everyone is very worked up. Our shop assistant knows a bit about technology and has taken the battery out of the car to fix it up to a cassette recorder: we have sound! In the meantime a goat’s been slaughtered, and two boys are butchering it. We have lots of volunteer helpers, and Lketinga is spending more time delegating tasks to other people than dealing with them himself. By half-past seven everything is ready: the music’s playing, the meat is sizzling on the grill and people are queued up outside the back door. Lketinga takes the entrance money from the men, women get in free, but most of them stay outside peeking in and giggling. Within half an hour the shop is full, and workers keep coming up and congratulating me on the idea. Even the foreman comes up to thank me for my efforts, saying his people needed a bit of entertainment, particularly as for some of them it’s their first job far from home.
I enjoy being in the company of so many happy people, most of whom speak English. A few Samburus from the village turn up, even a couple of the elders who sit on upturned crates, wrapped in their blankets watching the dancing Kikuyus with unfettered amazement. I don’t dance myself even though I’ve left Napirai with Mama. A few people ask me to dance, but one glance at Lketinga is enough to persuade me against it. He sits there discreetly knocking back beer and chewing his miraa, all the rest of which is long gone.
At eleven p.m. the music is turned down, and some of the men say a few words of thanks, addressed to me in particular, the mzungu. An hour later the last beer is gone, and even the goat has almost vanished. Our guests are in a good mood and the party goes on until four a.m. before everyone goes home. I fetch Napirai from Mama and stumble home with her exhausted.
Counting up our takings the next day I realize the profits were a lot more than we made from the shop. My good mood is soon ruined, however, when Father Giuliani roars up on his motorbike and asks what sort of a ‘hellish racket’ was going on in our shop last night. Quietly I tell him about the disco. He says he doesn’t mind if it’s only twice a month, but he insists on getting to sleep after midnight. If I don’t want to rub him up the wrong way, that’s something I’ll have to bear in mind the next time.