Back from Africa

Publishing Sensation

I sign the contract for my book, The White Masai, on 1 February 1998, without realizing that I've just done something that within six months will have changed my life completely and will unleash a chain of events that will hit me like an avalanche.

Spring and summer pass quietly enough. I feel securely in the saddle at work now and sales are going well as I'm getting more and more regular customers. I love my work and make good money doing something I enjoy; in short I'm extremely satisfied with my way of life. I can't help making the comparison with how hard my life would be if I had stayed in Kenya.

In the middle of August I get a package from my publishers. My hands are already shaking as I start to open it as I know the only thing it can be is a copy of my finished book. And indeed, there it is in front of me. I'm speechless. It feels so wonderful to hold it in my hands that I simply can't let go of it. I'm absolutely thrilled. It's almost as if I've given birth to another child. It's simply overwhelming. I make an excited phone call to my boss, whom I'd told about the book just a few weeks ago, and gush over the phone to him. All my girlfriends are infected by my rush of euphoria and we end up having a spontaneous party at home that evening. Everyone comes by to admire the ‘great work’ and tell me it's bound to be a huge success.

When the last guests finally drift away around midnight I just sit there staring at The White Masai in awe. That very night I write a long letter to James telling him about the book I've written to tell people about his tribe, about my great Kenyan love and its sad ending. I realise it's not going to be easy for him to explain all this to his family and the people from the village.

Towards the end of August the first story about my life and the book appears in a women's magazine. I've had nothing to do with it; they simply took pictures out of the book. But that same day, just as I've visited my last dental practice out in Utzwil my mobile starts ringing in the car. When I access my voice mail I can just make out someone gushing on about ‘Bio chat show producer’, ‘great love’, and ‘TV appearance’, but there's a telephone number at the end. I ring up straight away and find myself talking to someone from the production team on Alfred Biolek's TV chat show.

The woman on the other end tells me she's just received a copy of my book from the publishers and has read it at a single sitting. Next Tuesday, the topic on the chat show is to be ‘great loves’ and one of the people scheduled to appear has canceled, so she wants to know if I could leap in at the last moment and chat with Mr Biolek about my experiences. I couldn't get better publicity. I agree immediately. The producer tells me that she'll come to Zurich in two days time, on Sunday, to make sure I'm ‘TV-material’. She'll fix up all the rest with the press office. I put down the phone and shout for joy, if only to release my nervous tension. My fingers are shaking as I dial the number of my publisher to tell him the news. I also take the opportunity to suggest that the first edition of 10,000 might be too small a print run. He laughs and tells me: ‘Let's see how they go first. Remember you're an unknown author and we're just a little publishing house.’

Well, let's wait and see how it goes on Sunday. I spend Sunday with Andrea practicing speaking in a good German accent instead of my Swiss dialect so I sound good on TV too. At the same time she uses her hairdressing skills to give me a new hairdo. As it turns out, Sunday goes well and my appearance on the chat show is agreed.

There's a limousine waiting to meet me at Cologne airport to take me to a really posh hotel. Two hours later I'm sitting in make-up getting my hair seen to and my face powdered. Obviously I'm all excited but I keep telling myself: ‘Corinne, just pretend Herr Biolek is one of your dentist customers but instead of talking to him about fillings or moldings, you're telling him about your life in Kenya.’

On the set I'm seated next to the actor Helmut Berger, waiting for my turn and trying to follow the conversation between Sonja Ziemann and her husband Charles Regnier, another pair of famous actors. But I can hardly concentrate; I'm so busy trying to guess what I'm going to be asked and how I should give the best and most pithy answers. It seems as if the two of them are going on talking forever.

