Corinne Hofmann - Back from Africa

The event lasts up to two or three hours and afterwards I'm far too wound up to go to sleep, so instead I go and find a decent restaurant to get a proper meal and let the evening wind down. That's when my mind wanders to the extraordinary vagaries life can take. If anyone in Kenya had told me that I would be able to hold the attention of hundreds of people across Europe with the events of my life back there I'd have stared at them blankly and called them barking mad. At moments like that sitting in an almost empty restaurant in a strange city lost in my own thoughts, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to Lketinga, his family and the Samburu.

Most of those who turn up to the readings are women, young and old, or couples. I'm struck by the fact that the audience differs enormously depending on where we are. In some places there's an atmosphere of enthusiastic attention right from the beginning, in others people need to thaw a little first. If there's any background noise in the auditorium then I know there are people in the audience who're going to lay into me verbally later. I understand that the book isn't for everyone and that I don't exactly have a doctorate in German literature. All I did was write down my experiences in the little spare time I had between coming home from work and looking after my daughter. It came straight from the heart and I'm only pleased that so many people have found something positive in it.

When I'm signing copies afterwards women come up to the table with beaming eyes and take my hand and say: ‘Thank you so much Frau Hofmann for such a wonderful evening. It was just the most fascinating experience in my life.’

When people say something like that I just don't know how to react. It seems out of all proportion. Apart from anything else it gives me pause for thought and almost makes me sad that an event like this might be the best moment in the life of a woman of maybe sixty years of age. But I hear things like that all the time.

On one occasion I'm sitting signing books in a big store when a middle-aged woman comes up to me smiling and asks me to watch her walking up and down in front of the table I'm sitting at. She keeps saying: ‘Look, Frau Hofmann, do you see. I have you to thank for this!’ I haven't a clue what she's on about and am beginning to think she might be mad. Then she comes up to me and clutches my hands, stares into my eyes and says: ‘Up until recently I was in a wheelchair and couldn't walk. Then I read your book. Your strength of will impressed me enormously and I told myself if this woman can come back from the brink of death with malaria and get back on her feet again, then I can do it too! And now look, I'm walking again for the first time in years!’

And then she starts walking up and down in front of me again. I'm so touched that tears are welling up in my eyes and I can only say: ‘It would have been worth writing the book just for you!’

She places a huge bunch of flowers on the table next to me and says goodbye with a long, lingering look. I'm so knocked out by the experience that I can hardly pay attention to anybody else. For the first time I'm pleased I can simply get up and go. But it's an experience I call to mind whenever I read harsh criticism.

When I get back home on a Friday, I'm thrilled to see my little daughter again, who by now has turned ten. After being apart for so long she literally flings herself at me and is glad to be allowed to sleep in my bed again. I spend weekends reading letters from readers and try to answer as many of them as I can. There are more of them with every passing week. I'm surprised how much people tell me and what my book means to them.

Many of them want to say a personal thank you and say they found my description of my four years with Lketinga both honest and moving. Some of them recount their own good and bad experiences. Some women, and even a few men, who themselves have a romantic relationship with a partner belonging to another culture ask me for advice about what to do in a certain situation. All I can tell them is: ‘If you're not sure about your relationship deep down inside and need to ask for advice, then it's clear something is already going wrong. No advice, no matter how well meant, would ever have stopped me from following my feelings.’

Of course I also get adversely critical or even downright hostile letters. But the most frequently-used sentence goes along the lines: ‘I've read your book in a single sitting. I'm overwhelmed, fascinated and astounded by your strength.’ Many of them say they feel they've actually lived through the events I describe. And nearly all of them ask after Napirai, Lketinga and how they and I are getting on.

As someone who never dreamed of writing to the author of a book I'm more than surprised by their reaction. I find it all a bit spooky really but I'm very moved by it.

A couple of weeks later I have a reading and signing to do in Switzerland. It's unusual because it's at a travel agent's and they're giving away sixty copies of the book. There's already a crowd spilling out on the pavement when I turn up. I start signing books straight away and soon there's a lively conversation with the customers going on. After half an hour the manager comes over to ask if I know the people on the other side of the road holding up a banner to demonstrate against me. I don't know what he's talking about because there are so many people standing around waiting that I can't see out the window. But when all the books have gone, I go out to take a look at the demonstrators.

I'm astounded to see four black women and two white men holding up a placard that says I insult African culture. I have no idea what they mean and try to talk to them. I try to shake hands but they aren't having that at all and instead start shouting, or rather screaming, at me in English. I try once again, quite calmly, to ask them what the problem is. Can't I read, they shout back at me. My book is full of lies. I ask them again what they're talking about and address myself to one of the two men. It seems though that he's just a placard carrier and says it's the African women shouting and beating their breasts I should talk to.

One of them then shouts at me that I'm insulting her people, that I depict the Samburu as stupid and uncivilized, that I don't know the difference between Samburu and Masai. All of this seems a bit suspect to me as I can tell straight away that these women belong neither to the Masai nor their Samburu relations. When I ask what tribe they belong to they shout back aggressively that they're Kenyans and what's in my book is not true. But what they're specifically annoyed about they won't say.

I can only wonder what has driven them to make allegations like this. My life in Kenya was exactly as I described it and I certainly never had the impression I was insulting my husband's people. But when I realise there's no point trying to talk and that these woman are just trying to draw attention to themselves, I give up attempting to have a serious conversation. Even so, for the next few days I can't help thinking about the incident simply because I can't understand what it is these people want. My publisher has no idea either.

I suddenly remember the fortune teller to whom I should have given a book long ago anyhow. After all she was right about her prophecy of success. I ring her up and we arrange to meet the next day as I have to go off soon to do a second reading in Bern and then I'm back off to Germany. Before anything else, I want to ask her what the incident with the African women might mean. As before, I go into the tiny little house with all its dwarfs and once again the cat immediately settles in my lap. The fortune teller doesn't remember me however, and it's only when I hand over a copy of the book that she says: ‘Oh, it's you, is it? I read your story but didn't realise you'd been to see me.’