I tell Napirai all about Markus over lunch and get a cavalcade of questions in return:
‘What does he look like? Is he old or young? Does he like me too? Does he have children?’
When I say yes in answer to the last question she gets properly interested:
‘How old are they and are they going to come round to play some time?’
Questions and more questions. From now on the only thing she wants to know is when she is going to meet Markus. We decide on the following weekend. I want to see what sort of impression he'll make on my little girl. When the weekend comes and the doorbell rings she rushes into her room and just peeks out through a crack in the door.
When I've welcomed Markus she comes out and looks at him for a bit, then asks where his children are. He tells her affably that they only live with him every other weekend and that's why they couldn't come with him this time. But he has got a little present for her. She takes it from him with curiosity, then pulls me by the hand into her room and says:
‘But Mama, he looks young.’
I have to laugh because he's the same age as I am, and I don't know if she means I look a lot older or if it's because she's comparing him with the first relationship I had three years ago. Whatever the case, he's a hit with my Napirai, who's normally very cagey about men. With two daughters of his own he knows how to twist her round his little finger.
A bit later the boy next door drops in apparently just on the off chance, looking bored and with his baseball cap pulled down over his forehead. I introduce my new friend to him too and scarcely have the children disappeared round the corner than I hear him say to Napirai: ‘Cool guy!’ We have to laugh: he's passed the first test.
We spend a pleasant evening together, Markus and Napirai gradually getting to know one another. When she goes to bed Markus actually tells her a bedtime story. I'm thrilled that apart from all his other good qualities he's also an attentive father figure. It's simply too good to be true.
Two days later I'm doing a book promotion in the Bernhard Theater in Gern. Just before I set off I get a fax from the promoter to tell me the Kenyan women are planning a big demonstration. I'm starting to get annoyed by the whole thing particularly as neither my publishers nor I have had any written complaints. There's simply no platform for a discussion. A security teams meets me in Zurich. Outside the theater there are about fifteen people with drums and other instruments on the pavement milking a lot of noise. Once again I try to talk to them. I go up to the spokeswoman and ask what the demonstration is about.
I get the same answer: that I'm casting a slur on the honor of Kenyans and I'll see what's coming to me; I'm earning lots of money and should give half of it to my Kenyan husband. The sums they mention make me laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation. They furthermore insist that my family back in Kenya is furious at me. That's when I pull James's most recent letter out of my pocket, having brought it along on purpose, and read it to them. In it he says that they all thank me for my support and help and are all happy that my book is selling well. The spokeswoman says it's all a lie and it's not a letter from James. By now I've had enough of wasting my time talking to some hysterical woman and walk off towards the security people. One of the women comes after me and shouts:
‘The child belongs to Kenya! We'll take her back there and claim half the money!’
Now I'm really furious and at the same time sad that these nutcases should get involved and out of greed, envy or whatever reason try to damage my relationship with my Kenyan family. The fact that they might put my child at risk is the most horrible threat of all.
This time too, people ask about the demonstration in the questions and answers session after the reading. It's become clear to me now that these are fanatics and we'll have to take them seriously. The next day I go to the police and report the demonstrators, whose names we now know as they had to register their demonstration, for harassment. They had apparently hoped for up to a hundred and fifty people, but only a tenth of that number actually turned up. The police treat my complaint seriously and question those involved. They later tell me that it seems their complaints really are made-up and unfounded and the women have assured the police they will leave me alone from now on. As a result I withdraw my complaint against them. It would appear they had no idea how seriously we take threatening actions against other people here in Switzerland. And from then on they give me no further bother.
The whole business has a plus side too: letters from many other Kenyan women telling me they don't all think like that.
I shouldn't worry; they know there's nothing untrue in the book. Occasionally I even receive little presents from Africans with home-made cards and kindly words. Things like that relieve me as I've no idea whom I'm supposed to have insulted.
At the same time it occurs to me that it's been more than two months since I heard from James. And then, a few days later, a letter arrives. As always he starts by sending us his best wishes and telling us everything is OK. He apologies for not writing for so long but there were things he had to sort out. He had heard from Kenyans living in Switzerland that they didn't agree with the book because I hadn't treated the Samburu and Masai or their culture with respect. He had also been called in to the District Officer in Maralal to give an explanation. I shouldn't forget that according to Kenyan law I was still Lketinga's wife and Napirai his daughter. James had heard from the Kenyan women that his family was to get lots of money and so he asks me for more financial support. He also says he would like to read the book so he could make up his own mind who to believe. Then he goes on to tell me about plans for his forthcoming wedding and sends me photos of his bride-to-be, a young fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
I find the letter irritating and thought-provoking. It would seem these women will stop at nothing. They've even spread their evil rumors back to Maralal. It makes me really sad: I lived with Lketinga's family and thought they would have known me better than that. Ever since I returned I've sent them what I could to support them, even before the book was a success and even so, James has doubts about who to believe. I need to do something but right now don't know what as I can't go to Kenya myself. The whole situation weighs heavily on my mind and I talk it over with my publisher. He decides to go to Maralal himself as soon as possible to meet my Kenyan relations. We realise it's important that someone should translate the book for Lketinga and James, and Jutta comes to mind, as she lives in Kenya, knows the area well and most importantly of all speaks the local language. The publisher gets in touch with her while I write to James to tell him he'll come out to see them in two months time, in June 1999.
My new relationship on the other hand is going well. I meet Markus as often as possible. When I'm at home he comes and stays with us and goes straight from our house to his work in Zurich. Even though I had thought I had no time or space for a man in my life, all of a sudden the problem seems to have simply evaporated. Napirai is a real fan of Markus even if from time to time there's a note of jealousy, as when she says: ‘She's my Mama. She belongs just to me!’
Meanwhile I've also got to know Markus's children. Although they were initially very shy, Napirai's constant urging of them to come and play eventually got them to relax and now the three of them play together as if they'd known one another for an eternity. My office has been turned into a spare bedroom and we look forward to having the pair of them come to stay again. Markus and I do lots of stuff together and although we've only been together two months it seems like years already. Obviously that's partly because we were at school together and still can spend ages chatting about the old days. If I have a reading in Zurich, we meet up afterwards in the center of town and go wandering through the little streets cuddling like teenagers. Who cares what other people think? After such a long period of celibacy there's nothing to be ashamed of. I couldn't care less what other people think: I'm thirty-nine years old and can look after myself.