At last there's the applause to signal that their turn is over and I hear my name being announced. My legs turn to lead and my heart starts pounding as I walk over to my seat. I've made up my mind to pay really good attention to the question before I answer, which is not something I always do. Herr Biolek and I start chatting and before long I'm aware of some good-humored laughing in the audience and also some applause. A few minutes of this and I'm really starting to feel at ease, but by then my turn is almost over. The audience claps and as Berger passes by on his way to the hot seat, he gives me a little clap and says: ‘Fascinating, you've stolen the show from me!’ At that moment I realise that I've done well on my first TV appearance and feel hugely relieved. When we go to eat together later, everyone has questions for me. One of the first questions is whether the book is going to come out in Italian. How on earth would I know?

When I get home my girlfriends all ring up to tell me how well I did. My boss even calls with a laugh to say he wonders how long I'll still be working for him. But I haven't the slightest interest in changing my job and keep on plugging away at my dentists.

One week after my TV appearance however the whole first edition print run has sold out. There are no more books to be had, but I'm coming down with requests for interviews. Everybody wants more photos of me and my daughter. To start with, Napirai isn't very keen about all this not least because she has nothing to say to anyone about Kenya or her father, as she was far too young to remember anything. But for the next few days our flat is swarming like a beehive.

In the morning I do my rounds of the dental practices and then in the afternoon I dash off to the hairdresser to be ready for the photographers. Every evening I clean the flat so everything will look nice when the next photographer or film crew turns up. Everything that's going on seems like a dream. I keep seeing my picture in German papers, sometimes on the front page, or next to famous people like Bill Clinton or some famous actor.

My long years working as a sales representative are paying off now because I don't worry about people touching me and I don't say anything too stupid. I'm asked to do several radio interviews and before long I'm doing my second TV appearance. Eventually the Swiss media home in on me too and stories appear in several newspapers and magazines with large circulations. But for nearly three weeks there isn't a single copy of The White Masai to be had in the bookshops, and loads of crazy people start ringing me up at home to try to find out where they can get hold of a copy. Then at last the second edition comes out with double the print run, and there's a third already in the works.

The official book launch is planned for September 16 in a wonderful garden center in Winterthur. I warn the bookseller to make sure there are lots of places because I'm sure loads of people are going to turn up. He laughs and says, ‘Look, this isn't my first book launch and you know it would be highly unusual if we filled more than a hundred seats for an unknown author and a relatively unknown publishing house.’ In the end however they're forced to go and fetch more and more chairs until the room's full to bursting point. I spot even my old schoolteacher amongst the audience.

The reading goes well. It only takes a couple of minutes for me to get into my element and not even notice my family sitting in the front row. It's up to me to organise the reading and so I pick out a few episodes and then talk a bit more about them afterwards. It's a tremendous experience and the atmosphere really gets to the audience and I find the whole thing positively infectious. Afterwards I have to answer lots of questions from the listeners. Some of them want to know how my daughter and I are getting on today. What's Lketinga doing? Has he gone back to his tribe? Do you regret this whole affair? Questions and yet more questions. And then for the next hour I'm signing copies of the book.

My publisher has come down from Munich especially for this event, so some of those who've turned up are lucky and can get a book fresh off the presses. Again and again people ask me where and when I'm doing my next reading. Lots of them say they have friends and relatives who'd like to come to a reading. It seems we simply can't keep up with our own success. The next few days fly by. Although I spend all my time either at work or organizing other things to do with the book I almost never feel tired: everything's so new and interesting. Before long I'm asked to do a reading for the people in our local area, in a function room at a nearby restaurant. As I make my way there, I can hardly believe the number of cars parked outside. When I get to the door there are people in a long queue waiting to get in. I can't believe they all just want to hear my story, to feel a part of it!

They have to close the doors to the room when there are a hundred and fifty people inside, which annoys some of those who've made the journey especially. I go out and tell those still waiting that I'll do another reading in the same place in two weeks time. There's no more I can do at the moment. This time I'm a lot more nervous than I was at the book launch, as it's sort of a ‘home game’. But before long I realise that a lot of the people in the audience have come from elsewhere as I don't see too many familiar faces.

