The White Masai Read Free

jewellery and his long hair and his proud look! I would be happy for time to stand still. He asks Marco: ‘Why you not dance with your wife?’ While Marco, turned towards the Masai, tries to tell him he prefers to drink beer, I seize the opportunity to make it clear to the Masai that I would like to dance with him. He looks at Marco and, seeing no reaction, agrees.
    We dance, me European-style, him more sort of hopping up and down like in a tribal dance. Not a muscle moves in his face. I have no idea if I’m even remotely attractive to him. Strange and alien as this man is, he attracts me like a magnet. After two tracks there’s a slow dance, and I want to press him to me. But instead I pull myself together and leave the floor in case I lose control.
    Back at the table Marco’s reaction is sharp: ‘Come along, Corinne, we’re going back to the hotel. I’m tired.’ But I don’t want to go. The Masai is gesticulating again to Marco. He wants to invite us, to take us tomorrow to where he lives and introduce us to his friends. I agree quickly before Marco can refuse. We agree to meet in front of the hotel.
    I can’t get to sleep all night and by morning I know that it’s all over between Marco and me. He looks at me quizzically and all of a sudden it all comes out: ‘Marco, we can’t go on. I don’t know what’s happened to me with this complete stranger, I only know that I feel something that’s beyond reason.’ Marco puts his arm around me and says: ‘There, there, it’llall be all right and when we get back to Switzerland everything will sort itself out.’ But I turn on him crossly: ‘I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here in this beautiful country, with wonderful people and above all this mesmerizing Masai.’ Marco thinks I’m mad.
    The next day, as agreed, we’re standing in searing heat in front of the hotel. All of a sudden he appears on the other side of the street and comes over. He greets us briefly and says, ‘Come, come!’ and we follow him. For some twenty minutes we plough through jungle and brushwood. Here and there monkeys, sometimes half as big as we are, spring through the trees. Once again I’m astounded by the Masai’s way of walking; it’s as if he hardly touches the earth, as if he hovers, although his feet are clad in heavy sandals with car-tyre soles. In comparison, Marco and I are like elephants.
    Then we see five roundhouses in a circle, just like at the hotel except much smaller and instead of concrete they’re made of piled-up stones plastered with clay. The roofs are of straw. In front of one little house sits a stocky woman with big breasts. The Masai introduces her as his friend Priscilla, and for the first time we find out the Masai’s name: Lketinga.
    Priscilla greets us warmly, and to our astonishment she speaks good English. ‘You like tea?’ she asks. I thank her and accept. Marco says it’s far too hot, he’d prefer a beer. But here that will have to remain just a wish. Priscilla fetches a little spirit cooker, sets it down by our feet, and we wait for the water to boil. We tell them about Switzerland, about our jobs and ask how long they’ve been living here. Priscilla has lived by the coast for ten years, but Lketinga is new; he arrived just a month ago, which is why he speaks hardly a word of English.
    We take pictures and every time I come close to Lketinga I feel physically drawn to him. I have to force myself not to touch him. We drink the tea, which is excellent but damn hot. Both of us almost burn our fingers on the enamel cups.
    It begins to get dark quickly and Marco says, ‘Come on. It’s time for us to be making tracks.’ We say goodbye to Priscilla and exchange addresses, promising to write. With a heavy heart I trail behind Marco and Lketinga. Outside the hotel he asks, ‘Tomorrow Christmas, you come again to Bush Baby?’ I beam and before Marco can answer, I say, ‘Yes!’
    The next day is our second to last, and I’ve made up