Back from Africa

Getting Used to Our New Lives

At the end of February my mother points out a notice in the paper about setting up a self-help group for all single mothers in the district. ‘Go and sign up,’ she tells me sensibly, ‘and you'll get to meet people again and make friends.’ I hesitate a bit but eventually I do indeed sign up. In mid-March I get an invitation to a Sunday brunch where we're all supposed to get to know one another.

The meeting is held in a cosy little forest chalet on the fringes of the village. When I arrive with Napirai there are already a few women there with their toddlers. Some of the children are running around the place, a few others clinging to their mothers. Napirai isn't in the slightest shy and goes up to the other children and looks at them closely. They look closely back as she is the only non-white child. More and more women keep arriving until we're up to nearly twenty adults.

The tables are all laid and there's the smell of coffee in the air. The two founder members introduce themselves and explain that the idea is to meet up for brunch once a month to talk to each other about our problems and help each other out where we can. Those of us who are stronger should help the weaker and gradually we'll all build up a network of social contacts. After that everyone introduces themselves individually and explains how they come to be bringing up their children on their own.

A lot of sad and often very moving stories come out. Some of the women come across as very self-confident while others are very shy and quiet. A few of them have been on their own for years while others, myself included, have only been on their own for a few months. As I start telling my story most of them want to keep on hearing more and more. A lot of them find my life really crazy, unusual and difficult, although it seems to me some of them have had much bigger problems. Some of them are struggling to make ends meet or to get custody of their children. Others are still struggling to come to term with their separation, particularly those whose husbands left them. My situation seems much easier than theirs. I'm still living on the bit of cash I have left and am just waiting for a work permit to get a new job. I certainly don't have the problem of trying to get maintenance money from my husband.

I can't help comparing the situation I'm in now with the way things sometimes were when I was living in Africa, occasionally at death's door and struggling just to stay alive. Back there I had pretty much to rely on myself most of the time, with no connection to the civilized outside world and almost none of the local Maa language. Days went by when I wouldn't exchange a word with anyone. Running away from our village into the Kenyan highlands was unthinkable because none of the women would have helped me, even by coming along to hold little Napirai as I drove along the treacherous jungle roads. They wouldn't even have done it for any amount of money I could have given them because if they had, they'd never have been allowed back to their tribes. Masai men have no sympathy whatsoever for a woman who wants to run away from her husband.

Here, on the other hand, there are people to talk to who understand and want to help. All you have to do is go and find them. No, as far as I'm concerned it's been a lot easier to be a lone mother in Switzerland and it'll be a lot easier still once I get a job, I'm certain of that. Some of the women warn me not to be quite so euphoric in my attitude as I might find there aren't that many jobs for women in our situation. I'm going to have to find someone to look after Napirai. A lot of the mothers find it a bit weird that I'm still breastfeeding Napirai at age two. But I don't let them worry me. I'll cross those bridges when I come to them.

One of the women, called Madeleine, comes up and sits down next to me and tells me she's off to Kenya at the end of April for a holiday, at last, to get over her divorce. When she tells me she's planning to go down to the south coast we agree that I should come round to her house some time so I can give her more information about Kenya and show her where our shop is. That way she can go past and take a look and maybe even talk to Lketinga.

I'm rather taken with her, and also with two or three of the other women, in particular one of the organizers who just oozes energy. We end up choosing her as our chairwoman. There are some, however, that I don't even get the chance to speak to. The time just flies by and before long we're all clearing away the plates and doing the washing-up. The chalet has to be cleaned and then we say our goodbyes, arranging to meet again in four weeks time.

On the way home I keep thinking about all the different life stories I've just heard. One way or another, the meeting has been good for me. For one thing I'm really keen on seeing more of some of these women outside the group. For another I've realised that I shouldn't just let things trundle along until I've got no money left. For the first time I've been made to confront the problems that lone mothers face. Before I went to Africa I was a successful businesswoman with no interest in having children, and in Africa it's common for many women to have to cope with lots of children on their own. As a result I'd never really thought about it. But after today I realise that there are lots of women who just surrender to their fate as if they've been crippled. There's no way I'm going to let that happen to me!