The evening goes the same way as the one in Winterthur. After the reading I take questions from the audience. Suddenly one elderly man in a dark-green pullover and braces asks me how we got on together sexually. He says it in such a salacious way, despite the fact that his wife is sitting there beside him, that I have to think to myself for a moment before answering.

‘Look here, I'm not going to describe any specific sexual act here, but you can read it all in the book.’

He fires back cheekily: ‘This is a reading, isn't it, not a sales evening.’

That starts a bit of a commotion in the room and a strikingly good-looking blond woman gets up and puts him down: ‘It's the sort of event you don't belong at with your dirty little mind.’

There's a burst of applause and I give her a beaming smile.

Later that evening somebody else tries to attack me from another angle: ‘Aren't you ashamed for your daughter's sake to publish all this intimate detail under your own name.’

But before I can answer the same lively blond woman is saying: ‘This woman has absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in this book and her daughter will be proud of her mother. I've read the book three times already and I recommend you do the same.’

I'm moved to be defended like this by someone I don't know. A little later when I'm signing copies, all of a sudden she's standing there before me with a beautiful big bunch of flowers. I'm more than astounded and say thanks and ask her if she'd like to come back for a nightcap with a little group of friends I've invited. She's delighted to accept.

After the room has cleared we all go back to my place. Andrea and her mother have made some tasty little snacks and we all get chatting, and I have time for a proper conversation with Irene, the woman from the audience. The last few leave after midnight and finally I can get to bed, tired but happy. It's back to visiting the dentists the next day. I keep getting recognized at the — practices I visit now because one or other of the assistants has seen me on TV or read one of the stories about me in the press. That's no disadvantage, I soon realise.

At long last there's another letter from Africa and I'm interested to know what they'll say about my book. James himself is pleased that I've written a book about my life with Lketinga and the Samburu. But for most of the others who've never been to school, it's hard to understand, particularly as most of them have never even held a book in their hands. James says if he had known I was writing a book he would have helped me with a lot more information about Samburu culture. He hopes that one day he'll be able to read it in English.

He goes on to tell me how hard it is for each and every one of them now just to get by and thanks me for the money I wired to his account. He can't teach in the school yet and is wondering about opening a shop with a few things to sell. However he lacks the start-up capital. He'd also like to come to Switzerland some time. He sends Napirai and me his best wishes, and says he'll always do what he can for me as we're related like brother and sister. Then he ends by wishing us a happy Christmas.

It's a positive letter in general even if it's not hard to see his scarcely veiled requests for more money. I've been making regular bank transfers since I came back and will continue to do so, but I don't want to turn the village into a hive of envy and greed.

By the end of November my book is top of all the bestseller lists in Switzerland and I'm invited back on to a TV chat show. The presenter is one of those whom people either love or hate. I'm going on in any case, because it's not exactly hard work. Our on-air conversation is pleasant enough with a few jokes thrown in. Afterwards there's a phone-in. Several women call to congratulate me on writing such an exciting book, but then there's a man whose name I can't make out but as soon as he starts speaking I recognize the voice. It's Markus, the former school friend whom I couldn't get out of my head for such a long time after we met at the school reunion. At first he congratulates me too, but then he goes on in an accusing tone of voice to ask me how I can justify the fact that my husband hasn't been able and won't be able to see his child for such a long time. It's hard on the father, he says, and accuses me of speaking too glibly about the fact. It's odd that it should be Markus calling in and being so argumentative. I don't remember him being anything like that serious. I explain the situation calmly to him from my point of view. After that the program conies to a close.

By now this whole business with the book is taking off at near light speed. While I'm out in the car en route to visit one of my customers I keep hearing myself on the radio giving an interview. Or I'm looking in a What's On magazine and see: Tonight, eight p.m., Corinne Hofmann is reading from her bestseller in Bern… or Basel… or Rüti… or wherever.’ I still can hardly believe it and sometimes it seems as if I'm living in two different worlds at the same time. The first readers’ letters have begun to arrive. Most of them are simply amazed at the story and have questions to ask. There are also a few male ‘fans’ who have gathered from my interviews that I'm single now. They send photos of themselves, sometimes with their house and fast car included. Strangely all these single men, from manual laborers to managing directors, seem to see me as their wife-to-be.

