When a few men come over from the river and ask if there’s still a beer to be had, I have to tell them no. Then my husband appears and asks the three of them what they want. I explain, but Lketinga goes up to them and says that if they want something in future they’re to ask him not me. He’s the man around here and decides what’s to be done. His tone of voice is so harsh that they retreat docilely. I ask him why he has to talk to them like that, but he gives a nasty laugh and says: ‘I know why these people come here, not for beer. I know! If they want beer, why don’t they ask me?’ I had realized that sooner or later we were going to have a fit of jealousy even though I haven’t spoken to anyone for more than five minutes! But I restrain my rising temper; it’s bad enough that these men have gone off with a bad impression when the whole of Barsaloi is talking about our disco.
Lketinga watches me all the time sceptically. From time to time he takes the Datsun and goes off to visit his half-brother in Sitedi or some other relations. Of course I could go with him, but with Napirai I don’t feel like squatting in the fly-infested manyattas next to the cows. Time goes by, and I wait until at last James will be done with school. We urgently need money to buy food and petrol and with all these people from outside here now we can easily be earning it.
Lketinga is off somewhere else nearly all the time because it seems there’s always someone or other from his age group getting married. Every day warriors turn up with tales of some upcoming wedding or other. He sets off with them and I don’t know if he’ll be back in two days, three or maybe not for five.
When Father Giuliani asks me if I’m prepared to fetch schoolchildren again as it’s the first day of the holidays, of course I agree. Even though my husband’s not around I set off, leaving Napirai with Mama. James is glad to see me and asks how the disco went – news of it has reached even here. I’ve got five boys to bring back. We go shopping, and I drop in briefly on Sophia. She’s back from Italy but is planning to move down to the coast as soon as possible. It’s too much effort living here with Anika, and she can’t see much of a future for her. I’m sad to hear it because now I’ll have nobody to look forward to seeing in Maralal; we’ve been through some tough times together. But I understand and am even a little envious; I’d love to see the sea again! As she’s moving soon, we say our goodbyes now; she’ll send word of her new address.
We get back home just before eight p.m. My husband isn’t back so I cook for the boys after they’ve had chai with Mama. It’s a jolly evening exchanging stories, Napirai is very fond of her uncle James, and I have to keep telling them about the disco. They sit there listening with sparkling eyes, imagining themselves there too, and in fact the next one is due to take place in two days’ time, except that with Lketinga not here it can’t happen. This weekend the workers are to be paid, and everyone keeps asking me to organize a disco, even though there’s only one day left. I don’t want to risk it without Lketinga around, but the boys persuade me, promising that they’ll organize everything if I buy the beer and soft drinks.
I’m reluctant to go to Maralal and so James and I go as far as Baragoi, the first time I’ve been to this Turkana tribe village. It’s almost as big as Wamba and actually has a beer and soft drinks wholesaler, even though it’s dearer than in Maralal. But the whole thing only takes us three and a half hours. One of the boys writes out flysheets which they go out and distribute, and everyone starts to get excited about the disco. We haven’t managed to sort out the meat though, as there were no goats to be bought and I don’t dare use one of our own, even though they belong partly to me. When I take Napirai down to Mama I notice she’s not as happy as usual because Lketinga isn’t around. But I have to earn money, don’t I? That’s what we all live off.
Once again the disco is a great success. There are even more people because the schoolboys are home. Even three girls dare to come in. With the boys there and my husband not, the atmosphere is actually much more relaxed. Even one of the young Somalis comes in and has a Fanta. I’m pleased by that because Lketinga is always going on nastily about the Somalis. I feel as if I belong and can talk to lots of people. The boys take turns to sell the drinks. There’s a party mood, and everybody gets up to dance to the bouncy Kikuyu music. A lot of them have even brought their own cassettes. For the first time in two years, I even dance myself and feel as if I’ve let my hair down.
Unfortunately we have to turn the music down at midnight, but the party atmosphere lasts until two a.m., when we close up, and I hurry down to the manyatta with a torch to fetch Napirai. I have problems finding the gate in the thorn fence and when I do my heart almost stops when I see Lketinga’s spears planted in the earth outside the manyatta! My pulse is racing as I bend down to crawl in. Immediately I hear the grunt that tells me how ill tempered he is. Napirai is sleeping naked next to Mama. I say hello and ask him why he didn’t come up to the shop. At first I don’t even get an answer, then he starts shouting at me, cursing me and looking deranged. He doesn’t care what I say; he doesn’t believe any of it. Mama tries to calm him down telling him the whole of Barsaloi can hear him. Even Napirai starts crying. But when he calls me a whore who sleeps with Kikuyus and even schoolboys, I grab Napirai, wrap her naked in a blanket and run home in tears. I’m starting to become afraid of my own husband.
Before long he flings open the door, pulls me out of bed and demands to know the names of everyone I’ve ‘done it’ with. Now he says he knows Napirai isn’t even his daughter and I only told him she was premature because of my illness when really I’d got pregnant by someone else. Every sentence he utters rips away a part of my love for him. I don’t even understand him anymore. In the end he storms out of the house, saying he’s off to find a better wife and is not coming back. Right at this moment I couldn’t care less. All I want is peace and quiet.
