That May I'm almost constantly on the road and have loads of interviews to do. The readings are almost always packed out and the book's reputation is growing. I spend a whole six days at Weiden Literary Festival. I can't help feeling excited to be up there with ‘established’ authors or seeing myself on posters or in brochures alongside serious literary figures. Many of them have published lots of books whereas I've only got one. I'm extremely nervous on the festival day when it's my turn to give a short reading. I'm sitting on the stage with four other authors, each of whom is to read a short passage from their book. I'm relieved to see from the public reaction that mine has gone down well.
Back home there's a new pile of letters waiting, and more at the publishers’. The first five hundred I replied to by hand, but there are more and more of them and I simply can't manage it any more, not least because almost every letter-writer has more questions.
A lot of schoolchildren are choosing my book as a topic for essays or as course reading material and ask me to give them more information to help them. I try to answer at least their emails and letters just because at their age, I would never have had the courage to write to a ‘celebrity’.
At the beginning of June, Markus and I have a joint birthday party as his is only two days after mine. We hold it on the day in between, and invite all our friends. It's a great party and lots of my girlfriends congratulate me on my good luck and say: ‘Corinne, we've known you for nine years but never seen you as happy’. It's nearly dawn when the last guests leave.
For the next few weeks I'm tied up with work, which I still love, and have little free time but we make the most of it.
On July 10, my publisher flies to Nairobi with a friend. In his luggage, apart from lots of pictures of Napirai there's a cassette on which all of my family have recorded messages in English for James and especially Lketinga and Mama. They're going to be picked up in Nairobi by Jutta and her companion who've prepared everything over the past few weeks. She's already been to see my family in Maralal and has even taken the trouble to translate the entire book into Swahili for James and Lketinga so they can form their own opinion of it.
This little group takes the plane to Maralal as they don't have time to make the two-day journey by bus. My publisher and his companion meet James and Lketinga as agreed at the Samburu Lodge. James is immediately open and friendly but Lketinga initially regards these two strangers with suspicion and mistrust. It's only when he hears the greetings played on a cassette recorder they bought in Nairobi that he lightens up and becomes more friendly although obviously somewhat pensive. As he listens to the voices he keeps his head down looking at the pictures and the books. It's a moving moment for everyone there.
James and Lketinga are astounded by all the newspaper articles and more recent photos and have lots of questions. They discuss them, tell stories and chat for hours, and James and Lketinga say they're proud of the book and have no problems with it.
The next day they want to take the ‘mzungus to see Mama who's still living near Maralal. They travel in a pickup across uneven terrain up into the hills where she and some of the rest of the family are living. Mama gives the two white people a respectful but reserved welcome with an emotionless expression on her face, while her son James hands out all the presents they have brought — sugar, maize flour, drinks and tobacco — in her manyatta. But when she drapes her new colorful wool blanket over her shoulders and they show her the pictures of Napirai, she finally starts to smile.
My publisher is extremely moved to see the very spartan conditions inside her tiny, windowless hut, filled with smoke from the fire. He also notices the severe poverty of the people living here because the continuing fighting means they can't return to Barsaloi and have very few animals. He sets up bank accounts for James and Lketinga in Maralal so they can receive money each month.
On the day they are due to leave, the two ‘mzungus’ invite everyone to a meal in Maralal. Of course, only the men turn up, but even so there are fifteen of them around a long wooden table. The publisher, who happens to be a strict vegetarian, is astonished to see the huge mountain of meat served up and rapidly reduced to a few bones. After a last wander around the colorful town market surrounded by noisy hordes of curious children, the two visitors then say goodbye.
When my publisher and his companion return and tell me how moved they were by the people they met and show me all the photos they've taken, I have to fight back the tears. I can smell the land, the people and see every single detail in my mind's eye without them describing it. Obviously everyone there has grown older, as I have too, but the troubled times, hunger, the continuous fleeing from conflict, and perhaps also his experience with me, have all made Lketinga age faster. He has become an elegant, elderly ‘Mzee. But the scars from his car accident and his history of alcohol abuse have left their marks on his face. Looking at these pictures, I can see no sign of the ‘demigod’ I used to see him as.
That August I keep my promise to my friend Anneliese, and she and I fly off with Napirai for a sumptuous holiday in Jamaica. Just like in all the brochures, we have rooms right on the palm-fringed beach by the blue ocean. Even so this country doesn't do anything for me. It's almost certainly partly because I miss Markus whom I've only been living with for four months now. Automatically however I keep looking for something about this holiday destination that will move me in the same way Kenya did, and so far I haven't found it. Sometimes I ask myself if it would be the same now if I went back.
Nonetheless the journey has had one positive side effect. Already back home I had decided to give up smoking as Markus was a non-smoker. I decided therefore to pass the time on the long flight by reading a book offering help on how to give up. I found that already after the first few pages I no longer felt the need for a cigarette, while Anneliese was dying for one. I know how awful it is when the only thing you can think of is a cigarette. We had scarcely landed when she lit up, only to have an armed policeman standing next to us say sternly: ‘No smoking at the airport!’ and she had to put it out again tetchy.
I find to my own surprise that the lack of a cigarette isn't bothering me at all. I'm not exactly sure what clicked in my head but the book certainly helped. During the holiday I actually pick up a cigarette a couple of times and light it but decide that after smoking for years, it's simply no longer for me. The rest of the holiday is enjoyable and relaxing but I'm still glad to be going home.
In the meantime my book is being translated into more and more languages. Over the next two years it's going to appear in France, Italy, Holland, all the Scandinavian countries, Israel, even in Japan. That's fifteen languages to date with more to follow. Who would have thought it! I'm not usually given to Schadenfreude but I'd like to see the faces of the publishers who glibly turned it down. The book is making it on to the bestseller lists in nearly every country where it's published and now I'm getting letters from all over the world. In a few cases I fly off to the launch in the relevant countries and give interviews to various newspapers and magazines and even appear on TV.