My husband crawls out of the manyatta and orders me to come with him back to our house. He fetches the boys too. As ever, a crowd of onlookers has gathered. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Angrily Lketinga turns to me and in front of everybody asks me if I’ve slept with this boy. He wants to know here and now. I’m deeply hurt and at the same time furiously angry. He’s acting like a prosecution lawyer and doesn’t even see how ridiculous he makes us look. ‘No!’ I shout at him. ‘You are crazy!’ But before I can say another word I get my first clip round the ear. Furiously I hurl my cigarette packet at his head. He spins around and lifts his rungu club at me. But before he can use it the boys and the vet intervene to hold him back. They talk to him angrily and tell him he needs to go off into the bush for a bit and not come back until he has a clear head. With that he takes his spears and stalks off. I rush back into the house and refuse to talk to anybody.
He’s gone for two days, during which I refuse to leave the house. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to because nobody would help me without payment. I spend the time listening to German music or reading poems to help gather my thoughts together. I’m just in the middle of writing a letter home when my husband turns up unannounced. He turns the music off and asks why there’s singing going on and where I got this cassette from? I’ve always had it of course and I tell him that as calmly as possible, but he doesn’t believe it. Then he finds the letter to my mother. He insists that I read it to him but refuses to believe I’m not making it up. So I rip the letter up and burn it. He doesn’t say a word to Napirai, as if she weren’t even there, but he’s relatively calm so I try not to agitate him. In the end I’m going to have to make my peace with him if I want to get out of here some day.
The next few days pass quietly, as the boy has left Barsaloi. James tells me he’s moved in with relatives. The shop remains closed, and after two weeks we’ve nothing more to eat. I want to go to Maralal but my husband forbids it, telling me other women can get by on milk and meat.
Again and again I mention Mombasa. I tell him that if we were to move there my family would be sure to send some money but up here they won’t send any more. We could always come back here at any time if the shop didn’t work out. When one day even James says he has to leave Barsaloi to find a job Lketinga asks me for the first time what we would do in Mombasa. His resistance may be being worn down. I’ve also done everything I can: I’ve got rid of my books and my music, I’ve stopped writing letters. I’ve even consented to intimacy again, albeit reluctantly. I have only one goal: to get out of here. With Napirai!
I conjure up pictures of a Masai-Shop with lots of souvenirs. To get money for the journey to Mombasa we can sell everything that’s left in the shop to the Somalis. Even our furniture will fetch a price; there’s no other way of getting hold of a bed, chairs or a table here. We can put on a farewell disco to make money and say goodbye to people at the same time. James can come with us and help get the shop up and running. I talk and talk and try not to show how nervous I am. He mustn’t know how important it is for me to get him to agree.
Eventually he relaxes and says, ‘Corinne, maybe we go to Mombasa in two or three months.’ Taken aback, I ask him why wait so long. He says because then Napirai will be a year old and won’t need me, so she can stay here with Mama. This knocks me back to say the least, and I tell him calmly that there’s no question of my going away without Napirai. I need my daughter with me or else I will take no pleasure in working. Then James joins in: he can look after Napirai, and if we want to go, we ought to go now, he adds, because in three months’ time he’ll have his circumcision ceremony. The festival lasts a couple of days, and for a long time after that he’ll only be allowed to be in the company of the other newly-circumcised men. We talk it over and decide to set off in three weeks’ time. The fourth of June will be my thirtieth birthday, and I want to celebrate it in Mombasa. I’m impatient now and live only for the day when we can leave Barsaloi.
As it’s the beginning of the month we want to have the disco as soon as possible. For one last time we drive down to Maralal to fetch beer and other drinks. While we’re there my husband insists that I phone Switzerland to make sure we’ll have money in Mombasa. I fake the phone call and tell him everything’s fixed up and as soon as we’re in Mombasa I’m to get in touch again.
Once again the disco is a huge success. I’ve agreed with Lketinga that at midnight we’ll make a short speech to say goodbye, as nobody has any idea we’re leaving. But after a while my husband disappears and by midnight I’m on my own, so I ask the vet to translate the speech – which I’ve written down in English – into Swahili for the workers and Masai for the locals.
James turns the music off and everybody stops what they’re doing to see what’s happening. Nervously I walk into the middle of the room and ask for their attention. First of all I apologize for my husband’s absence, then I announce that this will be our last disco and that in two weeks’ time we’ll be leaving Barsaloi to start up a new business in Mombasa. It just hasn’t been possible for us to keep going up here with the high running costs of the car and also the constant risks to my own and my daughter’s health. I thank everybody for their loyal custom in the shop and wish them the best of luck with the new school.
