Corinne Hofmann: Back from Africa

A week later, fate makes the decision for me. We're having dinner when the phone rings. My mother picks it up and says, ‘Hello, hello,’ several times before hanging up. She says it sounded like a long-distance call but there was nobody on the other end. I'm staring at her with sweaty palms, not wanting to believe what I'm hearing. She just laughs and says, ‘don't look so shocked! It's almost certainly just your husband ringing up for a chat. You ought to be pleased!’

I was nearly sick with nerves and worry. Obviously I'd left my mother's telephone number. Sophia, my Italian friend, had asked me to. If Lketinga ran into problems with the shop she was going to call me, as he'd never used a phone in his life. But I hadn't told her either that I wasn't coming back. I hadn't trusted anybody with my real plans for fear things would go wrong. And now this happens! I'm sitting there staring transfixed at the telephone, but for now at least it remains silent. My mother tries to tell me there's nothing wrong and I should get on with my meal. But I've lost my appetite. My brain is whirring trying to work out how I should act on the phone. And then it rings again. My mother tells me cheerfully I should go and answer it. But I can't move. I just stare in panic at her as she lifts the receiver. She gives a cheerful ‘ Yes’ in English and calls me over. I walk to the phone mechanically and hold the receiver to my ear, immediately recognizing Sophia's voice.

‘Hallo Corinne, how are you, I'm here together with your husband Lketinga. He's desperate to know how his wife and child are and when you'll be coming back to Kenya. Shall I put him on?’

‘No, wait,’ I shout into the phone. ‘I need to talk to you first. Sophia, what I'm about to tell you is bad news, for Lketinga, you, me, everybody. We're not coming back. I can't stand my husband's jealousy any longer. You've seen a bit of what it's like yourself. I couldn't tell you before or we wouldn't have got out of the country.’ Behind my back I can hear the sound of cutlery falling on to the floor. ‘Please, Sophia, please, try to explain to Lketinga. I'll do everything I can from here to help him with the shop and the car. He can have it all, all the money there, everything except our daughter Napirai. I'm going to try to make a new life for myself and her.’

I can sense how shocked Sophia is. She asks me if I'm sure I don't want to talk to my husband; the money for the call is running out fast. I take down the telephone number and tell her I'll call back in ten minutes to talk to Lketinga. I put the receiver down, feeling totally drained, and turn to see my mother and Hanspeter staring at me. And at that moment the tears fill my eyes and I start sobbing uncontrollably. I sit there for what seems like ages, next to the telephone, feeling as miserable as sin and at the same time somewhat relieved that my mother and Lketinga both now know.

I hear my mother asking me, in a quavering voice: ‘How did all this come about then? I thought that apart from a few minor things you two were happy. You'd bought such a nice shop with the rest of your money. And you know you haven't even got a Swiss residence permit any more!’ There are tears in her eyes now too. Her words are like daggers. I remember that all I wanted was to create a happy family with the love of my life and never to take my daughter away from her father. She is, after all, the child born of our overwhelming love. But I simply don't have the strength any more and know I have to decide in favor of life rather than death. Napirai isn't even two years old yet; she needs me. I've got through so much, from malaria in pregnancy to giving birth in a hospital out in the bush not to mention the isolation ward we had to live in because of highly infectious hepatitis. No, there's no way I'm letting go of my little girl. I want to live for her. I don't want her to undergo ‘female circumcision’ before she gets married. No, I'm not going to submit her to that, even if the price we have to pay is growing up in the white world without her father.

‘Is it OK if I call them back, in Kenya? Lketinga will be distraught,’ I ask my mother rather than answering her question which I couldn't do anyway right now. I have to dial the number three times before I get through. First I hear some unknown African voice and then Sophia, then almost immediately Lketinga: ‘Hallo my wife, why you not come back to me? I'm your husband! I really love you and my baby. I cannot stay without you and Napirai. I don't want another wife. You are my wife.’

In tears, I tell him his crazy uncontrollable and unjustified jealousy hurt me too many times. ‘I've felt like a prisoner lately. I can't and won't live like that. And when you threw at me the idea that Napirai might not even be your daughter, that finally finished off my love for you and any hope I had, Lketinga. I just can't take it any more. I'll do all I can to help you. I'll write to James and get him to come and help you. I'll try to explain everything properly in a letter. I'm so very sorry.’

But he doesn't understand any of this and just answers me half-laughingly but unsure of himself: ‘I don't know what you tell me. My wife, I wait for you and my child. I'm sure you will come back to me.’ Then there's a crack on the line and it goes dead.

I feel like I've been hit over the head. I go over to my little Napirai, lift her up off her baby chair and like a woman sleepwalking take her off to our room. I can't think straight any more today. My mother and Hanspeter seem to understand and say nothing. Napirai always knows when I'm not feeling well and gets particularly clingy. She sucks hard at my breast, kneading it with her hand.

When she falls asleep. I start writing my letters.

Dear Lketinga,

I hope you can forgive me for what I have to tell you. I am not coming back to Kenya. I've been thinking a lot about us. More than three and a half years ago I was so in love with you that I was prepared to live in Barsaloi with you. I also gave you a daughter. But ever since the day you alleged she was not your daughter, I haven't been able to feel the same as I used to about you any more. You noticed this too.

I never wanted anybody else and never lied to you. But in all the years we were together you never understood me, maybe just because I am a mzungu[1] White person . My world and yours are very different but I had imagined one day we could inhabit the same one.

Now however, after our last chance together in Mombasa I realise that you aren't happy and I am certainly not either. We're still young and can't go on living like this. Right now you won't understand what I mean but after a time you'll see that you'll be happy again with someone else. It will be easy for you to find another woman who lives in the same world as you. But this time, find yourself a Samburu woman not a white woman.

We're too different. One day you'll have lots of children.

I've taken Napirai with me because she's all that I have left. Also, I know I'll never have another child, and without Napirai I couldn't survive. She is my life! Please, please Lketinga, forgive me. I simply don't have the strength to live in Kenya any more. I was always on my own there without a friend and you treated me like a criminal. You didn't notice, but that's just Africa. I tell you once again I never did anything wrong by you.

It is up to you now to decide what you want to do about the shop. I'm writing to Sophia too. I'm sure she will help you. I'm handing the whole business over to you, but if you want to sell it, you'll have to deal with Anil, the Indian.

I will do what I can to help you from here and won't let you down. If you have problems, tell Sophia. The rent for the shop is paid until the middle of December but if you don't want to work any more you really have to talk to Anil. I'm also giving you the car, and including the necessary papers with this letter. If you want to sell the car, you should get at least 80,000 Kenyan shillings. But make sure you find someone reliable to help you sell it. When you have, you'll be a rich man.