Corinne Hofmann: Back from Africa

‘Sophia,’ I reply, ‘it's really nice of you to call me to let me know but I've made up my mind. I'm just pleased to be alive and to have got out of the country with Napirai. You don't need to worry about Lketinga any more, because I believe lames is coming to Mombasa soon to help him and to decide what to do about the shop. I know how suspicious my husband can be. Have you seen him though and if so, how is he?’ Sophia says she hasn't bumped into him for ages and the last time she did see him he was out in the car in Ukunda. She doesn't know any more than that. I say goodbye and give her my love and hope, from the bottom of my heart, that things work out well for her in Kenya. At that point, however, I wasn't aware that I'd never hear from Sophia again.

A few days later a letter comes back from Father Giuliani:

Dear Corinne,

I only received your letter of 26 October a couple of days ago which is why I'm just replying now.

I think it is better for you to stay in Switzerland. I was in any case amazed at how long you lasted with Lketinga. He often seemed a bit strange even to me and I frequently wondered how long you and he would stay together. As ever I send you my best wishes for a better life with your Napirai.

You mention in your letter that you'd enclosed some money for Lketinga's mother, but there was nothing in the envelope. It is dangerous to enclose money in envelopes here because they get opened and then sometimes even the letter itself goes astray. If you have a checkbook from Barclay's Bank you can make one out to the Catholic Mission here. I will pay it in and pass on the relevant sum to Mama Lepimorijo. I think that will be the best way.

Best wishes from Barsaloi. It's the rainy season here now and everything is green and wonderful.

Best wishes also from Father Roberto,

I'm pleased to get this little letter and glad to know I now have a way to keep my promise to my mother-in-law. When we left for Mombasa I promised her I would never stop thinking about her, never forget her and always look after her, no matter where I was living. I was so happy that she hadn't taken my Napirai away from me. After all it is their custom that the first girl of a family is given to the husband's mother as a sort of old-age pension.

As the girl grows she fetches wood for her grandmother, looks after her goats and fetches water from the river. In return she gets board and lodging. When she reaches marriageable age — between thirteen and sixteen — she is married off and the grandmother gets the dowry, which is normally made up of several goats, cows, sugar and such like. That's how Lketinga explained it to me after Napirai was born: a custom that I simply couldn't imagine myself complying with.

Even Saguna, the three-year-old daughter of his elder brother already lived with the old lady. Although her mother lived in the same corral, the child ate and slept at her grandmother's. Her brother, however, who was two years older, lived with his parents in the next hut. Indeed, I have my mother-in-law to thank that she let me keep Napirai. I explained to her that I couldn't live without my child and she gave me a long silent look and then placed Napirai back in my arms, even though she reckoned I would have another ten children.

Now I want to keep my promise and as soon as I earn some money I intend to send her some. Until I am able to get a job, I can write cheques on my existing bank accounts in Kenya and ask the mission to pass a certain amount on to her each month. That's the only way to make sure her big extended family doesn't use up all the money in a couple of days. Lketinga must have easily enough money with everything I've left behind for him.

On the other hand if he's not working, like Sophia said on the phone, and is just living on the cash he's soon going to run into difficulties. I look forward to finding out soon how things are going down there, as James must have got to Mombasa by now. Everyday I wait for the post to see if there's a letter from Kenya. Even two months on I still feel very responsible, although I've left everything I own behind me in Kenya. Eventually the letter I've been waiting for from James arrives.

Dear Corinne and family,

This is James writing to you from Mombasa after receiving your letter of December 6. How are you, your family and our dear little Napirai? I hope you're all well Lketinga and I are not bad. I can't tell you much about the rest of the family because I haven't heard from them for a long time. According to your letter you still haven't found somewhere to live. I will say my prayers for you in the hope this problem will sort itself out. I have also found out you tried to help our mother by sending some money but it didn't get there.

I have spoken to Lketinga about the shop. He has decided to sell it. Please get in touch with the owner therefore and ask him to sell the lease for him. I will also try to talk to his brother like you suggested. Lketinga doesn't want to sell the car or to share the money. So I shall be going back to Maralal and don't think he'll give me money for the trip. He's drinking a lot and also chewing lots of miraa. Please do something to try to get the shop sold so that he doesn't run into debt with the Indian. I have also written to Diners Club to get the shop card blocked.

Corinne, on December 10 I'm going to go back to Barsaloi and am really very sad that my brother has given me no money except for my fare home. I don't know what I can take back for Mama and the school. This is the last time in my life I visit Lketinga. I took 12,000 Kenyan shillings working in the shop but he has used it all up. He kept coming and saying he was going to take it to the bank but he spent it on beer and miraa, I'm afraid to say, Corinne, that is the sad truth.

I will open a bank account of my own like you suggested so you can send me something to help my family. I will go back to Barsaloi and ask Richard for credit to open the account. Then I will send you the number.

I suspect my brothers life is going to be a short one. Since you left I haven't enjoyed his company as he won't do anything to help anyone else, even though he's the one who has money. I will tell our mother what you wrote to me and that I'm going to open a bank account so you can help us. I will also tell her about the problems my brother's causing. Back in Barsaloi I will sell our few goats so I can take the money I need for school.

I can't say what problems my family might have right now because I am still going to school and haven't seen them for a long time. Please send us some photos from Napirai and your family.

I wish you all a happy new year,

I'm furious after reading this letter. Reading it a second time I realise that there must have been an earlier letter which I didn't get. So I still don't know how people back in Barsaloi reacted to us running away or how James got enough money to go down to Mombasa. I also gather that he hasn't been back to Barsaloi but has gone straight down to Mombasa from Eldoret at the end of the school term. But what really makes me mad is that after everything James has done for him, Lketinga won't even give him the money to pay his school fees. He went down to Mombasa on my request to help Lketinga and support him and he leaves him in he lurch, his little brother!

I know how different the two of them are. James is about thirteen years younger — nobody is quite sure which year anyone was born. His age is just calculated approximately by the tribal District Officer. None of them knows their birthday. But the big difference between them is that James goes to school, and Lketinga never did. As a result they seem to belong to completely different worlds.

Lketinga, who until recently was considered a ‘warrior’ by his tribe, can't read or write and grew up in the bush with all the old rituals and customs. James on the other hand is the youngest of the family and since he was seven years old has been the first of them to go to the school run by the mission. When there were differences of opinion I remember Lketinga saying, ‘Bah, they're not real men any more. They've never been out in the bush, they just sit in school instead. They don't know about life!’