Back from Africa

Back On My Own Two Feet

I've got two weeks to prepare myself and buy a car. Although I'm looking forward to the challenge, sometimes I have to ask myself if I really am up to making my way in the world of business again. The next few days are hectic. I find an old Ford which I can just afford but the expense of insuring it uses up my last penny. It really is time to start earning some money.

Three days before I'm due to start work the nice woman from the family advisory service rings up. We're in luck: they've found a nice couple in Wetzikon with a boy the same age as Napirai and have already spoken to them about acting as childminders. It's up to me now to go and meet them along with Napirai. It's important that we like each other and have the same ideas about bringing up children. I ring them up and arrange a time to go and see them.

They turn out to be gentle, well-balanced people and during the course of our meeting I find myself liking them more and more. The two children seem to get on well together too. Before long the two of them are sitting on the floor playing peacefully with the boy's toys. After we've sized each other up we agree that I'll bring Napirai round on Thursdays and Fridays. Her grandmother will look after her the rest of the week. Now that we've got that sorted I can finally start my job.

My first day at work flies by. We've agreed that I should spend the first week working in the shop, getting familiar with the products and learning the different patterns and their names. It's all very new and exciting and it's only in the car on the way back that I realise how tired I am all of a sudden. I could nod off on the spot. Struggling with my exhaustion I suddenly recall what the doctor at the hospital in Wamba said. He told me that because of my serious attack of hepatitis I wouldn't be able to work for a long time and even afterwards I would probably have only half the energy I used to have for years to come. My physical reserves were exhausted and it would take a long time before my defensive systems were back to normal. I try to tell myself now it's just the change in my lifestyle and try to suppress the memory of just how sick I had been back then.

Back home Napirai is waiting for me as impatiently as ever and as usual is ripping my blouse open as soon as I come through the door. I still have a lot of milk and my breasts are rather swollen which was making me uncomfortable all day at work. With a heavy heart I make up my mind that over the next few days I'm going to have to stop breastfeeding. My mother reassures me that everything's been fine. Napirai just had a little cry after her midday nap because she couldn't have her breast milk. She's never been used to a bottle or a dummy and it seems madness to me to start her with either now. My conscience starts to nag me for a bit now because I'm not used to Napirai crying unless anyone has actually physically hurt her. In Kenya you hardly ever hear children crying or throwing tantrums the way I've started noticing here.

I really enjoy my first week getting to know the job. I'm dealing with all sorts of different people and my self-confidence is growing daily as if I was the only one who had ever found it lacking. For the first time since I've come back from Africa I've noticed people actually reacting to me as a woman. For so long now I've considered myself only to be a mother. But now when I go out for lunch in the nearby restaurant I find I'm getting the occasional appreciative glance. Once I found myself actually thinking about when I last had sex and I realised that I didn't even know. Sexuality was never top of the list for my husband and me. I got a real erotic charge from him but from early on I had to realise that the Samburus neither kissed nor caressed one another. As far as they are concerned sex isn't a game, just a means of propagation and male gratification. They have no concept of a female orgasm, not least because they indulge in the gruesome practice of clitoral amputation, the so-called female circumcision. This horrid mutilation of the female genitalia is something I will never understand. Even Lketinga found it hard to explain why they do it to their women. I loved my husband and was for a long time just so happy to be living with him that the brief duration of the sexual act didn't bother me.

Looking back at the men in the restaurant I can't bring myself to imagine having a relationship again or even just sex. After more than five years just the thought of going out with a white man again frightens me. It's something that stretches even my dormant fantasies. Or is it just that I'm not in love and have more important things to think about? Nonetheless I realise that the unaccustomed attention is good for my morale and I can enjoy it from a safe distance over lunchtime, as long as it doesn't become a nuisance.

It almost breaks my heart the first time I have to leave Napirai with her childminder for the day. The corner of her mouth turns down and her dark eyes fill up with tears as she holds out her arms towards me and calls ‘Mamaaaaa!’ The childminder takes Napirai in her arms and tries to calm her down, stroking her hair. She's going to be fine here I tell myself but it's still with a heavy heart that I head off to work. It's not until I get to the shop that a new task takes my mind off her. Today I've got to start arranging meetings with potential customers. It's not easy getting through to the right people and getting them interested but by evening I've managed to fix up a few dates. Immediately I finish work I drive to the childminder's and charge up the three floors of stairs in my high heels. Napirai and the childminder open the door together and I can see by the smears on her face that she's already had her supper. She doesn't even make a grab to pull up my jumper but instead takes my hand and, chattering away, drags me into the room where the two children have been playing together. I feel a huge weight lifted from my shoulders when I see how happy and at ease she is. When we get back to my mother's she throws her arms around her too, as it's the first time she's not seen her for so long.

