Back from Africa

New Love

Napirai is with her grandmother the next night, as I've been invited out. My friend Hanni is cooking a Thai meal and has invited various people round. I'm back from Bern around midday and it seems ages until the evening. My child is out, I didn't sleep well and my thoughts keep coming back to the African women, irritated by not knowing what it is they really want. By three p.m. I can't stand sitting around the house any more and get into the car without knowing where I'm intending to go. I just have to get out of the house.

I'm beginning to realise I can't even go round to Hanni's today. Just thinking of sitting in a room again almost makes me claustrophobic. I ring her up and rather than going on about all sorts of things as I usually do, I tell her nothing more than the fact that I can't come. She's disappointed and asks why, but ridiculous as it sounds, I simply haven't got a reason for her. I hang up and drive aimlessly around. There are fat snowflakes falling, even though it's the beginning of March. I head for Rapperswil, more on autopilot than anything else, and then I remember Irene, the blond, lively woman I met at the reading. She and her husband and three children must live somewhere around here. She came to another reading and we swapped cards.

I pull in to the side of the road and have a look for her card. I don't know why exactly but I find it and ring her up. She's thrilled to hear from me and tells me how to get to her place. It's snowing really heavily when I arrive and instead of going inside for a cup of coffee I suggest we take a walk together. She's surprised but agrees. When she notices how wound up I am, she asks me what the matter is and I tell her about the African women. She thinks it's completely crazy too and says:

‘What? You? Insult the Masai! They can't have read your book or certainly not understood it! I know it almost off by heart and there's not the slightest trace of an insult. It's impossible. You're only describing the things that happened to you.’ She comes back to the topic angrily several times on our walk.

By now, however, it's got cold and the snow is blowing into our faces. We go back to her house and make a hot cup of tea. Then she invites me to stay for a raclette supper. But I'm not hungry and have to tell her with a laugh that that's the second invitation I've turned down in one day.

‘No, no, I'll go and have a glass of wine somewhere and then take myself off home. I'm just not myself today.’

Irene says in a friendly way that she'll come with me, and given that I don't know the area well, I ask her where she suggests we go. We set off in both cars. It's only seven p.m. but it's dark already and I can hardly make out the streets in the snowstorm. She leads me along a wiggly road through the forest and I begin doubting that I'm going to find anything out here to take my mind off things. Then suddenly we come upon an old farmhouse with a restaurant and bar. It's incredible. I'd never have found it on my own. We park outside and go in. At this time of night the bar is still empty but we sit down at one of the little tables and order drinks.

Irene is just telling me about something that happened recently when the door opens and a good-looking man walks in. In the low light all I notice at first are his shining eyes staring straight at me. I turn back to Irene to resume our conversation but a voice from behind me says:

‘I don't believe it! The famous Corinne! What on earth are you doing in this little backwater?’

Before I can even turn round I recognize the voice: Markus, my former school chum. I look him in the eyes and notice that although his hair has a few touches of gray he's lost none of his radiant charm or good looks.

I start to introduce him to Irene but they've met lots of times before in this bar. We peck each other on both cheeks and he congratulates me on the success of the book. I tell him I'm surprised to find him in an out of the way bar like this, so early in the evening. He explains he's been ill in bed for the last three days but because it was really getting on top of him being stuck inside, he took it into his head to come out for a drink. I ask him why he was so confrontational when he called in to speak to me on the TV phone-in six months ago.

‘Oh, forget it,’ he says. ‘It was more to do with me than you. And it's a long and not a pretty story, not one I want to get into tonight, now that I've bumped into you two.’

We chat about this and that and gradually the bar fills up until it gets so noisy we can hardly hear one another talk without putting our heads together. Listening to his good-natured, spontaneous conversation I feel strangely attracted to him. All of a sudden I'm glad I didn't go to Hanni's after all. Eventually I ask him what a married man is doing out on his own in a bar on a Saturday night. He looks serious for a few seconds and then lets his eyes fall to his glass of wine with a look of embarrassment:

‘I'm not actually married any more. That's just the way things go.’