Back home I tell my mother my impressions and also that I'm keen to join the group, not least because Napirai enjoyed running around with the other children. Tomorrow I'm going to get on to the immigration people to see what's going on; after all, we've been here five months now.

When I lift the phone to call them the next morning, I realise with every fiber of my being that this is a hugely important moment. My mother is sitting there on the sofa with Napirai, watching me and almost certain praying.

When I finally get through to the right department I explain my situation to the woman on the other end. In a friendly voice she tells me to hang on and she'll go and see what's happening. I'll never forget those minutes hanging on the end of the phone. My heart was pounding and I could feel a terrible tightness gripping my chest harder and harder.

The minutes and seconds seem to last an eternity. ‘Dear God, please help us one more time,’ I pray, silently crossing my fingers at the same time. At long last I hear the woman's voice back on the other end of the line. ‘Your name is Corinne Hofmann and you're currently residing at Wetzikon with your daughter Napirai, born 1 July 1989, is that right?’ ‘Yes,’ I manage to croak. ‘Your application has been passed. You'll get it all in writing in the next few days.’ I've been holding my breath and suddenly it all comes pouring out: ‘Thank you, thank you very much, you've just made me the happiest woman on earth. Goodbye.’ I turn round and cry out ecstatically, ‘Thank God! We can stay!’

I feel as if I've been given a new lease of life and dance around the flat with Napirai in my arms. She's laughing and giggling even though she clearly hasn't the faintest idea why her mother's gone so daft. My mother is in tears of relief and I'm so happy I can't even think straight. Everything's going to be fine now. I'm going to do everything I can to get a job and a flat of our own. I ring up my brothers and sister to tell them the good news, and also sit down and write a letter to James to tell him too. I'm so excited I can hardly control myself. Not since my daughter was born have I been so over the moon because of a single sentence spoken by a woman I don't know. It really is the start of a new life. I wonder if she knows the effect those words of hers can have. But then I dismiss all other thoughts from my head: the main thing is I've got what I wanted. As soon as I've got the written confirmation, I shall put an ad seeking a job in the local paper.

That evening Hanspeter is equally delighted by my good news. Over dinner we discuss what job I could do. I suggest I might start in a newspaper kiosk. If I got an early shift I could be home by lunch to look after Napirai. My mother offers to look after Napirai two to three days a week as she's got used to having her grand-daughter around and they get on well together.

Hanspeter and I sit down and work out a budget for how much I'll need if I'm to have a flat of my own. Doing that soon makes me realise that if we're not to be on the brink of starvation I'll need to find a full-time job. I'm going to have to furnish the flat from scratch. Not to mention finding crockery, cutlery, towels as well as furniture. That means that basically a job as a sales representative is going to suit me best as it means I can ration my own time and if I'm on commission there's the chance of making more money faster.

My mother reminds me of my old boss at the insurance company, but although I was really pleased to get the job, I don't go for the idea of selling insurance door-to-door because it would mean primarily working evenings. I'd rather find something interesting to do during the day, so I decide to go ahead and put an ad in the paper.

Obviously I need to work on my appearance. I urgently need a new haircut and ought to buy a couple of suits. But that's what second-hand shops are for. I may also need to buy a car although here in Switzerland that's not the problem it is in Kenya. There are second-hand car dealers on every corner and an affordable car should be easy to find.

The biggest problem I face is my own lack of self-confidence. I still think I'm very brave going up to new people and trying to get them to like me. Just the idea of going out in the city traffic and trying to find streets I don't know horrifies me. But I could do it before so I must be able to do it again. At least now everything seems more manageable than it did four months ago. When I think that back in Kenya there were moments when I was so weak I could hardly even stand and fifty meters seemed an unimaginable distance to walk, I feel, in relative terms, a tower of strength. I'll manage it all, I know I will.

