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.
Dear Corinne Leparimorijo,
Jambo! How are you, my wife? I hope you're OK. I'm OK but I miss you and our daughter. I hope you heard my car got burnt out but I don't know how it happened. One whole side was ruined. I have most problems with the shop, where I'm still working. Since you left in October we haven't done any business. I didn't pay the rent, just half for February, 5,000 Kenyan shillings. I'm waiting now to pay 21,000 Ksh in May. But the Gulf crisis means there's no business.
Everybody has gone away. The Indian shop is closed. Only Doctor Kulumba and the Chinese restaurant are still here. I have sold the car now and bought a little Toyota saloon. I got 80,000 Ksh for the car, but the person who bought it from me didn't pay all the money, just 67,000 Ksh. So I hope you won't have forgotten me. Please send me money to pay the rent for the shop. I'm working as a taxi driver now for the few tourists still here. I hope you're getting some letters from my brother. Are you?
We have a lot of rain in Mombasa. It's wintertime here now. Best wishes from the Kamau-Masai dancers. They all miss you and Napirai. They still call me Papa Napirai. That makes me think a lot about my daughter. If you aren't coming back please tell me so I can send my daughter her clothes and dolls. Tell me what you are doing. Have you got a job or are you living at home with your mama?
I didn't want Priscilla to write for me because she doesn't write what I saw, so I got a friend to help me with this letter.
Lots of love to my daughter. I miss her and her love for me. I miss both of you.
Best wishes to all your family,
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.