Then he asks me if we want another drink. Irene says no, she'd better get back to her family. On the other hand I'm enjoying his company and have no intention of going home just yet. On the contrary I'm dying to know why this ‘Mr Perfect’ is no longer married. We decide to go somewhere not so noisy so we can talk more easily. I have to laugh when we stop and park outside another bar:

‘It looks like you know all the boozers around here.’

‘Well, that's just how it is when you're single. Although to be honest, I don't really go out all that much.’

We find stools at the bar and gradually start spilling out details of our life stories to one another. I listen carefully to him, interested to find that behind the happy-go-lucky sunny outer appearance there's another man, shy and sensitive. His story is incredibly sad, almost the exact opposite of what the other women told me when we met up at the school reunion. He tells it to me the way it was, without throwing any allegations about: how his life's ambitions at first gradually began to disintegrate, and then suddenly fell apart. He had a nervous breakdown in the end. The first indications had already been there at the school reunion four years ago but nobody noticed, we were all so in awe of him.

Now I understand why he was so belligerent on the phone-in. It was the time when he had just got divorced and had been prevented from seeing his own children for months. He clearly loves them very much, his eyes brimming with tears as he talks in gushing terms about his two daughters. We order a couple more drinks and every now and then I notice that his hand brushes my knee. By accident or on purpose? I'm not sure so I pretend not to notice. From time to time, however, I notice people giving us sideways looks, and then I realise they've recognized me. Someone comes over and asks: ‘Excuse me, but is it possible I might have seen you recently on the television.’ I look up in surprise but Markus isn't short of quick-witted answers.

Despite his sad story, we get on well together and time simply flies by. It's only when the bar starts to empty at around two a.m. that we think of parting company, although neither of us is in a mood for going home. But it's that time. We go out into the cold snowy night. To get to our cars we have to make our way down a steep little alley, which is not easy for me in my plimsolls. Laughing, I slither into Markus and grab his shoulders to try to stop myself. He turns around and catches me in his arms. My heart stands still as I feel his lips next to mine. We pull back and look at each other in surprise and embarrassment. And then I climb into the safety of my car. Feeling completely confused, I roll down the window to say goodbye. He gives me a laugh and bends down putting one hand on my shoulder and says:

‘You're a terrific woman. Look after yourself and drive carefully.’

With that he turns round and gets into his own car. I drive off giving him one last wave. All the way home I'm an emotional mess. My heart is pounding but I don't know whether I want it to. When I finally get to bed I can't get to sleep.

Next morning I nip round to fetch Napirai from my mother's, then we have breakfast together and she tells me everything she did with Granny and Hanspeter. All of a sudden the phone rings. It's eleven o'clock, and when I pick up the receiver it's Markus:

‘Good morning, already up and about?’

I don't know what to say. I hadn't reckoned on him calling me today, but I can't help noticing how pleased I am. Napirai comes over and asks:

‘Mama, who is it? Mamaaaaa, tell me who's on the phone? Why are you laughing in that funny voice?’

I indicate to her that I'll tell later and she goes off into her room to play. We're on the phone for two hours. I can hardly believe there's a man who can hold such a long and interesting conversation! I only put the phone down in the end when Napirai comes up and says:

‘Mama, you're acting so funny! Tell me who it is that's on the telephone. Stop talking all this time.’

We say goodbye, although I let him know that I'm in Germany the coming week. Than I pick Napirai up and set her on my lap and tell her who Markus is and where I know him from and how we bumped into one another yesterday.

‘Yes, but why did he call again just today then? Is he your boyfriend now?’

‘No, I don't think so, or I mean, I don't know.’

‘I don't want you to have a boyfriend, Mama!’

I reassure my ten-and-a-half-year-old:

‘I don't have a boyfriend yet.’