My mother hands me two letters from Kenya. ‘Oh, two at once!’ I say, looking at them, and assume the second is from Sophia. In the first, James tells us how pleased he is that we can stay in Switzerland, that they all prayed for us and obviously it worked. He also thanks me on his mother's behalf for the money she's now got via the mission. It's a nice letter and I'm pleased everything's going well. The second letter, written three weeks ago according to the postmark, turns out to be from Lketinga. I'm surprised as it's the first sign of life from him since we spoke on the phone nearly six months ago.

My initial reaction to his letter is pure anger. I have no idea why he's asking me for money after I left him with everything I owned. Six months ago he was stinking rich in Kenyan terms. On the other hand I realise he can't run the shop on his own. I read the letter again and this time it just makes me sad. I see that he really does miss us and needs us too. Images of the past, of the days we wandered through the bush happily, all come flooding back to me. I can see Lketinga standing there proudly telling me the names of all the bushes and roots, the time he tenderly washed my back down by the river, shielding me from anyone who might be watching, rubbing soap into my hair with the patience of an angel and then using a tin can to gently rinse it with a trickle of water from the parched river. The way he looked after me, making food when I was weak and sick or beaming at me even at the worst moments saying, ‘No problem my wife!’ I find only the positive memories coming back to me, putting all the awful experiences later in the shade. But if I use my brain I realise that I can never go back. I would be throwing my life away.

One thing is certain: I'm not going to help him, not least because I can't. I have no more money. I'm fascinated to hear what Madeleine's going to tell me when she gets back from her holiday.

On Sunday evening she calls me to say she's got good news and bad news. She had a great holiday and is sorry it's over. ‘Did you give Lketinga my letter?’ I interrupt her to ask. ‘No, I called at the shop twice but each time it was closed. In fact the whole area was pretty dead and the shop only had a few articles of stock in the window. To be quite honest, I don't think there's ever anybody working there.’ It's a real blow to hear that everything I worked so hard to build up out there has been run down. She didn't see Sophia either but heard that she had gone way. I'm disappointed she has nothing more to tell me, but at least now I know there's no point in spending any more money on the shop.

But now she tells me the good news, which actually is about my new life: she's heard that there's a small two-bedroom flat about to become free in the block opposite hers and almost certainly hasn't been allocated yet. I'm electrified by the possibility of getting a flat in my ideal part of town and immediately begin a long letter to the housing association putting my case, and asking them to give Napirai and me a chance. Two days later I follow it up with a phone call. The woman dealing with the flats remembers my letter well but says there is a long waiting list. I tell her again how badly we need somewhere of our own and she tells me in a friendly voice that she'll sleep on it and let me know tomorrow. Once again I pray to heaven for help. My mother gets excited too and says, ‘Let's drive out there right away. After all I'd like to see what I'm praying for.’

We both fall in love with the gardens. Napirai could play on the lawn and in the summer we could put a paddling pool out for her. Already my mother and I are making plans. It would be so good if I can only get this flat.

The next day I have to start going out and visiting potential customers, turning up at various firms with my two cases full of scarves and ties. Unfortunately I don't get any orders straight away as they all say they have to take a look at their promotional budgets first, and I should call back in three or four weeks time. Nearly all of them buy something for themselves however, but that is hardly the turnover I need to get a decent commission. But there you have it, it's my first day on this aspect of the job and it's obvious I'm gong to have to work to build up a client base.

That evening we sit there nervously over supper waiting for a call from the housing association. The time crawls by and I've almost given up hope when, just before ten p.m., the telephone finally rings. And indeed it is the woman from the housing association. She apologies for the delay in getting back to us and then asks if I've already found myself a job and what it is. I'm immediately on the ball and tell her everything she wants to know. On the other end of the line I hear a deep sigh of relief and the woman says, ‘That's good because in your case I'm going to make an exception. Ever since I read your letter I haven't been able to get you and your daughter out of my head. I'll send out a contract to you but I can't say immediately when you'll be able to move in because the heirs of the last tenant who has just died still need to sort things out.’ I thank her with tears in my eyes, scarcely able to believe my luck. Even my mother needs some time for it to sink in: ‘You really are a lucky duck,’ she says at last. ‘Congratulations, but now you're going to have a lot of outgoings.’ I tell her I only need the barest minimum to get by. Immediately I call Madeleine to share my delight that we'll soon be neighbors. Moving in is hardly going to take a lot of effort, as I don't have any furniture yet.