No sooner have I finished than a great commotion breaks out with everybody talking at once. Even the little local boss man is depressed and tells me that I can’t just up sticks and leave when everybody has accepted me. A couple of others stand up and say nice things about us and how much everyone will miss us, how we’ve provided so much quality of life and entertainment not to mention the good turns we’ve done for people with the car. Everybody applauds. I’m deeply moved and ask for the music to be turned on to get the atmosphere going again.
In the midst of all this the young Somali comes up to me and says he’s sorry to hear we’re going too. He says he’s always been amazed by what I’ve achieved. I’m touched and buy him a soft drink and suggest he might like to buy the rest of our stock. He agrees immediately. He says I should just make an inventory and we’ll settle a price, even to buying our expensive weighing scales. I have a long chat with the vet, who didn’t know our departure plans either. But after everything that’s happened he can understand and he just hopes that in Mombasa my husband will come back to his senses. He’s probably the only one who understands the real reason we’re leaving.
We close the doors at two a.m., and Lketinga still isn’t back. I hurry down to the manyatta to fetch Napirai. My husband is sitting in the hut talking to Mama. When I ask him why he wasn’t there he says it was my party because I’m the one who wants to leave. This time I don’t get involved in an argument but simply stay with him in the manyatta. Who knows, I’m thinking, maybe this is the last time I’ll spend the night in one?
When the opportunity arises I tell Lketinga about my deal with the Somali. At first he’s cross and doesn’t want to talk about it. He won’t bargain with the likes of them, he says arrogantly. So instead I work out the inventory with James. The Somali asks us to bring the stuff down to him in two days’ time and he’ll have the money ready. The scales alone come to a third of the total.
People keep turning up at our house wanting to buy things; and everything, down to the last cup, is reserved for someone. I’ve asked everyone to bring their money on the twentieth and they can pick up their goods on the twenty-first. When we go to take all our stock down to the Somali my husband comes along after all, to give his agreement on the price of every last item. When I include the scales he takes them out and insists we should bring them with us to Mombasa. He simply can’t see that we don’t need them anymore and will get much more for them here. No, he insists, we have to take them, even though it infuriates me to have to give so much money back to the Somali, but I say nothing. Let’s not have another argument before we leave! There’s a whole week to go before the twenty-first of May.
The days before we go simply crawl by, and I get more and more tense inside as the day of our departure approaches. I don’t want to spend an hour longer here than we need to. Suddenly it’s our final night. Almost everybody has brought their money, and anything we no longer need we’ve simply given away. The car is packed full, and the only things left in the house are the bed with the mosquito net, the table and chairs. Mama spent the whole day with us looking after Napirai. She’s upset about us leaving.
That evening a car stops in the village at the Somali’s, and my husband goes down to see if there’s any miraa to buy. In the meantime James and I are working out our itinerary, both of us excited at the prospect of such a long journey. It’s over nine hundred miles to the south coast.
When my husband still hasn’t come back an hour later, I start to get worried. Eventually he turns up, and I can tell at once that there’s something wrong. ‘We cannot go tomorrow,’ he announces. He’s chewing miraa of course, but the look on his face is extremely serious. I’m starting to simmer and demand to know where he’s been such long time and why we can’t set off tomorrow. With wild eyes he tells us the elders aren’t happy that we should set off without their blessing. And in those circumstances it’s impossible for him to leave.
I get worked up and ask why they can’t give us their blessing first thing in the morning, but James tells me for a ceremony like that we need to slaughter at least two goats and brew beer. Only when they’re in a good mood will they pronounce the will of Enkai. He can understand why Lketinga won’t go without this blessing.
At that point my nerves give in and I shout at Lketinga, asking why this didn’t occur to the elders before. They’ve all known for three weeks now when we were due to leave: we had a party, sold everything we didn’t need and packed up the rest. I refuse to stay one day longer. I’m going even if I have to drive all the way with Napirai on my own. I sob and rage because I know that this so-called ‘surprise’ will delay us for at least another week because that’s how long it takes to brew their beer.
Lketinga simply says that he’s not going and chews his weed, while James goes off to ask for advice from Mama. I throw myself on the bed and wish I were dead. There’s just one thought going round in my head: I’m leaving tomorrow, I’m leaving tomorrow. As a result I’ve hardly had any sleep when James turns up at dawn with Mama. There’s more palaver, but I pay not the slightest bit of attention, blindly continuing to pack up our stuff. I barely notice what’s going on through my puffy eyes. James is talking to Mama, and lots of other people keep turning up to collect things or say goodbye. I ignore them all.
Then James comes up to me and asks on Mama’s behalf if I’m determined to leave. ‘Yes,’ I reply and grab Napirai by my side. Mama stares silently at me and her grandchild. Then she says something to James that makes his face light up. He turns to me happily and says Mama will go off and fetch four Barsaloi elders who’ll give us the blessing then and there. She doesn’t want us to leave without it, because she’s convinced she’ll never see us again. Thankfully I ask James to translate for her that wherever I am I will always see that she is all right.