That afternoon we go to Zurich zoo despite the biting cold. Then on the way home we spoil ourselves with chips and hot cups of tea. When we get back I stick Napirai in a warm bath. I've hardly sat down however when the phone rings. I can hardly believe it's Markus again, for the second time in one day. I tell him about our little excursion and he tells me he's been for a long walk on his own. He asks me if we'd like to go to the zoo with him and his children one day when they come to see him at the weekend. I don't have a problem with that as long as I can spare the time. We're on the phone for nearly an hour again before we eventually say goodbye. I haven't laughed as much in ages as I have with Markus.

The next day I fly to Düsseldorf. Before I leave the terminal, I spot some joke postcards on a news stand and on the spur of the moment scribble a few lines to Markus. I hesitate for a while before signing off with the line: ‘Somehow I've still got butterflies in my tummy — how about you?’ I pause for thought again before throwing it in the postbox: does that sound right? Am I just making a fool of myself? Oh what the hell, now or never, and the card's gone!

Immediately I'm less tense and I grab a cab to the hotel. Heaven knows this Markus is turning my head. And then the fortune teller's words come back to me. She said I'd already known the man for years. I never even thought of Markus, even if I had found him attractive at the school reunion. He was married. All I was thinking of was wishing I could find someone similar. I get the butterflies again and start asking myself: ‘Can it be fate?’

The reading that evening goes excellently and I feel on top of the world. Later, lying there in my hotel room, I really feel tempted to grab the phone and ring him up. But I don't want to overdo things and in any case I don't know how he feels about us. When we first started chatting, I got the idea that he didn't want to get involved with anyone else because having children only makes it complicated. It would take a lot of give and take on all sides, which is hard to imagine working, given that his children would always come first. That really came from the heart, but even still, how was it that we could talk for hours on end so easily and why was there such a spark between us? I can't wait to see if he gets in touch when I get back or if my crazy mixed-up postcard scares him off.

At long last I'm home again. My answering machine is full of messages but none of them are from Markus. Well, I tell myself, maybe the ones that hung up when the machine switched on were from him, but I can't help feeling disappointed. When I still haven't heard anything by Saturday evening, I decide to ring him. He sounds delighted to hear me, thanks me for the card with a laugh and says he would have called me the next day at the latest when he had taken his children back to their mother. Now I understand. He's had his children over. I'm hugely relieved.

The next week I invite Markus round for dinner. As I'm on the road all the time I really enjoy cooking at home from time to time. Napirai is staying over with the childminder for the evening as it seems far too early to introduce her to Markus. I've laid the table and made a prawn cocktail as a starter. Then I run round clearing things up in the flat and check my hair and make-up for at least the tenth time. Pretty but not too over-the-top. For God's sake, Corinne, you're acting like a teenager. The phone rings and I'm thinking to myself: something's come up, he can't make it. But no, he just can't find the street. I'm nervous as anything as I explain how to find the flat, and then before I know it, the doorbell's ringing.

I open the door and there's Markus running up the stairs from the external door with a bunch of roses and a huge smile on his face. We throw our arms around one another and have our first proper kiss, out there in the stairwell. We're both totally confused as I ask him in. He glances at the table laid for dinner in the living room and compliments me on it, but then says:

‘Are there prawns in that?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘It's just that they're the one thing I don't eat… sorry. But don't worry, I'm not that hungry, I'm just glad to be here. You won't get rid of me that easily tonight.’ And he takes me in his arms.

By the time he leaves the flat the next morning, I know I'm in love. I never thought I would experience anything quite so overwhelming again and am convinced either fate or God has thrown us together.

I tell Napirai all about Markus over lunch and get a cavalcade of questions in return:

‘What does he look like? Is he old or young? Does he like me too? Does he have children?’

When I say yes in answer to the last question she gets properly interested:

‘How old are they and are they going to come round to play some time?’

Questions and more questions. From now on the only thing she wants to know is when she is going to meet Markus. We decide on the following weekend. I want to see what sort of impression he'll make on my little girl. When the weekend comes and the doorbell rings she rushes into her room and just peeks out through a crack in the door.

