My Maasai Life. Robin Wiszowaty
looked down and found my shoe sinking into the slurping quicksand of a huge cow patty. Oops! I raised my knee to try and save my shoe, but the suction was too strong. I pulled harder, forcing it out, and my foot came free—sending a spray of manure flinging into the air with its release.
Mama, ahead at the compound’s edge, turned back. I snapped to attention and smiled as best I could, trying to regain composure even with manure splattered on my legs. A burst of high-pitched giggles broke out nearby. But when I turned, my small crowd of shy observers again fled before I could greet them.
Everything was hitting me so fast, I could barely process it. The isolation. The fire. A new bed. A new family. The powerful stink. What exactly was I getting myself into here?
“Tuende uoge,” Mama said, directing me to take a shower. After the long journey, I was more than ready to clean up.
By the bafu Mama arranged a bucket of water and swung a thin, threadbare towel over the tin siding. A yellow brick of soap sat on a narrow, wooden shelf. I closed the swinging door behind me, fastening it by twisting a bent nail over the doorframe. Stripping naked, I stood exposed to the open sky above.
My heart pounded from the day’s frenzy of activity. This village was far from Nairobi’s neon lights, pumping music and constant advertising. But I still felt overwhelmed.
With a deep breath, I splashed myself with water from the bucket and lathered up with the soap. Getting clean after the afternoon’s long, dusty ride felt good, and I shut my eyes to review the day in my head. The bright red and blue of the women’s clothes. The high-pitched chatter of a dozen competing conversations. The diesel smoke contrasting with the fresh air all around. The scratch of thorns in the tall, dry savannah grass.
Then I knew I wasn’t alone. Turning, I was startled to see a cow’s head was poking at my feet—and it was now drinking from my bucket of bathwater! I almost swore out loud in surprise. How could I shoo the cow away without someone hearing my distress and then coming to my rescue, only to find me naked?
“Go away!” I hissed at the cow. I bopped it lightly on its head and, to my relief, it began to slowly back out, trailing saliva from its mouth to my bucket.
I stood there, hands on hips under the open sky, afraid to look down at my bucket, now mixed with globs of cow saliva. Should I remain soapy, or rinse with water goopy with cow saliva? I could only chuckle to myself. Here was a choice I would never imagined having to make.
After my bucket shower, Mama resumed her tour. Past the manure field, we came across a second hut made of cow dung, sticks and mud, no taller than one-and-a-half metres high and three metres square.
“Kokoo! ” Mama called. “Hodi! ” Hello!
“Karibu! ” Welcome! A hoarse, older voice whispered from inside. Mama lowered her head and went inside, motioning for me to follow. I felt my way into the darkness, unable to see more than a metre ahead. A small fire roared in the centre of the manyatta and the stifling heat was overpowering. Stumbling forward, I accidentally kicked over an empty canister.
“Oh!” I cried, cursing my clumsiness.
Laughing, Mama took my hand and guided me to a mattress made of tightly woven sticks beneath a cow hide. Blind in the dark, I could only follow Mama’s voice.
“Your grandmother,” she said. “We say Kokoo.”
My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkened scene, the only ventilation a thirty-by-two-centimetre window along the mud wall. Behind the fire, a small woman sat on a wooden stool. Squinting through the smoke, I discerned her tiny figure, wrapped in a ragged shuka with frayed edges, her shaven head shining in the firelight.
Speaking to Mama in soft, almost whispered Maa over the fire’s crackle, Kokoo expertly prepared tea for us. Her dishes—cups, plates, a Thermos and pots—were kept on top of a pile of firewood that doubled as a drying rack and storage cupboard. She removed a steaming pot from the fire and dug out a plastic container, pouring a sugar-like powder into the pot.
I was staring at Kokoo’s dangling stretched earlobes when she broke into a chuckle, catching me off guard. This was the first time we’d looked one another in the eye, and even through the darkness I was stunned by the glassy bluish hue of her eyes.
“Ngoo shai,” she said, reaching over the fire to pass a mug brimming with hot milky tea. I thanked her and accepted the mug. The three of us sipped from our cups, eyeing one another through the rising smoke. Mama and Kokoo continued speaking, clearly discussing something related to my arrival. Then they both turned to me with expectant smiles.
“You must be given a Maasai name,” Mama decreed.
Mama turned to Kokoo, prompting her. Kokoo looked at me as if she were the proud grandmother and I the grandchild, taking her first steps.
“We have decided on yours,” Mama said. “Naserian. It means ‘peaceful person.’”
Naserian. I repeated the name in my mind.
Kokoo cocked her head and repeated the word to herself, as if getting used to connecting my face to that name.
“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Naserian, tuende!” Mama said, gesturing for me to come with her. I bid Kokoo farewell and followed Mama back out into the blinding light of day.
As my eyes adjusted to the sun’s glare, we were met by those children who had before skittered away but now were gathered round. As Mama introduced them one by one, I was surprised to discover all of them lived in the compound with us.
Three boys stood leaning on one another: Saigilu, twelve; Parsinte, ten; and Morio, only five. Mama introduced another older boy as Kipulel, fifteen; she explained in English that they’d taken him in a few years ago, after his own parents’ death, but she didn’t explain the circumstances.
A girl cowered behind them, squatting on the ground with her skirt tucked under her knees, averting her eyes. Each of her features were perfectly proportioned on her slim frame; she carried a certain wisdom in her deep-set brown eyes despite her apparent youth. This was Mama’s youngest sister, Faith—though at only thirteen she was more like her daughter. She’d come to live here several years ago to assist Mama with the sprawling family.
Suddenly I had four new brothers and a sister. No—two sisters! A tiny head squealing with glee poked from behind Faith. The daughter of a faraway relative, Metengo was four years old and lived with Kokoo.
As then Mama turned to explain the situation to the boys in Maa, I tried to gauge their personalities. Saigilu stood tall and slender, slightly in front of his brothers, respectfully nodding as Mama spoke, resting his hand protectively on Morio’s shoulder. Parsinte, clearly the most animated of the bunch, laughed loudly, fidgeting playfully with his walking stick. He was about thirty centimetres shorter than Saigilu yet obviously had half the attention span.
Swatting away a fly, Parsinte accidentally bumped into Kipulel, who was leaning against the kitchen with his arms crossed. Kipulel quickly spread his arms and jokingly threatened to push back. This sent Parsinte and Morio into another fit of giggles as Kipulel eased back into his cool pose, a teasing half-smile on his face.
Morio bounced eagerly up and down, his arms swinging loosely in time to a song playing only in his head. His smile was mischievous as he tried to stare me down. When I squinted back, Morio exploded into giggles and let loose his song, singing loudly through the spittle forming on the sides of his mouth. Saigilu reached out to cover Morio’s mouth and Morio dutifully stepped back in line, trying to stifle the laughter. I would have walloped Erin if she’d ever tried to quiet me that way in front of a stranger. Yet Morio seemed to find the attention he was looking for in Saigilu’s mild reprimand.
Under Mama’s watchful attention, the children’s wariness of me as a new stranger gradually evaporated. Saigilu was the first to approach me, extending a hand in greeting. Parsinte and Kipulel followed close behind. Faith was last in line. She timidly