Reunion in Barsaloi by Corinne Hofmann Page A

falling off its hinges. The owner is the man who threw himself at me when we arrived the day before. It’s obvious from the smell, as well as from looking at him, that he has a drink problem. He asks us in and tells Albert and Klaus at great length how hard I used to work in the shop. He appears to know the whole story of my life in Barsaloi and be a great admirer of mine, but I can’t remember him at all.
    When I mention it later to Lketinga, he says: ‘Oh, that old boy’s crazy, don’t pay any attention to him.’ He doesn’t strike me, however, as either crazy or stupid. Some time back he took over the rental of the shop and turned it into a hotel. But then when I look around inside I get a shock: all the shelves are either falling apart or already broken. The so-called hotel is the room at the back, where we used to live, with a few hanging sheets separating it into different areas to give a minimum of privacy. But there are no beds and not even any mattresses. The man tells me his guests don’t need things like that as they sleep on the floor in any case. I feel rather depressed and disgusted as I leave what was once the first proper food shop in Barsaloi and where I nearly worked myself into an early grave.
    As I wander around the village people keep calling out ‘Mama Napirai’ in greeting, but in general things are pretty quiet at this time of day, even in my African family’s corral. The grown-ups have all hidden themselves away indoors and the children are either at school or out with the animals. Only Stefania is still around going about her business calmly and quietly with her little children Albert and Saruni. Lketinga asks me considerately if I’m hungry, which I have to admit I am now. I suggest Stefania and I cook something. The men agree and take themselves off: Lketinga, I assume, back to his latest wife while Albert and Klaus head back to our camp for a bit of a rest.

Just Us Girls
    W e decide to make a stew of meat, carrots, cabbage and rice. A foreleg of the goat slaughtered yesterday is still hanging from a nail near the window in the little kitchen. Stefania takes it down and hands it to me. Then she takes a huge bush knife and cuts little pieces off it, each time coming within a hairsbreadth of my fingers. I try not to think about the fact that they have no fridge and this raw meat has been hanging out in the heat. We boil everything up together in a huge pot and to my amazement, Stefania throws in a dash of ready-prepared seasoning. In my day here all they had was salt.
    I try to hold a conversation with her but it’s not easy, even though she has good English. She answers my question but offers nothing further. Young women here simply aren’t used to having conversations with strangers or even local men.
    When I take James to task about this later, he confirms, ‘It’s true, Samburu women don’t talk a lot usually. Educated women like Stefania are better. She and I chat about things. But my brother and everyone else of the older generation believe that when you talk to your wife you should use as few words as possible and speak in good, clear sentences. They think a girl or woman who talks too much or too loudly will not make a good wife and won’t obey you. It’s almost always men who solve problems and make the decisions. The women simply have to get on with it without further discussion.’
    Once again I realize that in their eyes I must have been very far from a perfect wife. Most of the time I was the one who dealt with problems and often after obstreperous arguments.
    Despite what James says, I’ve never seen him chatting with his wife for any length of time or inviting her to join a conversation. She’s always standing to one side with the children, listening silently or making tea. Even though she eats alongside us, there always seems to be a certain distance between us.
    While our meal is simmering on the hearth, Lketinga’s sister comes in and asks me to pop over to