A couple of days later I finally get my written residency permit. The other thing I have to do now is sort out the question of my marriage. They tell me that here in Switzerland it has no legal status. As I'm a German citizen the issue will have to be resolved in Berlin and the Swiss will then abide by the German decision. It seems it's not clear whether I count as legally married or single in Europe. Right now, however, I'm not too bothered about it. It's only a year later that I'm to find out the consequences. Right now it's enough for me just to be happy.

I've put my ‘job wanted’ ad in the paper hoping to get an offer of something in sales. I'm also studying the flats-to-let adverts but my enthusiasm is soon dampened by the lack of choice. Obviously I don't have to move out of my mother's straight away but sooner or later, especially when I have a job, I want to have a place to call my own.

Two weeks after our first meeting at the single mother's group Madeleine calls and invites me and Napirai to come over for coffee. She lives only a few minutes’ drive away in the next village beyond Wetzikon. I like where she lives at first sight: four flat blocks together arranged in a square with a large green area and children's playground in the middle where a few toddlers are running around. Napirai would like that! I'm also taken by the forest nearby and a little stream.

Madeleine is pleased to see us. Her son is ten years old and has the patience of an angel in dealing with Napirai. We tell each other our life stories in detail and she's pleased to. hear we've got our Swiss residency permits. I tell her I'm fairly confident of finding a job soon but getting a flat looks harder as I'd really like to find something like she has. Madeleine offers to ask the housing association but says I shouldn't get my hopes up because there are waiting lists for well-priced, well-located flats like these. But I like the place so much I'm going to keep hoping.

I show her pictures of my husband and our shop in Kenya and ask her to look him up when she's there on holiday to give him a letter from me. It would also be nice if she could find out what's up with Sophia. It seems like an extraordinary coincidence that on my first excursion out to meet people I should have come across someone who's flying out to Kenya soon. There's a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth as I wish her happy holidays.

Back home I rave to my mother about the area where she lives. I'm determined not to look anywhere else as long as the local housing association doesn't say there's no hope.

Over the next few days I get a few job offers in the post. Most are useless: either I don't like the product they want me to sell or the firms concerned don't offer even a minimum salary, and in my situation I can't afford to take a risk like that. When I'm just about giving up hope of getting any joy from my advert, an interesting job offer comes in from Zurich. They sell silk scarves and ties to companies, which they in turn hand out as promotional gifts. I take a look at their catalogues and feel this might be a decent opportunity. Immediately I ring them up and arrange to go for an interview.

Now it's up to me. Getting my first job after living abroad for so long will be difficult. I buy a map of Zurich and a nice suit. Being so tall and thin at least gives me the advantage that most off-the-peg clothes look good on me. I go to the hairdresser's and for the first time in my life have my hair cut short, and dyed red. A new pair of shoes with heels, not too high, adds the finishing touch. The transformation is such that at first my mother doesn't recognize me and even Napirai stares at me uncertainly for a few minutes. It's only my voice that she recognizes initially, but when I lift her and put her to my breast she's reassured that this really is her mother.

I want to be as relaxed as possible for the interview so I decide to take the train to Zurich rather than go by car. But I fall at the very first hurdle at the station. I need to buy a ticket at the counter but there's a huge queue of people and not much time before the train goes. I push through to ask the man at the counter if I can buy a ticket to Zurich on the train. He gives me a dismissive look and says, ‘No, not on this train. You can buy a ticket from the machine on the platform.’

There's just two minutes before the train arrives. I rush to the right platform and find the machine but all I can make out is a confusing array of arrows and numbers. I'm standing there like a Stone Age man without the faintest idea how to buy a ticket. A young lad rather condescendingly explains it to me, making me want to sink through the floor. My four years in the bush have turned me into a real bumpkin.