When I've welcomed Markus she comes out and looks at him for a bit, then asks where his children are. He tells her affably that they only live with him every other weekend and that's why they couldn't come with him this time. But he has got a little present for her. She takes it from him with curiosity, then pulls me by the hand into her room and says:

‘But Mama, he looks young.’

I have to laugh because he's the same age as I am, and I don't know if she means I look a lot older or if it's because she's comparing him with the first relationship I had three years ago. Whatever the case, he's a hit with my Napirai, who's normally very cagey about men. With two daughters of his own he knows how to twist her round his little finger.

A bit later the boy next door drops in apparently just on the off chance, looking bored and with his baseball cap pulled down over his forehead. I introduce my new friend to him too and scarcely have the children disappeared round the corner than I hear him say to Napirai: ‘Cool guy!’ We have to laugh: he's passed the first test.

We spend a pleasant evening together, Markus and Napirai gradually getting to know one another. When she goes to bed Markus actually tells her a bedtime story. I'm thrilled that apart from all his other good qualities he's also an attentive father figure. It's simply too good to be true.

Two days later I'm doing a book promotion in the Bernhard Theater in Gern. Just before I set off I get a fax from the promoter to tell me the Kenyan women are planning a big demonstration. I'm starting to get annoyed by the whole thing particularly as neither my publishers nor I have had any written complaints. There's simply no platform for a discussion. A security teams meets me in Zurich. Outside the theater there are about fifteen people with drums and other instruments on the pavement milking a lot of noise. Once again I try to talk to them. I go up to the spokeswoman and ask what the demonstration is about.

I get the same answer: that I'm casting a slur on the honor of Kenyans and I'll see what's coming to me; I'm earning lots of money and should give half of it to my Kenyan husband. The sums they mention make me laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation. They furthermore insist that my family back in Kenya is furious at me. That's when I pull James's most recent letter out of my pocket, having brought it along on purpose, and read it to them. In it he says that they all thank me for my support and help and are all happy that my book is selling well. The spokeswoman says it's all a lie and it's not a letter from James. By now I've had enough of wasting my time talking to some hysterical woman and walk off towards the security people. One of the women comes after me and shouts:

‘The child belongs to Kenya! We'll take her back there and claim half the money!’

Now I'm really furious and at the same time sad that these nutcases should get involved and out of greed, envy or whatever reason try to damage my relationship with my Kenyan family. The fact that they might put my child at risk is the most horrible threat of all.

This time too, people ask about the demonstration in the questions and answers session after the reading. It's become clear to me now that these are fanatics and we'll have to take them seriously. The next day I go to the police and report the demonstrators, whose names we now know as they had to register their demonstration, for harassment. They had apparently hoped for up to a hundred and fifty people, but only a tenth of that number actually turned up. The police treat my complaint seriously and question those involved. They later tell me that it seems their complaints really are made-up and unfounded and the women have assured the police they will leave me alone from now on. As a result I withdraw my complaint against them. It would appear they had no idea how seriously we take threatening actions against other people here in Switzerland. And from then on they give me no further bother.

The whole business has a plus side too: letters from many other Kenyan women telling me they don't all think like that.

I shouldn't worry; they know there's nothing untrue in the book. Occasionally I even receive little presents from Africans with home-made cards and kindly words. Things like that relieve me as I've no idea whom I'm supposed to have insulted.

At the same time it occurs to me that it's been more than two months since I heard from James. And then, a few days later, a letter arrives. As always he starts by sending us his best wishes and telling us everything is OK. He apologies for not writing for so long but there were things he had to sort out. He had heard from Kenyans living in Switzerland that they didn't agree with the book because I hadn't treated the Samburu and Masai or their culture with respect. He had also been called in to the District Officer in Maralal to give an explanation. I shouldn't forget that according to Kenyan law I was still Lketinga's wife and Napirai his daughter. James had heard from the Kenyan women that his family was to get lots of money and so he asks me for more financial support. He also says he would like to read the book so he could make up his own mind who to believe. Then he goes on to tell me about plans for his forthcoming wedding and sends me photos of his bride-to-be, a young fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.

