Corinne Hofmann - Back from Africa

After the room has cleared we all go back to my place. Andrea and her mother have made some tasty little snacks and we all get chatting, and I have time for a proper conversation with Irene, the woman from the audience. The last few leave after midnight and finally I can get to bed, tired but happy. It's back to visiting the dentists the next day. I keep getting recognized at the — practices I visit now because one or other of the assistants has seen me on TV or read one of the stories about me in the press. That's no disadvantage, I soon realise.

At long last there's another letter from Africa and I'm interested to know what they'll say about my book. James himself is pleased that I've written a book about my life with Lketinga and the Samburu. But for most of the others who've never been to school, it's hard to understand, particularly as most of them have never even held a book in their hands. James says if he had known I was writing a book he would have helped me with a lot more information about Samburu culture. He hopes that one day he'll be able to read it in English.

He goes on to tell me how hard it is for each and every one of them now just to get by and thanks me for the money I wired to his account. He can't teach in the school yet and is wondering about opening a shop with a few things to sell. However he lacks the start-up capital. He'd also like to come to Switzerland some time. He sends Napirai and me his best wishes, and says he'll always do what he can for me as we're related like brother and sister. Then he ends by wishing us a happy Christmas.

It's a positive letter in general even if it's not hard to see his scarcely veiled requests for more money. I've been making regular bank transfers since I came back and will continue to do so, but I don't want to turn the village into a hive of envy and greed.

By the end of November my book is top of all the bestseller lists in Switzerland and I'm invited back on to a TV chat show. The presenter is one of those whom people either love or hate. I'm going on in any case, because it's not exactly hard work. Our on-air conversation is pleasant enough with a few jokes thrown in. Afterwards there's a phone-in. Several women call to congratulate me on writing such an exciting book, but then there's a man whose name I can't make out but as soon as he starts speaking I recognize the voice. It's Markus, the former school friend whom I couldn't get out of my head for such a long time after we met at the school reunion. At first he congratulates me too, but then he goes on in an accusing tone of voice to ask me how I can justify the fact that my husband hasn't been able and won't be able to see his child for such a long time. It's hard on the father, he says, and accuses me of speaking too glibly about the fact. It's odd that it should be Markus calling in and being so argumentative. I don't remember him being anything like that serious. I explain the situation calmly to him from my point of view. After that the program conies to a close.

By now this whole business with the book is taking off at near light speed. While I'm out in the car en route to visit one of my customers I keep hearing myself on the radio giving an interview. Or I'm looking in a What's On magazine and see: Tonight, eight p.m., Corinne Hofmann is reading from her bestseller in Bern… or Basel… or Rüti… or wherever.’ I still can hardly believe it and sometimes it seems as if I'm living in two different worlds at the same time. The first readers’ letters have begun to arrive. Most of them are simply amazed at the story and have questions to ask. There are also a few male ‘fans’ who have gathered from my interviews that I'm single now. They send photos of themselves, sometimes with their house and fast car included. Strangely all these single men, from manual laborers to managing directors, seem to see me as their wife-to-be.

For my part I have not the slightest interest in starting up a relationship, not least because I simply don't have the time. One day in December while I'm sitting in the hairdresser's I pick up a Swiss magazine with an article headed ‘Our Women of 1998’. It's a list of the women who over the past year have shocked, moved or entranced their readers most. To my astonishment in among the pictures of Cher, Princess Stephanie of Monaco and Hillary Clinton, there's a photo of me! It has a really strange effect on me, as if it's got nothing to do with me at all, a world in which I don't belong. That evening when I turn on the television I see a bookseller raving about the great sales of The White Masai. It's incredible. It all seems completely unreal, as if they're talking about somebody else.

That December I'm due to give a reading in Munich at the Tollwood festival, a huge ‘alternative’ Christmas market. When I walk into the little tent set aside for readings, a woman in a cowboy hat, high heels and a thick down coat comes up to me with her arms open. Somehow or other her broad grin and long blond hair trailing out from under the hat seem familiar. And then when she gets right up to me, I think I must be dreaming: it's Rambo-Jutta, the woman I went right across Kenya with searching for Lketinga.

We throw our arms around each other. I can hardly believe it's really Jutta here in front of me. She heard about my reading by chance and decided just like that to turn up.

‘Aren't you living in Kenya any more?’ I ask her.

She tells me her mother died recently and she's just back in Germany for a couple of days to sort out her affairs.

‘You know, I just couldn't live here any more. I'm flying back to Kenya soon because I'm in charge of a new hospital out there and don't want to stay away too long.’

We swap addresses and I promise to take a look at the details of her new project and give some money towards it. She stays to the end of the reading and is enchanted by the book.

‘It's incredible that you remembered it all so well,’ she says at the end, ‘but that's exactly how I remember it too.’

We promise to keep in touch even though at the time I've no idea that she is going to do both my publisher and me a huge favor.

My book is obviously the center of attention this Christmas. We're all curious to know where the adventure will lead. The publishers are already engaged in negotiations for translations into French and Italian. But I spend the two main days of the holiday paying all my attention to my daughter.

The beginning of 1999 however turns out to be even more hectic. The book is at the top of the German bestseller list now and the phone lines at the publishers are humming. Lots of bookshops want me to come and do a reading so the publicity people suggest setting up a tour round the country. That poses a difficult problem for me. On the one side I really like my job and it offers me financial security, on the other I can see this is a real opportunity to go out and sell my own ‘product’. How many people are lucky enough to be self-employed, paid to travel and be welcomed everywhere by listeners with open arms? I simply have to do it!

After just a slight hesitation I talk to my boss and ask him to let me go, even though I won't be able to work out my three months’ notice. But I offer to put on a special evening for ‘my’ dentists with a reading, African food and African music. I really want to be able to reward those practices that treated me well by saying farewell in a special way. The evening goes so well that it makes leaving the job even more difficult, but at the beginning of February I bring my period of employment to a close. From now on I am just an author.

All of this has caused a lot of disruption to our lives and I need to get things back in order. Thank goodness Napirai can spend a few days at a time either with my mother or her childminder which at least for the first few months she enjoys. Meanwhile I'm on tour around Germany for a week at a time. I fly for the first bit, then take a taxi to the hotel they've reserved for me, ready to begin straight away with the first press interviews. The readings usually take place in the evening between seven p.m. and eight p.m. I have a quick bite to eat beforehand, as otherwise I get tired or feel ill during the reading, and then head off to wherever the event is taking place where there are usually people already waiting to share my story.