Free The White Masai by Corinne Hofmann Page A

hut is the most modest of all those I’ve seen. It’s round like the others and knocked together out of various planks, fabrics and bits of plastic. I can hardly stand up indoors, the fire in the middle fills the entire room with choking smoke, and there’s no window. I drink my tea outside because otherwise my eyes would be smarting and tears running down my cheeks. I ask Priscilla, somewhat worriedly, if we have to spend the night here. She laughs and says, ‘No, Corinne.’ Another brother with a bigger house lives a half hour away: we’ll spend the night with him. There’s no room here anyway, because all the children sleep here and there’s nothing to eat but milk and corn. I breathe a sigh of relief.
    Just before dusk we set off for the other brother. Once again we get a festive welcome. Apparently, they hadn’t been told Priscilla was coming and bringing a white visitor. This brother is very friendly, and I can have a decent conversation with him. Even his wife speaks a little English, and they’ve both been to school.
    But once again I have to select an animal. I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to eat the tough goat meat again, but on the other hand I really am hungry. So I steel myself and ask if there’s anything else, explaining that we white people aren’t used to so much meat. They all laugh, and his wife asks if I would prefer chicken with potatoes and vegetables. ‘Oh, yes!’ is my immediate reaction to such a magnificent alternative menu, and his wife goes off and comes back with a plucked chicken, potatoes and a sort of spinach. These Masai are proper farmers; some of them have been to school, and they work hard in the fields. We women and children eat a really good meal together, a sort of stew that tastes quite wonderful after all the mountains of meat.
    We stay here for almost a week, using it as a base to visit other people. They even provide hot water especially for me to wash in. Even so, our clothes are dirty and smell appallingly of smoke. I’m beginning to get tired of this life and wish I were back in Mombasa with the beach and my new bed. When I tell Priscilla I’d like to leave, she tells me we’re invited to a wedding in two days’ time. So we stay.
    The wedding is a few miles away. One of the richest Masai there is marrying his third wife. I’m surprised to find out that the Masai apparently can have as many wives as they can feed. It reminds me of the rumours about Lketinga: could it be that he really is married? The thought preys on me, but I tell myself he wouldn’t have kept it a secret from me. There’s some other reason behind his disappearance, and I have to find it out as soon as I get back to Mombasa.
    The ceremony is impressive, with hundreds of men and women. The proud bridegroom is presented to me, and he informs me that if I want to get married he would take me as well. I’m speechless. He turns to Priscilla and actually asks her how many cows he’d have to pay for me. Priscilla manages to put him off, however, and he leaves.
    Then, accompanied by the first two wives, the bride arrives: a stunningly beautiful girl painted from head to foot. I’m shocked by her age, for she can’t be older than twelve or thirteen. The other two wives are probably no more than eighteen or twenty. The bridegroom isn’t exactly an old man, but he’s probably at least thirty-five. I ask Priscilla: ‘How can people get married when they’re little more than children?’ That’s just the way it is, she says; she was not much older herself. I feel a sort of pity for the girl, who looks proud but unhappy.
    Once again my thoughts turn to Lketinga. Does he have any idea that I’m twenty-seven? All of a sudden I feel old, unsure of myself and certainly not very attractive in these grubby clothes. The numerous offers directed to me via Priscilla do nothing to diminish the feeling. I don’t fancy any of them, and in any case Lketinga is the only one I can imagine as a