In Loita

The next day, we begin our work, asking the women a series of questions that will give us a picture of their state and awareness of their human and legal rights.

It's interesting what they say, the non-educated ones especially - as they don't give us answers they think we want.

Most of them tend to the cattle, waking up at six, milking the cows, cleaning the homesteads. Only a few work as teachers or in any kind of formal employment. The highest position they aspire to is councillor. But perhaps this is only because it is the closest within their reach. Most of them are married. And so they have all been circumcised.

We take exceedingly sweet milk tea during our breaks that has this burnt taste in it. We watch the women interact with one another, sipping the same sugar tea and yapping away in Maa.

The organisation had arranged to conduct human and legal rights workshops and medical trainings (the dangers of circumcision) and so these carry on while we continue our questionnaires.

We interview a few men and they are decidedly more arrogant in comparison. But their testimonies are of equal note; they bring up the conflict of new and old worlds, the question of land and registration, that they prefer women uncircumcised because they feel warmer. I decide I want to write a story about it. But months later this blog entry is the closest I have to doing it.

We stay a total of three days doing the questionnaires. And every night Dr. Maria tells us the saddest stories of events at the hospital. A thirteen year old, leaving her baby to die of neglect because she is both depressed and not prepared to take care of it. Pregnant women dying because their husbands won't allow them to come to hospital sooner. The way the leathery feel of the clitoris (healing after circumcision) rips every time a woman gives birth... It is enough to break anyone's heart. And Dr. Maria's heart is clearly broken. She consoles herself she says by writing journals. But this is not enough I think, a good support system and periodical breaks are in order.

To Loita

My programme officer was perhaps my only cheerleader in that organisation and I really believe that she tried her best to keep me on and to do the best she could by me. One of these gestures was taking me to Loita.

Loita is about 2 hours from Narok and Narok is about 2 hours from Nairobi. We ride with Mannfred who V describes as being too much of a gentleman to allow us to mat it.

The drive to Narok is smooth-going. we only stop briefly at 'The World Trade Centre' and other shops to take pictures of the Rift Valley and to haggle with the sheep skin vendors about buying some. I loooooove me some sheep skin. I used to swim in it as a child :)

But no, they won't bring their prices low enough so we head on out - sheepskin less :(

When we get to Narok, we are met by Dr. Maria at some green petrol station. We snack on samosas and tea at the restaurant nearby and then split ourselves up between Mannfred's and Dr Maria's cars.

The second leg of the journey is very bushy and for the most part, devoid of roads so I really wonder how Dr. Maria navigates her way around, turning left at this rock over here and right at that hill over there?

We finally arrive at Entasekera where Dr. Maria has her house and hospital. And you realise for the first time how close you are to nature with no services whatsoever. No network even. Unless of course you climb the next hill, and then if you hold your phone high enough and position yourself strategically enough, you might just catch one of the Tanzanian networks.

The water to the hospital and to the staff houses comes from a stream uphill and the electricity is from the solar panels (which Mannfred's company provides).

The solar is not enough for a refrigerator or television. So any fresh foods we bring with us, we have to consume within the next few days. Her pantry however is stocked with canned goods and dried foods...

We set our bags down and Dr. Maria goes to the hospital to check on things. Mannfred offers to drive us to the (real!) Maasai market for some vegetable shopping and the sight on arrival is one to behold!! in all its profuse of red!


I buy myself three lessos with the inscriptions;

Radhi ya mama nibora kuliko mali (a mother's blessing is better than wealth)

Mtabakia mnajihadaa mume ni kifaa (they continue to deceive themselves that a husband is useful)

Jirani mwema ni asiye kusengenya (a good neighbour is one who does not backbite)

New Years with AM

My father ran a tight ship at home. He took us to church every Sunday, he ensured we mastered our times tables before going to bed and for a period during my teenage years he implemented weekly bible studies.

We all had our designated roles. One sister would open with prayer, the other would read the selected scripture and then we would interprete it and share.