I find the letter irritating and thought-provoking. It would seem these women will stop at nothing. They've even spread their evil rumors back to Maralal. It makes me really sad: I lived with Lketinga's family and thought they would have known me better than that. Ever since I returned I've sent them what I could to support them, even before the book was a success and even so, James has doubts about who to believe. I need to do something but right now don't know what as I can't go to Kenya myself. The whole situation weighs heavily on my mind and I talk it over with my publisher. He decides to go to Maralal himself as soon as possible to meet my Kenyan relations. We realise it's important that someone should translate the book for Lketinga and James, and Jutta comes to mind, as she lives in Kenya, knows the area well and most importantly of all speaks the local language. The publisher gets in touch with her while I write to James to tell him he'll come out to see them in two months time, in June 1999.

My new relationship on the other hand is going well. I meet Markus as often as possible. When I'm at home he comes and stays with us and goes straight from our house to his work in Zurich. Even though I had thought I had no time or space for a man in my life, all of a sudden the problem seems to have simply evaporated. Napirai is a real fan of Markus even if from time to time there's a note of jealousy, as when she says: ‘She's my Mama. She belongs just to me!’

Meanwhile I've also got to know Markus's children. Although they were initially very shy, Napirai's constant urging of them to come and play eventually got them to relax and now the three of them play together as if they'd known one another for an eternity. My office has been turned into a spare bedroom and we look forward to having the pair of them come to stay again. Markus and I do lots of stuff together and although we've only been together two months it seems like years already. Obviously that's partly because we were at school together and still can spend ages chatting about the old days. If I have a reading in Zurich, we meet up afterwards in the center of town and go wandering through the little streets cuddling like teenagers. Who cares what other people think? After such a long period of celibacy there's nothing to be ashamed of. I couldn't care less what other people think: I'm thirty-nine years old and can look after myself.

That May I'm almost constantly on the road and have loads of interviews to do. The readings are almost always packed out and the book's reputation is growing. I spend a whole six days at Weiden Literary Festival. I can't help feeling excited to be up there with ‘established’ authors or seeing myself on posters or in brochures alongside serious literary figures. Many of them have published lots of books whereas I've only got one. I'm extremely nervous on the festival day when it's my turn to give a short reading. I'm sitting on the stage with four other authors, each of whom is to read a short passage from their book. I'm relieved to see from the public reaction that mine has gone down well.

Back home there's a new pile of letters waiting, and more at the publishers’. The first five hundred I replied to by hand, but there are more and more of them and I simply can't manage it any more, not least because almost every letter-writer has more questions.

A lot of schoolchildren are choosing my book as a topic for essays or as course reading material and ask me to give them more information to help them. I try to answer at least their emails and letters just because at their age, I would never have had the courage to write to a ‘celebrity’.

At the beginning of June, Markus and I have a joint birthday party as his is only two days after mine. We hold it on the day in between, and invite all our friends. It's a great party and lots of my girlfriends congratulate me on my good luck and say: ‘Corinne, we've known you for nine years but never seen you as happy’. It's nearly dawn when the last guests leave.

For the next few weeks I'm tied up with work, which I still love, and have little free time but we make the most of it.

On July 10, my publisher flies to Nairobi with a friend. In his luggage, apart from lots of pictures of Napirai there's a cassette on which all of my family have recorded messages in English for James and especially Lketinga and Mama. They're going to be picked up in Nairobi by Jutta and her companion who've prepared everything over the past few weeks. She's already been to see my family in Maralal and has even taken the trouble to translate the entire book into Swahili for James and Lketinga so they can form their own opinion of it.