For my part I have not the slightest interest in starting up a relationship, not least because I simply don't have the time. One day in December while I'm sitting in the hairdresser's I pick up a Swiss magazine with an article headed ‘Our Women of 1998’. It's a list of the women who over the past year have shocked, moved or entranced their readers most. To my astonishment in among the pictures of Cher, Princess Stephanie of Monaco and Hillary Clinton, there's a photo of me! It has a really strange effect on me, as if it's got nothing to do with me at all, a world in which I don't belong. That evening when I turn on the television I see a bookseller raving about the great sales of The White Masai. It's incredible. It all seems completely unreal, as if they're talking about somebody else.

That December I'm due to give a reading in Munich at the Tollwood festival, a huge ‘alternative’ Christmas market. When I walk into the little tent set aside for readings, a woman in a cowboy hat, high heels and a thick down coat comes up to me with her arms open. Somehow or other her broad grin and long blond hair trailing out from under the hat seem familiar. And then when she gets right up to me, I think I must be dreaming: it's Rambo-Jutta, the woman I went right across Kenya with searching for Lketinga.

We throw our arms around each other. I can hardly believe it's really Jutta here in front of me. She heard about my reading by chance and decided just like that to turn up.

‘Aren't you living in Kenya any more?’ I ask her.

She tells me her mother died recently and she's just back in Germany for a couple of days to sort out her affairs.

‘You know, I just couldn't live here any more. I'm flying back to Kenya soon because I'm in charge of a new hospital out there and don't want to stay away too long.’

We swap addresses and I promise to take a look at the details of her new project and give some money towards it. She stays to the end of the reading and is enchanted by the book.

‘It's incredible that you remembered it all so well,’ she says at the end, ‘but that's exactly how I remember it too.’

We promise to keep in touch even though at the time I've no idea that she is going to do both my publisher and me a huge favor.

My book is obviously the center of attention this Christmas. We're all curious to know where the adventure will lead. The publishers are already engaged in negotiations for translations into French and Italian. But I spend the two main days of the holiday paying all my attention to my daughter.

The beginning of 1999 however turns out to be even more hectic. The book is at the top of the German bestseller list now and the phone lines at the publishers are humming. Lots of bookshops want me to come and do a reading so the publicity people suggest setting up a tour round the country. That poses a difficult problem for me. On the one side I really like my job and it offers me financial security, on the other I can see this is a real opportunity to go out and sell my own ‘product’. How many people are lucky enough to be self-employed, paid to travel and be welcomed everywhere by listeners with open arms? I simply have to do it!

After just a slight hesitation I talk to my boss and ask him to let me go, even though I won't be able to work out my three months’ notice. But I offer to put on a special evening for ‘my’ dentists with a reading, African food and African music. I really want to be able to reward those practices that treated me well by saying farewell in a special way. The evening goes so well that it makes leaving the job even more difficult, but at the beginning of February I bring my period of employment to a close. From now on I am just an author.

All of this has caused a lot of disruption to our lives and I need to get things back in order. Thank goodness Napirai can spend a few days at a time either with my mother or her childminder which at least for the first few months she enjoys. Meanwhile I'm on tour around Germany for a week at a time. I fly for the first bit, then take a taxi to the hotel they've reserved for me, ready to begin straight away with the first press interviews. The readings usually take place in the evening between seven p.m. and eight p.m. I have a quick bite to eat beforehand, as otherwise I get tired or feel ill during the reading, and then head off to wherever the event is taking place where there are usually people already waiting to share my story.

