And please, Lketinga, don't be unhappy. You'll find a better wife. You're young and handsome. Napirai will always remind me of the good things about you. Please try to understand me! I would have died in Kenya and I don't believe that's what you would have wanted. My family think nothing bad about you, they still like you, but we're just too different.
Hi Sophia,
I've just come off the phone from talking to Lketinga and you. I'm feeling really unhappy and can't stop crying. I've just told you I'm not coming back and it's the truth. I knew that before I'd even got home to Switzerland. You know something of what my husband's like. I loved him more than I'd ever loved anybody in my whole life. I was ready to lead a proper Samburu life for his sake. I was ill so often when we lived in Barsaloi but I stayed because I loved him. But a lot has changed since Napirai was born.
One day he even alleged she wasn't his child. Ever since then I've lost my love for him. Our days together swung between highs and lows and a lot of the time he treated me badly.
Sophia I swear to you by all that's holy I never went with another man, never! But I had to listen to allegations from him from morning to night. Mombasa was our one last chance to get things right together. But I can't go on living like that. He doesn't even notice. I've given up everything for him, even my native country. Of course I've changed too but I think that's not unusual under the circumstances. I feel really sorry for him, but for myself too. I don't even know where I'm going to be able to live from now on.
But Lketinga is my biggest problem. He doesn't have anyone to run the shop and he can't do it. I would be delighted if he managed to make-it work, but if he doesn't he should just sell it all off. The same goes for the car. Napirai is staying with me. I know she'll be happier.
Please, Sophia, do what you can for Lketinga, he's going to have so many problems now. Unfortunately there's not much I can do for him. If I ever came back to Kenya he wouldn't let me leave to come back to Switzerland.
I hope his brother James will come down to Mombasa. I'm going to write to him. Please help him deal with people. I know you have problems of your own and I hope they'll all work out for the best soon. I hope everything goes well for you and hope you find another white woman friend.
All the very best and lots of love,
I also write to James, Lketinga's younger brother, who's the only one of the family that's been to school and did such a lot to help us. Then I write to Father Giuliani in Barsaloi to give him the sad news.
The next morning my mother has deep rings around her eyes. We waste no time in sitting down at the table so I can at last tell her the truth about my life in Africa. Now that I'm sitting here in Switzerland I leave nothing out. I describe my life among Lketinga's tribe in detail, from both sides, good and bad, and remind her that in the early days I had imagined spending the rest of my life among the Samburu.
‘But after we opened the food store they needed so badly, his jealousy just got worse and worse and made everything all the more difficult. I wasn't allowed to go and talk to the missionary any more and I certainly couldn't have a conversation with his little brother James or any of the other boys. And I'd always looked forward so much to talking to them during the school holidays. Lketinga had caused so many problems that one of the boys even had to leave the village before he did something dreadful.
‘Then with me being sick all the time the shop wasn't being run well and so a few months ago we'd decided to move to the coast. I'd really hoped we could start again there and that's why I asked Marc to bring me out all the money we needed to set up the souvenir shop. I had even hoped he would exert a good influence on Lketinga, talking to him as an “elder”, and indeed it worked for a while. Lketinga got back to normal and was even rather sweet and attentive for a bit. He even helped a bit in setting up the shop and looked forward to the work.
‘But then, later, when I would start talking to the tourists or even laughing with them, all hell would break loose. He would ask me in front of tourists how come I knew this person when I absolutely didn't. I kept trying to convince him that I still loved him and had done all this just for us. But as time went on he started drinking more and more beer. Sometimes tourists who didn't know any better bought it for him, but sometimes he took money out of the till to buy beer.
‘William and I worked like crazy while he would just come in, grab a handful of money and disappear off in the car to Ukunda. Meanwhile I would be living in fear of the state he'd be in when he came back. At home I was barely allowed to leave our little hut and just sat there for hours on end playing with Napirai on the bed. He even used to come with me to the toilet. It was really depressing and all the arguments weren't good for Napirai either.’
Despite all my complaints I try to explain to my mother that Lketinga was still basically a good person deep down. There'd been so many times he'd shown his love for me. But he was unhappy in Mombasa and I couldn't go back to living in the bush or I'd die of malaria. I even suggested he go back to Barsaloi and find himself a second wife from his own tribe and leave me to work in Mombasa; that way we'd all be happier.
‘But all of a sudden he doesn't want another wife, even though when we'd got married it was something I had to agree to. So I had no option in the end but to make a run for it and come back to Switzerland.’ And that's the end of my story.
My mother has been sitting there horrified as I run through the chain of events and in the end she says, ‘I gathered from your sister after her trip out to see you not so long ago that things weren't perfect but I'd no idea it was that bad! Your letters home were always so full of optimism and confidence. But now things are all rather different but in one way at least I can say I've got my daughter back and a sweet little grandchild too!’ We throw our arms around one another in relief. ‘So it's not too much of a problem if Napirai and I stay here for a bit until we work out what we're going to do?’ ‘No, not at all, we've just got to convince the dog,’ she says with a mock-timid laugh.
We spend the rest of the afternoon undoing my African plaits. My hair falls out in clumps in the process. Afterwards I relax thankfully in a deep bath of hot water, still barely able to comprehend how wonderful it is to be able to lie in a full tub. In Kenya I had to walk one and a half kilometers down to the river that had barely enough water in it to wash with. Even later on, down in Mombasa, I had to heat the water on our coal stove, then pour it into a washbasin and wash myself with my hands. Here in Switzerland, there's more water than anyone could need. All you have to do is turn a tap and you can have either hot water or cold. I had really forgotten in my time in Africa how easy life used to be. But now I realise, with literally every passing hour, how luxurious just our basic living conditions are, even the simplest things, like water, electricity, fridges and plentiful food.
No, there's nothing for me to worry about here. I can get a job doing something or other. The only thing that matters is getting a residence permit again! I decide to go down to the town hall the next morning to find out how to go about it. My mother comes along with me because she knows someone from her gym class who works there. What they tell me is that I have to apply in writing, including a curriculum vitae, for my right of residence to be restored. That will go to the immigration authorities and I simply have to wait for their decision. Back home I do what they ask, buoyed up with confidence because the people at the office were so nice. My experiences with officialdom in Kenya were very different.