A few days later I get a call from a man I don't know who turns out to be the son of the previous tenant. He's heard my story from the housing association and has a suggestion to make to me. ‘I've heard you're about to move in to my late mother's apartment and they tell me you don't have much stuff because you've just returned from living abroad. What I'd like to propose is that you take a look at what there is in the flat and take whatever you like. I'll have the rest taken to the tip. All you have to do in return is take responsibility for cleaning the place out before you move in. How does that sound to you?’

I'm really touched and overcome by his gesture, thank him and arrange a date to come and take a look. I'm beginning to think my luck is supernatural. My mother comes along with me to give me some advice on what to keep. As soon as I walk into the flat I'm really taken with it and know we're going to be happy here. After living in huts in Kenya, the large, bright living room, open-plan kitchen and little bathroom feel like a palace. The furniture is a bit old-fashioned but I don't mind that; at least it all seems clean and well looked after, and a lick of paint here and there will work wonders. The kitchen is completely kitted out from gold-rimmed porcelain plates to frying pans and there are even sheets and towels in the cupboard in the hallway. I soon realise I could move in straight away without needing almost anything else at all. All we'd have to bring is our clothes. All this without spending a single franc. Once again I thank God for all the luck I've had in the last month.

As I'm wandering around the rooms admiring everything I can't help feeling it's as if I'm getting something back: I had a small flat just like this before I went off to Kenya. As I was totally convinced I would never be coming back I handed over the lease on the flat and all its contents to a student for just the price of my plane ticket. He could hardly believe his luck then either. I can still see the face on the young lad about to start at the technical college standing there with his mother asking me in astonishment if I really didn't want to take any of it. ‘Nope, where I'm headed I won't need any of this stuff,’ I said, with a laugh.

So in a way today this all feels like a ‘present in return’. I thank the nice chap very much and tell him how much easier his kind gesture will make my life. He seems almost embarrassed and says goodbye quickly. A doorway across the landing opens and I introduce myself to my new neighbor and tell her how pleased I am to be moving in. Two little girls stick their heads out from behind her and I realise that this is going to be just paradise for Napirai too.

The week at work flashes by and I chalk up my first small-scale and large-scale successes. The last night we spend in my mother's house I'm so excited I can hardly sleep. Grateful as I am to her for putting us up, I'm looking forward to my independence. At long last Napirai and I will have a flat of our own where I can arrange things my own way. As all this is going through my head late at night I realise I've been in this position before. When Lketinga and I spent our last night in his Mama's cramped little hut in Barsaloi, where we had lived for a year, I couldn't get to sleep either because I was so excited at moving out into a big new manyatta of our own. I remember how proud I was fitting out our new home with our few possessions.

I'm also reminded of a strange event that happened then. When I was putting my clothes away I found a little gray snake on the cow pat wall. In shock I instinctively grabbed a stone from the hearth and killed it. When my mother-in-law found out the next day she didn't seem very happy about it. Lketinga explained to me that if a young woman finds a baby snake on moving into her first manyatta it means she must be pregnant, so on no account should you kill the snake. I was really upset about having made such a mistake even though I was certain that there was no way it was an omen that I was pregnant. There's no way I wouldn't already have known. But as it turned out I found out a couple of weeks later that indeed I must already have been pregnant at the time. ‘At least there's no chance of finding a snake tomorrow,’ I tell myself as I finally drift off to sleep.

The next day we pack up our few possessions and move in. We're hardly carrying more than my nomadic mother-in-law. Except that we're using a car rather than the donkey she packs her few worldly goods on to: first the big, reusable branches from the manyatta are dismantled and strapped to the sides of the donkey so that the rolled-up cowhides and the homemade sisal mats for the ceiling can fit between them. Then she hangs her pots, pans, cups and gourds around them, and everything's ready for the long day's trek through the bush.

Our move in contrast only takes an hour. My mother's given me a big green pot plant to give the room a bit of life, and a big basket full of groceries. Napirai goes around looking at all these new things not sure whether she ought to be pleased or not. After we unpack I take her down to the playground where there's a slide next to the sand pit. There are children of all ages playing there and they watch us uncertainly whispering or giggling to one another. People here appear unused to people of a different color as they all stare at Napirai. Two children even run away and I spot them a little later standing with their mothers out on their balconies. I try to get at least a few names from the rest of this tribe of children but it's only when Madeleine turns up a little later and tells them who we are that things perk up a bit.

