Free Reunion in Barsaloi by Corinne Hofmann

bleeding from a scratch on my upper arm where I’ve scraped it against one of the dozens of willow branches sticking out of the walls.
    Mama has got chai on the boil on the fire. She’s holding James’s little baby in her arms, nursing him gently and singing softly to him. All I can see of the baby is a little pair of naked legs sticking out of a dress; her head is covered with a big hat to conceal her face. I recall the old tradition that for the first few weeks nobody outside immediate family members is supposed to look on the face of a newborn child. The Samburu believe in a form of witchcraft and fear someone might put an evil spell on a newborn that could cause bad luck or even death. When I came home from the hospital with our daughter Napirai I was so proud I wanted to show her off to everybody but Mama insisted I kept the child indoors or whenever I took her out at least covered with face with a cloth. It nearly broke my heart.
    Mama gets one of the young girls in the corral to take the baby to its mother. Despite the smoky atmosphere I immediately feel at home again in the manyatta and gladly accept a cup of chai . Lketinga sits down beside me while Albert and Klaus, after saying hello, sit down outside. Mama sits opposite on her own cowhide. This is her own special corner and no one else is allowed to be there except for very small children. Behind her one part of the wall has a sheet of corrugated iron against it covered with a blanket with a gathered-up sooty mosquito net over it. Next to her is her private lockable metal chest, the key to which hangs permanently around her neck. This is where she keeps all the most important things from her long life. It also contains a pair of mugs for tea and various cardboardboxes. Next to the hearth are a teapot and a sooty black pan. Between the hearth and her naked foot lies the severed, blood-encrusted head of the goat slaughtered yesterday. At some stage in the day she’ll put that on to boil for stock. A very young kid is tethered to a small divider, dozing quietly. Next to me there is another metal chest on which I recognize several bit and bobs belonging to Lketinga, which leads me to believe that at the moment he must be living here while his new wife is building a manyatta somewhere. Samburu custom does not allow him to bring a third wife into the manyatta built by the second. I had been hoping to spend a night in Mama’s manyatta but under these circumstances I reckon it wouldn’t be a good idea. After all, I don’t want to cause any unnecessary complications.
    While I sip at my hot tea I do my best to follow the conversation between Lketinga and his mother, which is getting more and more animated. I ask what the matter is and he tells me there’s no more cornmeal and so she can’t cook ugali for the children, and also that some of the other women have been getting at her because we haven’t distributed any presents in the form of food. He’s been explaining to her that James carried everything into his house yesterday and we’ll open the presents when he comes back this evening. That seems to calm her down and she’s happy again. Seeing as it’s a long time to wait until evening when you’re hungry we go and fetch one of the sacks of cornmeal. Mama says thank you as usual but with a rather grumpy expression that is only explained when a load of other women start queuing up at the door of her hut. We go out to make room for them, and in any case we want to go down to the river.

At The River
    I want to try to find the place where our old manyatta stood. We plough our way through the thorny savannah vegetation to the opposite side of the village. As ever Klaus has his video camera, and Albert a stills camera. When we reach the higher ground I can find only a few thorny stumps marking the site of the old corral. But there’s nothing else to be seen except the familiar sandy, red-brown earth. Only the thorn