By the end of January, it's so cold that the nearby lake, Pfaffikersee, has frozen over, something that only happened every ten years or so at most. So we all head out to walk on the ice, with Napirai wrapped up warm and being pulled on a sledge behind us. I watch in amazement at all these people merrily careering around on the ice on all sorts of strange conveyances. Totally crazy: only three months ago I was sweating in a totally alien world and now here I am strolling about on a frozen lake. Even now I'm still automatically drawing comparisons every day with things back in Africa. Looking at all these happy faces, old and young, I'm still struck by how cut off from one another most of them are in their daily lives, and how little respect young people show to their elders. Before I lived in Africa I hadn't noticed, but now I can't help comparing them with the Samburu. Back there people are respected more and more as they get older. Good looks may fade but respect increases. The older a person is, male or female, the more their decisions are respected. Young people don't do anything without their elders’ approval. When James came back home from school in the holidays he would go to his mother and bow his head before her without looking her in the eye. Only when he was telling his stories about the past term would he gradually glance at her briefly. A Masai grandmother is normally surrounded by a host of children and everyone who passes, man or woman, young or old, friend or stranger, says hello to her and stops for a chat. Even though my mother-in-law spends all day just sitting under a tree outside her hut, life is never dull for her.
Compare that to the way things are back here in Switzerland: I can't help noticing how many people there are sitting on their own in cafes or restaurants. Nobody pays them any attention, nobody talks to them. People here have more material things than they could ever need, yet they have no time for one another, no social network to support them. The other side of the coin is that people here can get by living on their own. Amidst the Kenyan Masai that would simply be inconceivable.
When we get back from our walk on the ice I find a letter from James, written on January 12. I open it excitedly looking for news about Mama and people at home in Barsaloi.
Dear Corinne and family,
I was delighted to receive your long letter today and really pleased to see the photos of you and Napirai and your mother. I took the photos to show Mama and she cried, but I consoled her and told her that hopefully you would come and see us when I have finished school. Everybody here was happy to see the photos of you and Napirai. I told the family you only left because of Lketinga and they knew it was true because I came back from Mombasa with nothing for them. They all say he can stay there; in next to no time there'll be nothing left of all the money you left behind.
Corinne, I'm not going back to Mombasa because I don't want to face all the problems I told you about again. It's good that you've sold the shop so not everything has been lost. If Lketinga comes home I'll help him here. On the twelfth I'm going off to school from Maralal. Richard helped me open a bank account in Maralal, so you can send us money there if you want to.
I told Mama and the rest of the family everything you and your family wrote to me. Some of them were. disappointed that you had left but understood you had no choice. They all said they'd like to see you again if you come back home, even just for a visit. But it would be better if I was there at the time. You also said you wanted to send some things to me; you can send them to me in school, that's easy, but please don't send anything that I'll have to pay money to the post office for. I'll be in school for the next three months and will try to get in touch with you from there.
Giuliani and Roberto are still in Barsaloi. It's very green there now and we have lots of milk. Our family isn't there any more, however. They've moved about two kilometers away towards Lpusi. We don't have as many goats as we used to. Your black goats and the buck with the white spots have grown really big. One day in the holidays I'll take pictures of my family and the animals and send them to you. I got the little radio from Lketinga and have it with me in school. That's the only good thing he gave me.
I took some of your clothing, skirts mostly, and Mama wears them now. I had to steal them when I was leaving because Lketinga wouldn't let me have them.
Please send me the address of your brother Marc so I can send him some news about the family and me so he doesn't forget us. If he wants to come to Barsaloi some time, like we spoke about, I'd be pleased to welcome him and show him around.
Best wishes to your family and friends and our dear little sister Napirai. I pray that you will be successful in your life in Switzerland.
P. S. A last word from the family: they all send their best wishes to you and Napirai and hope you enjoy Switzerland but they would be happy to see you again back here, even if just for a visit.
The letter cheers me up. I'm pleased the people back in Barsaloi aren't upset with me and would welcome us back. It's particularly important for Napirai. I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders and could give my mother-in-law a big kiss on her shaven head. I write back with a light heart.
Two days later a letter arrives from a German woman living in Kenya and I realise that I must have met her briefly. She wants to buy the car from Lketinga and needs the enclosed documents signed by me. The car got damaged by a fire but she still wants to buy it and have it repaired. I can hardly believe what I'm reading: my lovely expensive car half burnt-out! Obviously Lketinga isn't going to keep the shop on, despite what the Indian told me. How could he fetch new stock for the shop without a car? But how is he? Was he injured in whatever accident he must have had? I couldn't care less about the car but I could burst into tears. At the same time, I can't help wondering what happened. He probably had the car full of Masai going to one of their performances, all smoking, and he probably never topped up the oil or water.
All these thoughts are running through my head as I sit there studying the documents. I would really like to lift the phone and call Kenya to talk to Lketinga. But nobody I know out there has a phone. Most of them, even down by the coast and the tourist industry, don't even have electricity. The only light they have comes from oil lamps. So there's nothing I can do but fill in the forms, send them off and wait to see what more I hear.
Getting Used to Our New Lives
At the end of February my mother points out a notice in the paper about setting up a self-help group for all single mothers in the district. ‘Go and sign up,’ she tells me sensibly, ‘and you'll get to meet people again and make friends.’ I hesitate a bit but eventually I do indeed sign up. In mid-March I get an invitation to a Sunday brunch where we're all supposed to get to know one another.
The meeting is held in a cosy little forest chalet on the fringes of the village. When I arrive with Napirai there are already a few women there with their toddlers. Some of the children are running around the place, a few others clinging to their mothers. Napirai isn't in the slightest shy and goes up to the other children and looks at them closely. They look closely back as she is the only non-white child. More and more women keep arriving until we're up to nearly twenty adults.
The tables are all laid and there's the smell of coffee in the air. The two founder members introduce themselves and explain that the idea is to meet up for brunch once a month to talk to each other about our problems and help each other out where we can. Those of us who are stronger should help the weaker and gradually we'll all build up a network of social contacts. After that everyone introduces themselves individually and explains how they come to be bringing up their children on their own.