The event lasts up to two or three hours and afterwards I'm far too wound up to go to sleep, so instead I go and find a decent restaurant to get a proper meal and let the evening wind down. That's when my mind wanders to the extraordinary vagaries life can take. If anyone in Kenya had told me that I would be able to hold the attention of hundreds of people across Europe with the events of my life back there I'd have stared at them blankly and called them barking mad. At moments like that sitting in an almost empty restaurant in a strange city lost in my own thoughts, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to Lketinga, his family and the Samburu.

Most of those who turn up to the readings are women, young and old, or couples. I'm struck by the fact that the audience differs enormously depending on where we are. In some places there's an atmosphere of enthusiastic attention right from the beginning, in others people need to thaw a little first. If there's any background noise in the auditorium then I know there are people in the audience who're going to lay into me verbally later. I understand that the book isn't for everyone and that I don't exactly have a doctorate in German literature. All I did was write down my experiences in the little spare time I had between coming home from work and looking after my daughter. It came straight from the heart and I'm only pleased that so many people have found something positive in it.

When I'm signing copies afterwards women come up to the table with beaming eyes and take my hand and say: ‘Thank you so much Frau Hofmann for such a wonderful evening. It was just the most fascinating experience in my life.’

When people say something like that I just don't know how to react. It seems out of all proportion. Apart from anything else it gives me pause for thought and almost makes me sad that an event like this might be the best moment in the life of a woman of maybe sixty years of age. But I hear things like that all the time.

On one occasion I'm sitting signing books in a big store when a middle-aged woman comes up to me smiling and asks me to watch her walking up and down in front of the table I'm sitting at. She keeps saying: ‘Look, Frau Hofmann, do you see. I have you to thank for this!’ I haven't a clue what she's on about and am beginning to think she might be mad. Then she comes up to me and clutches my hands, stares into my eyes and says: ‘Up until recently I was in a wheelchair and couldn't walk. Then I read your book. Your strength of will impressed me enormously and I told myself if this woman can come back from the brink of death with malaria and get back on her feet again, then I can do it too! And now look, I'm walking again for the first time in years!’

And then she starts walking up and down in front of me again. I'm so touched that tears are welling up in my eyes and I can only say: ‘It would have been worth writing the book just for you!’

She places a huge bunch of flowers on the table next to me and says goodbye with a long, lingering look. I'm so knocked out by the experience that I can hardly pay attention to anybody else. For the first time I'm pleased I can simply get up and go. But it's an experience I call to mind whenever I read harsh criticism.

When I get back home on a Friday, I'm thrilled to see my little daughter again, who by now has turned ten. After being apart for so long she literally flings herself at me and is glad to be allowed to sleep in my bed again. I spend weekends reading letters from readers and try to answer as many of them as I can. There are more of them with every passing week. I'm surprised how much people tell me and what my book means to them.

Many of them want to say a personal thank you and say they found my description of my four years with Lketinga both honest and moving. Some of them recount their own good and bad experiences. Some women, and even a few men, who themselves have a romantic relationship with a partner belonging to another culture ask me for advice about what to do in a certain situation. All I can tell them is: ‘If you're not sure about your relationship deep down inside and need to ask for advice, then it's clear something is already going wrong. No advice, no matter how well meant, would ever have stopped me from following my feelings.’

Of course I also get adversely critical or even downright hostile letters. But the most frequently-used sentence goes along the lines: ‘I've read your book in a single sitting. I'm overwhelmed, fascinated and astounded by your strength.’ Many of them say they feel they've actually lived through the events I describe. And nearly all of them ask after Napirai, Lketinga and how they and I are getting on.

As someone who never dreamed of writing to the author of a book I'm more than surprised by their reaction. I find it all a bit spooky really but I'm very moved by it.