And if we weren't having bible studies, we would be having family meetings in which we discussed each other's progress, updated the family about our lives...
One of these evenings fell on New Year's Eve. And my teenage priorities were nowhere near spending it at home discussing the family. But he forbid us to leave in that stoic way that is my father's. And so we all glumly congregated around the table resigning ourselves to participate in this family meeting.
He went round asking each of us what the highlight of our year was and each of my sisters gave a not unusual response...

When he came to me however, I said with all my rebellion, that i'd never had so many men like me. At which, my mum, in many ways the opposite of my father, proceeded to clap with cheers. [Perhaps I should mention on a side note that I was 18, characterised by baby fat, trying to be bulimic and had more than once cried over self-esteem issues in front of her].

Needless to say, my father wasn't impressed and I don't remember much of what happened after that. Only that the meeting ended a little before midnight and I was still considering sneaking out to make what party of it I could.

I called AM, my crush turned best guy friend and in those few minutes before midnight he said he'd stay with me on the phone for the countdown. He hadn't gone out either. I don't remember whether it was because of his mother or by his own decision but he was clearly less dour and hot-headed about it than I was.

And so we talked and then we counted down and then we said goodnight and as simple and low-key as that was, it is probably one of my best new years to date.

speaking in tongues

The day when Pastor Solomon and his wife laid their hands on me, closed their eyes and prayed for me to speak in tongues, I felt guilty. I felt guilty for feeling outside of that moment. I didn’t feel the gift being endowed upon me. I only watched them from below with eyes that should have been closed. Listened to them repeat over and over Hababasheekalabah! Lord, let her speak in tongues!

Ha-ba-ba-ba-sheek-a I would hesitate, hoping/waiting for the Holy Spirit to come infect me so that I wouldn't disappoint, until finally they gave up, not encouraged by my weak imitations of their chantings. There is only so long I suppose you can go on trying to give someone a gift.

And then they opened their eyes, looked down at me and around themselves. The room suddenly silent.

A clearing of the throat, a re-adjustment of clothes and then we all wandered off to our respective errands or activities. The beginning and the end of my ever speaking in tongues, ending as suddenly as it had begun.

4 years in 5 minutes

i summarised my life for her in five minutes. the last four years of it reduced to; two internships, four jobs (two businesses), three relationships (two, long-distance), one conman and one stalker (formerly lovers), two feuds (one family and one work, both resulting in cut ties), two marriages (within the family thus making me the spinster) and one birth (nephew).

its almost funny or amusing to summarise to a chronology. but i suppose it's never enough. and it never will be enough to explain all the in-between, leaving the missing years to be filled either with more time together again or if not, with the imagination, if one can be interested enough.

Orders

We had a few celebrity visits to our humble restaurant on Granby Street. Cassidy came looking much taller than he did on tv. He came with a whole entourage that took up the most part of half our restaurant. He allowed the staff to take a few pictures and then politely asked us to keep fans at bay until he had finished eating his spicy chicken wings with chips while his boys finished two whole chickens.

One of Blu Cantrell's dancers came. She performed at Zanzibar the previous night, more precise than natural with her moves. She sat by the window, alone and ordered a quarter chicken (we gave her a leg) with rice and coleslaw. She must have been staying at the hotel just opposite, I thought.

That's all we can remember them by, these glam-life living people, by the orders that they make.

Other customers were more easy to distinguish even before they made their orders. The Indians ordered chicken or veggie pittas, the Brits ordered burgers with chips, the Chinese ordered anything with rice, extra rice at that and the chicken itself (whole or part) belonged to everyone.

there can be menace in lamu (august 2008)

Lamu is a safe place, they say. And so I let that be my guide. Our evenings were planned in any event with film screenings and dinners. And our days were up to us to spend as we saw fit. As it was intended as a writer's retreat, we spent the majority of these reading and writing and exploring the town. I would swim, visit the hotels and museums.