Finding my way around Zurich is my next challenge. Eventually by asking people I manage to find the right address but by now my nice new suit is drenched in sweat. Luckily I've got ten minutes to pull myself together.

The showroom has a display of their scarves in all sorts of magnificent colors. A woman of about fifty greets me and after I've explained who I am she calls her husband who's in charge of recruitment. He's a small, elderly but vivacious man and straight away starts showing me their different fabrics and grades. I'm not at all sure what to make of this pair but their merchandise is good and would be easy to sell. I see that at once. The man invites me into his office and we sit down for a chat. He's not very impressed when he hears I've just returned from living abroad as it means I don't have any references.

I make a point of telling him that I ran a souvenir shop in Mombasa. When he asks if I'm married I say no, as in any case it still seems uncertain what my legal status here is. He says that's a good thing because often husbands get jealous if they have wives who're out and about selling things all day. He doesn't ask about children so I don't mention my daughter. Finally we talk money. Incredibly he agrees easily to the terms I suggest, but tells me he has someone else interested in the job whom he has to interview and that I should think it over too. I tell him I don't have any notice to work and would like to start as soon as possible. He gives a laugh and says, ‘I'll call you in a couple of days time.’

Even though I don't know whether or not I'll get the job, on the way back to the station I'm already trying to work out how I'd go about it as they don't have any firm clients at present and the whole business needs building up from nothing. Up until now they've just been acting as wholesalers, selling on to clothes shops. I would have to persuade clients in industry to take on their expensive designer goods to hand out as promotional gifts. I'm really keen on the job though because instead of selling dull insurance packages I'd be pushing really attractive products. My journey home goes smoothly and I smile inwardly to myself: ‘You see, Corinne, every working day will make life back here easier and more familiar.’

As soon as I get in, Napirai charges at me pulling up my pullover to get at my breast. Oh how I love my little girl with her crinkly brown hair and black cherry eyes. It's going to be a real change when we're no longer together all day every day. But I know she's fine with my mother who loves her as if she were her own daughter.

Now, however, we're going to have to find a childminder to look after Napirai for the other two days of the week. I'd really prefer someone who already has children as Napirai misses playing with children her own age. Wetzikon has a family advice bureau and I go down there the next day to ask them how to find a suitable family. The elderly lady there is very nice and helpful and promises me she'll ask around and let me know as soon as possible. Relieved and grateful to her, I take a stroll around the village, amazed at how easy life has become. I can talk to anybody here and everyone understands me. I can ask whatever I want to know and there are people ready to tell me the answer or even to help. Strangely, as time goes by I'm gradually realizing more and more just how hard my life in Kenya was. It was only because I was blinded by my great love for Lketinga that I didn't notice it then.

Now I've made a start on finding work, a flat and childcare and all I have to do is wait for others to make decisions. I get the feeling things are going to change radically from now on and I can't wait to see how.

That evening Madeleine rings up to tell me that unfortunately there are no flats free at present and there's a waiting list for all of them. Nonetheless she gives me the address of the housing association, and says it might be better if I get in touch with them myself. I thank her and wish her happy holidays again as she's off the next day. But I'm disappointed with having to come to terms with her news and decide to leave it for a day or two before I do anything more.

I also haven't heard any more from my prospective employer yet. I really want to fight to get this job, particularly as I haven't had any other offers, so I ring him up to ask if he's made a decision yet. The lively old man tries to avoid giving a straight answer, so I come out and ask him what the problem is: Well, he says, he's not sure I'm the right person for the job. He might be ready to give me a chance but not on the salary we discussed as after all I don't have any experience. I really would have to drop my wage demand.

I reply indignantly that I'm worth every penny. ‘Anyone who can run a business successfully in Africa is going to be successful here.’ After a bit of toing and froing he agrees to let me start on May 1. Two days later I've got the contract in my hands. I've got the very first job I went for. How lucky can I get!