This little group takes the plane to Maralal as they don't have time to make the two-day journey by bus. My publisher and his companion meet James and Lketinga as agreed at the Samburu Lodge. James is immediately open and friendly but Lketinga initially regards these two strangers with suspicion and mistrust. It's only when he hears the greetings played on a cassette recorder they bought in Nairobi that he lightens up and becomes more friendly although obviously somewhat pensive. As he listens to the voices he keeps his head down looking at the pictures and the books. It's a moving moment for everyone there.

James and Lketinga are astounded by all the newspaper articles and more recent photos and have lots of questions. They discuss them, tell stories and chat for hours, and James and Lketinga say they're proud of the book and have no problems with it.

The next day they want to take the ‘mzungus to see Mama who's still living near Maralal. They travel in a pickup across uneven terrain up into the hills where she and some of the rest of the family are living. Mama gives the two white people a respectful but reserved welcome with an emotionless expression on her face, while her son James hands out all the presents they have brought — sugar, maize flour, drinks and tobacco — in her manyatta. But when she drapes her new colorful wool blanket over her shoulders and they show her the pictures of Napirai, she finally starts to smile.

My publisher is extremely moved to see the very spartan conditions inside her tiny, windowless hut, filled with smoke from the fire. He also notices the severe poverty of the people living here because the continuing fighting means they can't return to Barsaloi and have very few animals. He sets up bank accounts for James and Lketinga in Maralal so they can receive money each month.

On the day they are due to leave, the two ‘mzungus’ invite everyone to a meal in Maralal. Of course, only the men turn up, but even so there are fifteen of them around a long wooden table. The publisher, who happens to be a strict vegetarian, is astonished to see the huge mountain of meat served up and rapidly reduced to a few bones. After a last wander around the colorful town market surrounded by noisy hordes of curious children, the two visitors then say goodbye.

When my publisher and his companion return and tell me how moved they were by the people they met and show me all the photos they've taken, I have to fight back the tears. I can smell the land, the people and see every single detail in my mind's eye without them describing it. Obviously everyone there has grown older, as I have too, but the troubled times, hunger, the continuous fleeing from conflict, and perhaps also his experience with me, have all made Lketinga age faster. He has become an elegant, elderly ‘Mzee. But the scars from his car accident and his history of alcohol abuse have left their marks on his face. Looking at these pictures, I can see no sign of the ‘demigod’ I used to see him as.

That August I keep my promise to my friend Anneliese, and she and I fly off with Napirai for a sumptuous holiday in Jamaica. Just like in all the brochures, we have rooms right on the palm-fringed beach by the blue ocean. Even so this country doesn't do anything for me. It's almost certainly partly because I miss Markus whom I've only been living with for four months now. Automatically however I keep looking for something about this holiday destination that will move me in the same way Kenya did, and so far I haven't found it. Sometimes I ask myself if it would be the same now if I went back.

Nonetheless the journey has had one positive side effect. Already back home I had decided to give up smoking as Markus was a non-smoker. I decided therefore to pass the time on the long flight by reading a book offering help on how to give up. I found that already after the first few pages I no longer felt the need for a cigarette, while Anneliese was dying for one. I know how awful it is when the only thing you can think of is a cigarette. We had scarcely landed when she lit up, only to have an armed policeman standing next to us say sternly: ‘No smoking at the airport!’ and she had to put it out again tetchy.

I find to my own surprise that the lack of a cigarette isn't bothering me at all. I'm not exactly sure what clicked in my head but the book certainly helped. During the holiday I actually pick up a cigarette a couple of times and light it but decide that after smoking for years, it's simply no longer for me. The rest of the holiday is enjoyable and relaxing but I'm still glad to be going home.

In the meantime my book is being translated into more and more languages. Over the next two years it's going to appear in France, Italy, Holland, all the Scandinavian countries, Israel, even in Japan. That's fifteen languages to date with more to follow. Who would have thought it! I'm not usually given to Schadenfreude but I'd like to see the faces of the publishers who glibly turned it down. The book is making it on to the bestseller lists in nearly every country where it's published and now I'm getting letters from all over the world. In a few cases I fly off to the launch in the relevant countries and give interviews to various newspapers and magazines and even appear on TV.