That evening I make a pasta dish in our new flat. Madeleine and her son are coming round for a bit of a house-warming. It's my first to chance to cook in a European kitchen again as my mother wouldn't let anyone else into hers. I get pleasure from simply turning the knob for the right hotplate and turning a tap to fill a pan of water. Everything works well and it's all really fast. Just doing these simple chores in our manyatta would take up to two hours. First I had to go down to the river and use a tin can to fill a canister with water and bring it home. Then I had to go and gather firewood and carefully build a fire which was not easy as we had no newspaper to burn and I had to hope I'd find a glowing ember in the hearth which I could blow on and bring back to life. By the time I'd finally got it lit the hut would be filled with smoke bringing tears to my eyes and making it hard to breathe.

And now here I am in my own Swiss apartment where I can just turn two knobs and there's the pot cooking on the hob. Time and time again I keep seeing even the tiniest things as miraculous and can only feel grateful that I've seen life from the other side. Madeleine brings round a bottle of red wine and now we can properly celebrate. We're both amazed that that first meeting of the single mothers’ group has changed our lives. Tomorrow is the next meeting of the group and I'm interested to see if any of the others have had such positive results.

The group's founders are delighted things have gone so well for us and say, ‘That's exactly the sort of thing we were hoping to achieve. All of us have our own contacts and can possibly help someone else. That's the way it's supposed to work.’

I get talking to a woman who's new to the group and I am amazed by her story. She lives on her own bringing up three children in an ancient house in a village of just fifty inhabitants, twelve hundred meters high up in the mountains. She has to do everything herself: chop wood, build a fire in an ancient wood-fired oven to heat the house and provide hot water, and even do her own repairs to the building. Going shopping means a two-hour trek on foot and she has to carry everything back up the mountain in a rucksack. Every winter she has to shovel colossal amounts of snow. Since she divorced a few years ago she's hardly been out to meet people. I'm really struck to find a young woman living such a cut-off, old-fashioned existence of her own free will. I want to see for myself how she manages and arrange to go and visit her the next weekend.

Then I get into conversation with a pretty woman with two daughters who's also not long back from abroad and is living with her parents again after the collapse of her marriage. Her two girls get on well with Napirai so we too arrange to meet up one weekend. The Sunday simply flies by and we all head off again our own separate ways. One thing I've learned today is that I have the right to an income supplement from my employer for having a child, so I've decided to tell my boss about Napirai whenever I get a moment that seems suitable.

By the end of my second month on the road for work I'm struck by a brilliant idea. Turnover isn't growing very fast primarily because big companies seldom place a firm order straight away. But as it's been my experience that almost everyone I approach buys something for himself, I should offer our products directly to the staff of big companies like banks and insurance firms. My boss says I might as well give it a go and he'll certainly support the idea if I get some sales.

It turns out to be a success. Now I'm making appointments for a preliminary showing to arrange a day when I can come and sell openly. Before long I'm doing my first sales day in a bank and it works a treat. The male employees immediately buy several designer ties and usually also scarves or shawls for their wives. However, these sales appointments are nearly always after work which means I have to work later. On the other hand those who turn up are always in a better mood because it's the end of their working day. The result is that by the end of the month turnover has risen substantially and so has my income.

By now, however, we're into the height of summer and I want to get home as early as possible to be able to take my daughter to play outside. We've settled in to our new flat really well. The neighbour's children have really taken to Napirai and the children are forever charging backwards and forwards between the two flats. Sometimes I've got all the children, then Napirai will disappear into their flat for hours on end. Things are almost as hectic as they were among the children back in Kenya and both of us really enjoy it. On fine evenings Madeleine conies over and we natter to one another late into the night. Napirai in any case sleeps better when she can hear the sound of human voices. She can drop off to sleep no matter how noisy it is but finds it difficult when things are totally silent. I use the extra money I've earned to buy a barbecue and a paddling pool for Napirai, and now half the children in the whole area seem to come round to see us, which makes for great fun.

When it rains we pull on our Wellington boots and go off into the nearby forest. I adore inhaling the smell of the damp earth and seeing the greenery of the meadows and trees. When the weather is fine we build a camp fire in the forest and grill sausages. All the children love that. I love the smell of the smoke too as it reminds me of my life back in the manyattas in Kenya. Every time it takes me back to all those experiences around the family hearth.

Sometimes I grill food at home too on the new barbecue. There's always something going on at the weekends. Either we go swimming in a lake with Madeleine or some of the other mothers from the group and take a picnic or we head up into the mountains for a little bit of a hike. It's always fun for everyone because there are nearly always several mothers together and it's a distraction from their day-to-day problems. I haven't enjoyed a summer so much in years. Things have all worked out for the best so quickly. The only bitter taste in my mouth is that I don't know how Lketinga is getting on as James has heard no more from him since he gave up the shop.