The next morning my eyes are so red with tears I can’t bring myself to go out. Lots of people heard us arguing. Around ten o’clock Mama turns up with Saguna wanting to know where Lketinga is. I have no idea. Instead James turns up with a friend. He says he doesn’t understand either, but says his brother never went to school and warriors don’t have any idea about running a business. James tells me what Mama thinks. She wants to talk to Lketinga, to tell him not to get so angry, and that he’ll come back. I shouldn’t keep crying, I should pay no attention to him, all men are like that and that’s why it’s better for them to have more than one wife. James disagrees with her, but none of it’s any help to me. Even the night watchman from the Mission has been sent down by Father Giuliani to find out what’s up. I find it all very unpleasant.
Lketinga eventually turns up late in the day, but we hardly exchange any words. Life gets back to normal, and nobody says anything more about it. Then a week later he disappears again for another ceremony.
The girl who fetches water for me has become ever more unreliable and so I have to drive down to the river to fetch a couple of canisters of water, leaving the boys to look after Napirai. But when I try to set off home again, I can’t get into gear, the clutch keeps slipping. Depressed to find myself broken down again for the first time in two months, I walk up to the Mission for help as I can hardly leave the car down by the river. Giuliani is not exactly delighted but comes down anyway and takes a look at the car. He works out that the clutch has indeed gone and says he can’t do anything about it. The only place I’ll get spare parts is in Nairobi and he has no plans to go there for at least another month. I burst into tears with no idea how I’m going to get food for Napirai or myself. Gradually I’m coming to the end of my tether.
He tows the car home for us and says he’ll try to order the parts from Nairobi by telephone. If the Indians are coming back in the plane over the next few days, they might bring the parts with them, but he can’t promise anything.
But four days later he roars up on his motorbike to say the plane will be landing today at eleven a.m. – the Indians are coming to inspect progress on the school construction – but he can’t say whether or not they’ve got the parts.
And indeed the plane does land, at midday. Father Giuliani drives up to the temporary landing strip in his Land Cruiser, picks up the two Indians and drives them down to the river. When I see Giuliani drive off, apparently towards Wamba, and don’t know what’s going on I decide to walk down to the school and take Napirai to Mama.
The two Indians in their turbans look at me in surprise, greeting me with a handshake and offering me a Coke. They ask if I’m part of the Mission. I tell them no, that I live here and am married to a Samburu. That seems to make them even more curious, and they ask how a white woman can live out here in the bush. They had heard that even their workers find it difficult getting supplies. I tell them about my car and that it’s broken down. They ask me sympathetically if the clutch was for me then, rather than for the Mission. I say yes and ask hopefully if they managed to get it, only to have my hopes dashed when they say there are too many models and the only way to know which is correct is by looking at the vehicle. They see how deeply disappointed I am, and one of them asks where my car is. Then he tells the mechanic they’ve brought with them to take a look at the car and dismantle the faulty clutch. In an hour they’re flying back to Nairobi.
The mechanic is a quick worker, and in less than an hour I learn that not only the clutch but the entire gearbox is wrecked. He packs up the heavy parts, and we drive back. One of the Indians takes a look and reckons it ought to be possible to find the parts in Nairobi, but it won’t be cheap. The two of them confer for a few minutes and then ask me if I want to come back with them. I’m completely taken aback and tell them my husband isn’t here and in any case I have a six-month old child at home. No problem, they say, they have space to take the baby too.
Put on the spot, I don’t know what to do and tell them I don’t know my way around Nairobi. ‘No problem,’ says the other Indian: their mechanic knows every spare parts shop and will collect me from the hotel tomorrow morning and go with me to try to find the spares. In any case if I tried to look on my own as a white woman, people would try to charge me far too much.
I’m dumbstruck by the overwhelming kindness of these two strangers but before I can think any further they tell me to be ready in fifteen minutes at the aircraft. ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ is all I can stammer. The mechanic takes me home, and I hurry quickly to Mama’s to tell her I’m flying to Nairobi. I grab Napirai, leaving Mama standing there in total confusion. Back home I throw together all the essentials for the baby and me, tell the vet’s wife what I’m doing and that I’ll be back as soon as possible with the spare parts. She should give my love to my husband and tell him why I couldn’t wait for his permission.
Then I rush to the airstrip, with Napirai in a kanga sling and a travel bag in my hand. There’s already a crowd of curious sightseers gathered around the plane, and they’re dumbstruck when I turn up. The mzungu is flying off, the rumour soon runs, because her husband isn’t here. I realize this is likely to cause problems, but on the other hand I think how happy he’s going to be when his dearly beloved car is working again and he hasn’t had to go to Nairobi.
The Indians arrive in one of the works’ cars at the same time as Mama who stumps up to me frowning and tells me I have to leave Napirai here. I tell her I’m doing no such thing and promise to be back, and she gives both of us Enkai’s blessing. We get in, the engine screams, and the people standing around leap back in shock. I wave to them all, and already we’re bumping down the runway.