A couple of weeks later I have a reading and signing to do in Switzerland. It's unusual because it's at a travel agent's and they're giving away sixty copies of the book. There's already a crowd spilling out on the pavement when I turn up. I start signing books straight away and soon there's a lively conversation with the customers going on. After half an hour the manager comes over to ask if I know the people on the other side of the road holding up a banner to demonstrate against me. I don't know what he's talking about because there are so many people standing around waiting that I can't see out the window. But when all the books have gone, I go out to take a look at the demonstrators.

I'm astounded to see four black women and two white men holding up a placard that says I insult African culture. I have no idea what they mean and try to talk to them. I try to shake hands but they aren't having that at all and instead start shouting, or rather screaming, at me in English. I try once again, quite calmly, to ask them what the problem is. Can't I read, they shout back at me. My book is full of lies. I ask them again what they're talking about and address myself to one of the two men. It seems though that he's just a placard carrier and says it's the African women shouting and beating their breasts I should talk to.

One of them then shouts at me that I'm insulting her people, that I depict the Samburu as stupid and uncivilized, that I don't know the difference between Samburu and Masai. All of this seems a bit suspect to me as I can tell straight away that these women belong neither to the Masai nor their Samburu relations. When I ask what tribe they belong to they shout back aggressively that they're Kenyans and what's in my book is not true. But what they're specifically annoyed about they won't say.

I can only wonder what has driven them to make allegations like this. My life in Kenya was exactly as I described it and I certainly never had the impression I was insulting my husband's people. But when I realise there's no point trying to talk and that these woman are just trying to draw attention to themselves, I give up attempting to have a serious conversation. Even so, for the next few days I can't help thinking about the incident simply because I can't understand what it is these people want. My publisher has no idea either.

I suddenly remember the fortune teller to whom I should have given a book long ago anyhow. After all she was right about her prophecy of success. I ring her up and we arrange to meet the next day as I have to go off soon to do a second reading in Bern and then I'm back off to Germany. Before anything else, I want to ask her what the incident with the African women might mean. As before, I go into the tiny little house with all its dwarfs and once again the cat immediately settles in my lap. The fortune teller doesn't remember me however, and it's only when I hand over a copy of the book that she says: ‘Oh, it's you, is it? I read your story but didn't realise you'd been to see me.’

Then she shuffles the cards and I pick one out, just like I did last time. Once again she talks about the book's success and says it will keep on growing. But then she notices that there are going to be a few problems too. That's when I tell her about the Kenyan women. She lays out the cards again and says:

‘You'll have to look out for yourself. There are greedy envious people who'll just want to get money out of you and they won't give up easily. Be careful, be especially careful about your daughter.’

I feel quite ill at the thought of Napirai being drawn into anything.

‘It's not critical, but you'll have to be careful. Many people are envious of you and their number will grow.’

Her parting assurance that I shall soon get to know a wonderful man does nothing whatsoever to reassure me. I'm not interested in a man and I tell her brusquely:

‘Oh, drop it! I've no time for a relationship, least of all now when I'm traveling all the time and going on endlessly about my “old” love. A new love would hardly fit in very well. And when I get home I've got my daughter waiting for me.’

‘No, no, that's where you're wrong,’ she says excitedly.

‘My cards never lie. And anyway I don't mean “get to know”. You've known this man for ages. You could almost say he's standing outside your front door.’

That makes me laugh: ‘What? I don't know any man I could suddenly fall in love with.’

It's not a subject I'm interested in. I'd far rather hear more about the demonstrators. But she waves the topic away and says:

‘Just watch out, that's all, and it'll all be fine. You're doing the right thing.’

My time is up so I go home and talk it over with my mother, telling her to keep a close eye on Napirai.

Two days later I go off to Bern to do my second reading there. The bookshop is crowded out, and outside the door there are the same demonstrators. This time however, I decide not to get involved in some pointless conversation because I'd rather keep my strength for those people I want to give a little pleasure to. Despite everything it's a really enjoyable evening that goes on and on because lots of the listeners have questions and also want to discuss the demonstrators with me. It's late when I get back to the hotel and I'm looking forward to going home.