Back from Africa

Divorce from Lketinga

During one of the single mothers’ meetings one of the participants tells us it took years for her to complete her recent divorce proceedings. I ask her how to start the process as I simply have no idea about any of this stuff. Gradually now I'm beginning to feel it's time to make a clean break and sort out my own divorce. Following advice I ring up the local magistrate and tell him my position, that I haven't seen my husband for more than three years now.

Under the circumstances and given that Lketinga lives somewhere in Kenya and we aren't in contact, there's no need for the normal meeting with both parties and the attempt at reconciliation. He'll simply send me the forms for me to till in to begin divorce proceedings. In conclusion, however, he says he has to tell me he's never come across a case like mine before and he'll have to take advice on how to proceed. Studying the forms a few days later I'm relieved to see how simple it all seems to be. On the other hand I'm surprised to see that they want to know details about my family, my brothers and sisters and my own early life. I have to list all the schools I went to and give details about my current employment situation. Then I have to fill in details about our relationship, including how, where and at what age we got to know one another. Well, I've more than enough to fill in there. When I get to the section about financial support for the child, I put a dash and write that I'm not asking for any money or support of any kind. How on earth could Lketinga send money when in fact I'm the one sending money to his family whenever I can? Then I put it all in an envelope and send it off in hope, thinking that after all there's not much to lose.

We spend our leisure time during the summer doing all sorts of things: one day Madeleine came over with a cutting from the paper advertising a bus trip to the south Tyrol in Italy with three days in a hotel with a swimming pool. We don't have very much money but the offer is good value and so we sign up. The main thing is to get away for a couple of days. It's only when we're getting on to the bus that we realise we're the youngest passengers by far, and I mean Madeleine and me, not the children. ‘Mama why are their only grannies going on holiday?’ says Napirai, in a voice loud enough for them all to hear.

I tell her that older people have more free time to take holidays as they don't have to go to work. I can't think of anything else to say. Our children end up entertaining the whole bus on the journey. Napirai keeps choosing a different ‘granny’ to go and sit with which amuses all of them. We end up having three very lively days in which the children more than pay their way.

Another time I borrow my mother's ancient two-man tent and take my daughter camping at a lake not far from home. It's a simple little campsite in the middle of a forest. Our tent is the smallest and funniest looking so we put it up on a little hillock. I scrape a shallow ditch around it like I did around our manyatta in Kenya so that if it rains it will channel the water away. It turns out to have been worth while doing as during the night a storm comes over the lake. Napirai and I lie there on our tummies looking out at the spectacle; there's no question in any case of either of us getting to sleep because of the thunder. Long flashes of lightning crash across the lake and illuminate the whole landscape, as we watch in fascination.

The next day it's hard to find dry wood to make a fire to grill our sausages. The ground is sodden and several tents have collapsed and even been washed away. But we decide to hold our ground and by midday are rewarded by the first rays of sun. Later I go and snap some brittle twigs from the trees around as these will dry out quickest in the air and before long we manage to get our fire going and eventually enjoy a belated lunch. I can see how much Napirai enjoys hanging out with her mum.

When I go back to work after the summer holidays my employers tell me they're getting divorced and the company's head office is moving. That means I can no longer just pop in to discuss what I need to order but would have to make a couple of hours’ journey in the car. I'm not exactly thrilled to hear this as it means giving up time with Napirai and I tell them I'm going to have to think it over.

Back home I take out the business card of the sales chief at the T-shirt company and ring up, with no great expectation that he'll actually remember me. But he does and sounds pleased to hear from me and we arrange a meeting at his office. When I arrive there, a couple of days later, I'm impressed to see how smart and professional it all seems. I'm fascinated by the huge screen press machines used for printing the various designs on the T-shirts. The embroidery department is interesting too.

Over a cup of coffee we talk terms. The basic salary would be more or less the same but I would get a bigger commission and some expenses as well. Everything considered, I'd end up getting more than I'm getting now. That makes the decision obvious and we agree that I should start as soon as possible.

I have to give four weeks’ notice at my old job and so on 1 October 1993, I start the third job I've had since coming back from Africa. I'm feeling really motivated though as I get on with my new boss and think there's a lot of potential. Above all, the embroidered company logos offer great marketing potential. I also have my existing customer base to fall back on and initially at least manage some sensational figures here and there. I don't mind switching jobs for a single second and reflect that so far each change of job has been a change for the better.

One evening in November I find a note from the post office to go and pick up a registered letter. It turns out to be a court summons to deal with my divorce. Actually seeing the thing in black and white is all of a sudden extremely sobering. I'm likely to get divorced from my husband without him knowing anything about it. The hearing is set for 30 November 1993 at five p.m. and I am required to attend, with or without legal representation.

God, I hadn't thought of that: I haven't got a lawyer! Do I need one? Or should I just ask my mother to come along? Or even Madeleine? But then I make up my mind to go alone as in the end I'm the only one who knows the whole story. I've been toughened up by my experience in the sales world and my self-confidence is light years away from what it was in those first few months after my return from Kenya when I hardly dared go out alone.

On the day in question I take two salary statements along so that I can easily prove my ability to support us, as well as a list of my day-to-day expenses and some photographs of my husband and of our life in Africa. It all feels rather sinister though, as I've never been inside a courthouse before. Here and there knots of people are gathered outside the doors, mostly huddled around a lawyer in full robes. I feel as if I must look lost wandering around on my own with a thin file under my arm. When my name is called I walk rather nervously into a room where there are already four people. I sit down on the seat facing the judge. The names of the persons involved are read out and then it's up to me to give a brief account of my life with Lketinga.

As I quickly realise that the judge has simply no idea about the tribe my husband belongs to I ask in finishing if it would help if I produced a few photographs. He hesitates briefly, then agrees. I lay out six photos on the bench in front of him. One of them shows my husband in full warpaint carrying his spear, another is of men slaughtering an ox outside our manyatta, and a third shows the pair of us with our daughter Napirai.

He clears his throat and asks incredulously: ‘This is your husband?’ The other gentlemen and ladies get up and come over to see the photos for themselves. They have a brief discussion with the judge who then asks me if he might keep the photos with the rest of the documents until the case has been settled. I agree and they let me go until the date of the next hearing. Leaving the building I already feel freer than I did entering it.

Two weeks later, mid-December, I am called to the next hearing. This time it's serious. The same people are there again. Once again they ask me if I've still heard nothing from my husband or know where he is. I answer on oath that I have no further information. Then they ask me if I want to make any demands for maintenance, and I say no. Finally the judge says that under the circumstances the marriage can be considered dissolved with the following conditions: the daughter produced as a result of this marriage should be given into the custody — what a horrid word! — of the mother. It is noted that the mother makes no demands for maintenance payments, and it is also noted that neither of the partners has any further claims on the other. Costs remain to be decided and for Lketinga's benefit, the court's decision will be published in the official gazette. How absurd!

The final detail is that in the absence of further intervention by either party within the next ten days the decree will be considered absolute. My head is spinning and I'm left standing there in a daze as the four of them start gathering up their documents. Somewhat uncertainly I ask them: ‘Is that it? I'm divorced now? Is that really all there is? Or do I have to go and collect something or pay something.’ The circuit judge simply nods and disappears.

I leave the room walking in slow motion scarcely able to believe that it's all gone so smoothly. Eventually I come to realise that this is chiefly because Lketinga has, so to speak, ‘taken off. It's only when I get outside into the cold December air that I'm overcome with joy at realizing that no one now can take Napirai away from me, as long as I don't go back to Kenya. I drive straight round to my mother's who's as pleased as I am and invites us over for dinner.