The Indians have loads of questions: how I got to know my husband, how I manage to live in this wilderness. Their amazement makes me laugh, and I feel happier and freer than I have done in ages. In ninety minutes we’re in Nairobi. It’s like a miracle to me to have covered such a vast distance in such a short space of time. Now they ask where to take me. When I tell them the Igbol Hotel near the Odeon Cinema they’re horrified and tell me that part of town’s far too dangerous for a lady like me. But it’s an area I know, and I insist on being dropped there. One of the Indians, clearly the more important of the two, hands me his visiting card and tells me I should ring at nine a.m. and his driver will pick me up. I don’t know what to say and am effusive in my thanks.
Only in the Igbol do I start to wonder if I’ve actually got enough money as I’ve only the equivalent of one thousand Swiss francs. That was all the money I had at home and even that was only because of the disco. I put a nappy on Napirai, and we go down to the restaurant. It’s hard eating at a table with her; she either throws everything on the ground or tries to climb down herself. Since she’s learned to crawl she can race along, and everything’s so dirty here I don’t want to put her down. But she screams and cries until I do. Within seconds she’s covered in dirt, and the locals are looking at me wondering why I give in to her. A few white travellers, on the other hand, are delighted when she crawls under their tables. One way or another she’s content, and so am I. When we get back to the room I give her a thorough wash in the sink. I have to wait until she’s asleep until I can have a shower myself.
The next day it’s pouring with rain. At eight-thirty a.m. I’m standing in the queue outside the telephone booth. We’re soaked to the skin before eventually it’s our turn. I get straight through to the Indian and tell him to pick me up at the Odeon Cinema. He says his driver will be there in twenty minutes. I dash back into the Igbol to change my clothes. My little girl is very brave and doesn’t cry even though she’s soaked through. When we get to the Odeon the driver is waiting for us and takes us to an industrial district where we’re taken into a grandiose office where the nice Indian is sitting behind a big desk, wanting to know if we’re all right. Then he makes a call, and immediately the African mechanic from yesterday appears. He gives him a few addresses to take me round to find the spare parts. When he asks if I have enough money, I reply: ‘I hope so!’
We drive the length and breadth of Nairobi and by midday we’ve found a clutch for just one hundred and fifty Swiss francs. Napirai sits in the back of the car, the rain has stopped, the sun is out and soon it’s hot, but I’m not allowed to open the windows because we have to go through some of the worst parts of Nairobi. The driver keeps doing his best, but we can’t find the rest. Napirai is sweating and screaming. She’s had more than enough when after six hours continuously sitting in the car, the driver tells us it’s hopeless: we’re not going to find the other parts. Tomorrow is Good Friday, and at five p.m. all the shops will shut. I had completely forgotten about Easter. I ask him stupidly when things will open again. He says the garages will be closed until Tuesday.
Suddenly I’m seized with pure horror at the idea of having to be on my own with Napirai for so long in this city. Lketinga will go mad if I’m away for a whole week. We decide to go back to the Indian’s office.
The friendly Indian is very concerned by my problems and examines the worn bearings in the gearbox before asking the mechanic if there’s any way of repairing it. There isn’t, he says, though I wonder if that’s just because it’s going home time. The Indian makes another phone call, and another man wearing an apron and protective goggles appears in the door. The Indian tells him to grind down the worn parts and re-weld them and makes a point of saying he wants it all done in half an hour because that’s as long as he can wait. Then he turns to me with a smile and tells me I can go home in half an hour.
I thank him enormously and ask how much I owe. But he waves his hand; it’s his pleasure to be able to help. When I get back to Barsaloi he tells me to go to the foreman and he’ll already know to see that everything is fixed for me. I can hardly believe how much he’s helped me, and all for nothing! In next to no time I’m leaving his office. The parts are heavy, but I’m proud that it’s all worked. That very evening I catch the bus to Nyahururu and catch the bus the next morning on to Maralal, but it’s hard work carrying the spare parts and Napirai on my back at the same time.
I have no idea, however, how to get from Maralal to Barsaloi. Exhausted, I drag myself into the boarding house for something to eat and drink after such a long, dusty and tiring journey. Then I have to wash not just Napirai and myself but also a few dozen nappies, before I can fall into bed, dead to the world. Next morning I ask if there’s anyone going to Barsaloi. My wholesaler tells me there’s a lorry going out for the Somalis. But after all our stress I don’t think Napirai or I are up to a lorry drive. I wait until I find a boy who’s come in on foot from Barsaloi, and he tells me Father Roberto is due to pick up the post in Maralal tomorrow. Filled with relief, I pack up all my stuff in the boarding house the next day to be ready and waiting outside the post office. For four hard, long hours we stick it out by the side of the road until at last we see the second car from the Mission. Expectantly, I approach Roberto and ask if he can take us home. No problem, he says, he’s going back in two hours’ time.