Email home: I went to the silversmith and bought myself a ring and told myself it was from you. Because when you told me that you couldn't come as early as we'd hoped, I didn't want to think that it would be another month before you could buy me something. so you followed me to main street and you waited with me for the ring to be fitted. And now it twists perfectly around my finger in a henna design of silver. And it gleams like I gleam because its from you.. Xxx

I picked up an idler on my walks and he insisted on taking me to the market. We saw the market. And then he insisted on taking me to the schools. We saw the schools. They were beautiful with their 1930's facades, inscribed with scriptures from the Qur'an.

I wanted to try to read them but Idler jumped at the opportunity and read them for me.

Note to self: Good teachers are hard to find.

He then offered to write my name in Arabic on some piece of wood. I declined and thought how both silly and desperate he was. How much more did he think he could extort for that?

I did in the end, pay him more than I thought he deserved. But in a place with little opportunity, what harm is a little more giving?

I traversed the streets some more and made my way back to the converted old houses we were staying at. The proprietor had taken an interest in rescuing old Lamu houses from demise. They had been filled with garbage, he said.

He had done an amazing job, altering nothing about the original architecture and decorating the interiors with authentic pieces. His most recent project was his biggest house yet. And this was to be an artist's residence. "All artists are welcome to stay for free," he said, " as long as they leave me with one book or painting."

There were what may have once been grand salas which he now filled with easels and long tables. And they gave way to a long rectangular pool I would swim the length of in peace and quiet.

I met a strange man on the way to the house. He spoke with a blend of Effort verging on Forceful Intonation in his broken English. His clothes fitted his slim frame and his trousers were too short for him even by Qur'anic expectations. But he was agreeable and he invited me to coffee someplace with his friends and guests at 8pm. I was either way about it. Until he declined to take my number. He said it would be ok whether I came or not. That he would be waiting for me by the dock. That was the clincher I suppose. I took it to mean that he was acting in good faith (compared to the harassment I received earlier).

And so when 8pm arrived, I excused myself from a film screening and met him at the dock. There was a French girl there and another one of his friends and we made our way to the beach.

The coffee drinking had disappeared from the programme and instead we sat around a fire, him and his friend beating the drums they had brought, singing songs they understood the words to be of songs in English. You could tell that he hadn't been to school because his words were strung together like he couldn't differentiate them, repeating d'youknowwhatimeans and inventing what he thought Bob Marley was singing..

There was weed to be shared and in my content, I thought that at that moment; I was happy, utterly happy and the happiest I'd ever been.

Carlotti described beauty as being the summation of things working together so that nothing need be added, taken away or altered.

I thought of happiness in this way. But then it vanished as easily as it had come. The strange man sat directly in front of me, his legs stretched out so that they were on both sides of me, urging me to beat the drum he placed before me. I was uncomfortable with our positioning but I beat it anyway. And then he insisted on hugging me one too many times, saying that this was how things were done in Lamu.

The French girl and his friend seemed comfortable enough and I was grateful for their presence. "We're going to get more firewood," they suddenly rose and said.

I said, "ok" and hesitantly watched them walk away.They came back soon enough though and we continued to sing and drum to whatever songs we all knew.

But then Strange Man said we were going to get more wine and motioned for me to go with him. Lamu is a safe place, I repeated to myself and we walked to a man's house who sold wine. He had been sleeping but he opened his gate at our knocking and sold us two bottles of wine. Some kind of fruit wine. I wondered why he was so willing to spend so much...

We were finally making our way back to join the French girl and his friend again and I quickened my pace toward them. He held my waist as we walked as if it were the most natural thing to do and I made as many excuses as I could to be apart, oops I dropped something, oh what's that over there?

But he kept taking me back into him when the diversion was over.

Lamu is a safe place I reassured myself, maybe he's just very friendly and very tactile? ... And then he reached for my lips - at which point there could be no more excuses and I bolted for the town.

"Wait," he called after me, "this is how we do in Lamu," he reasoned. But I didn't stop and I ran until I was lighted by the street restobars again. I panicked because it was late and I couldn't tell which street was mine but I would rather have lost myself in the maze of narrow alleyways than anymore of myself with him.