When I get back from one such tour in November, Napirai runs into my arms and complains: ‘Mama, why do you keep having to go away? Everybody knows about it now. We've had our pictures taken so many times. I don't want you to have to keep going off because of that stupid book!’

Her voice is so sad and reproachful and it's not long before I'm ringing the publishers to say that despite the widespread interest in more readings during the coming year, I am temporarily, at least, giving them up. I want to enjoy this Christmas with Napirai and Markus together. He's also had to bear the side effects of all my charging around and it's already led to our first rows. It's really not been easy for him. Some days I get crazy fans ringing me up at all hours, even late at night, and they can be hard to get rid of politely. Or we're out eating in a restaurant and every half-hour someone or other comes up to talk about the book irrespective of whether we're in a deep personal conversation or have a forkful of food halfway to our mouths. It's just not easy for him, and I don't want to risk anything, not my good relationship with Napirai nor my affection that is fast becoming love for Markus.

On the other hand it is my ‘job’ and that side is also part of ensuring its success. Of course I know that most readers mean well but even so with the book's sales just about at their peak, I decide to retreat from the limelight. I need the time anyhow to get myself together and decide what comes next because I know perfectly well that my days as an author are numbered. I'm determined not to write a sequel, even though lots of readers would like one, because I'd like a bit more peace and quiet in my life. But then at the beginning of March 2000 the paperback edition comes out and the whole fuss starts up anew as once again it climbs to the top of the bestseller lists. That means I have to do at least a few TV shows and public appearances.

Most of the time, however, I'm at home every night cooking for my family. I'm also beginning to regain my love of nature and enjoy going for long walks just on my own. All that I need with me is a little camera so I can capture and enjoy the plants, landscapes and stone formations I come across. And because I suddenly get the urge, I go out and buy a high-powered motor scooter and pass my test. Markus gets the same inspiration and before long we're roaring over the Swiss mountain passes together. Sometimes I take Napirai along on the pillion, but she's now at the age when she prefers getting in a huddle to gossip with her girlfriends. There's no doubt about: I'm beginning to feel things are changing but I have no idea where they'll lead.

I now get regular letters from Kenya and we exchange photos often. James is married now. Even though his wife went to the same school as he did, she had to undergo so-called female circumcision before their wedding. Reading that, I realise that their traditions are stronger than any education. That October I read in another letter that she has given birth to a healthy little girl.

However Lketinga's wife has had her second miscarriage and has to go into hospital because of complications. Lketinga is sad that they keep losing children. Only their firstborn girl has survived.

In one long letter from James there are a few words dictated by my mother-in-law:

Even ten years after I last saw her, such kind words move me deeply and I feel the ties that still bind us. I remember our first meeting in Barsaloi and can still picture Mama crawling into her manyatta to take a good sober look at me with Lketinga. It seemed like an eternity before she reached out her hand with a laugh and said, ‘Jambo!’ Even if I didn't understand a word of the torrent that followed, I could feel that she had given us her blessing and felt myself immediately liking her.

To think that today millions of people have read that story; I am only glad if I have given them something out of it.

In May 2001 I spend a couple of days in Munich to discuss the script for a possible film about my life. Discussions and negotiations about such a film have been going on for ages now. On the one hand things are tough in the film industry at present and on the other they have problems settling on a director and who should play the main roles of Lketinga and me.

I have to admit I find it difficult, even shocking, to read scenes in the script that don't come from the book or any part of my life in Kenya. It seems the dramatic narrative of a film is different from that of a book and from now on there is a lot of work and discussion before everyone involved can agree. I can only hope that if one day this chapter of my life does end up on the big screen that Napirai and I will be proud of it. After all, we're the ones who're going to have to live with it. But I'm cautiously optimistic that it'll work out and they'll produce a fine, authentic film. We can't wait to see it. Undoubtedly, it's going to be an odd experience to watch other people play out scenes from my life.