Free Reunion in Barsaloi by Corinne Hofmann Page A

tree under which Mama and the children used to sit still stands there forlorn.
    Lketinga and I tell our two companions about our life here as we walk down the same track that I used for years to get to the river to fetch drinking water or to wash myself and my clothes. In the old days I used to keep meeting other women along the way but nowadays, with the standpipe in the village, nobody comes this way anymore.
    As a matter of course Lketinga takes my rucksack and slings it across his shoulders. We lead the way and he asks me: ‘You remember this way?’ I tell him I remember it as if it were yesterday and we walk on together in silence. Every now and then my skirt catches on a thorn. I make a point of only wearing skirts here in Barsaloi as trousers on women are considered ‘improper’.
    We’ve almost reached the river when Lketinga begins to ask me about the book and the film. Somewhat reproachfully he says: ‘Why is there somebody playing me, and why isn’t it me? What’s the point of that? Do you know this man? What has he got to do with us?’ Lost in my memories of the old days, I’m completely flustered by this at first. I try to explain to him carefully that the people in the film have nothing to do with us. ‘Even I’m not playing myself. It’s another woman you don’t even know. Mamaisn’t Mama and James isn’t James. That’s the way things are in films. A lot of people in Europe have enjoyed our story and want to see what it’s like here. The film will show them without them having to come here.’
    He listens carefully, thinks for a minute and then says: ‘But people keep coming here and telling me you were unfaithful to me, that you have your own airplane in Switzerland, lots of houses and big cars.’ At first these absurd stories leave me speechless, but then I come around and ask him who these people were who’ve been telling such lies. ‘I don’t know who they are,’ he says, ‘but they come from all over the place, from Switzerland too, and maybe they know you. I don’t know if it’s all true or not. Sometimes warriors who’ve been down on the coast come back home and tell tall tales too.’
    I feel quite upset and sad but try to keep calm as I tell him as forcefully as I can: ‘I don’t know who these people are! But you’ve known me for eighteen years. I used to live in Barsaloi and did everything I could to survive and have a happy life here with you. I would have died if I’d stayed any longer. And ever since I left I’ve sent money to your family despite the fact I left this country with nothing. Do you think that’s normal? Do you think if I were some sort of bad person I’d have bothered with you and your family for all these years? In my country it’s not normal for a wife to support her husband if she leaves him. I even sent money to you when I didn’t have a job and after the success of my book, a lot more. The publishing house and the film producers have helped you too. Do you think if you were in my place you’d have done all that for me?’
    He looks at me and in a quieter voice says, ‘No, I don’t think so, but I don’t know. And I don’t know why people keep telling me stories like that. Some journalists came and wanted me to tell them nasty stories about you. I told them that you’re still my wife even if you live in Switzerland, that you help us and I don’t see why I should tell nasty stories. I said you still belonged to our family and you’re still the mother of my child. I simply refused to talk to them anymore.’
    I tell him that’s the best thing to do and try to explain that a lot of it’s to do with envy. I remind him about the way people ganged up against us in Mombasa, about the way so-called friends spun rumours because I was young and pretty and, in African terms, rich.
    ‘And today you get all the help you need, you have a big herd of animals, James has his own house and the film people will see to it thatyou have a wooden house too.