arranged the kindling in a small tripod, placed larger branches on the outside and then took a can of paraffin wax from a shelf and coated the smallest kindling. Placing the paraffin back on the shelf, she reached for the box of wooden matches that sat next to it, and with a quick movement she struck one and touched its flame to the wax. Once the fire had caught long enough for the wood to smoke, she dropped to the ground and blew several times to fan the flame. The smoke grew thicker, and I turned my head to cough, squinting my smarting eyes.
Our kitchen stove—three rocks with room to insert firewood and a grill to hold a pot.
When the fire was generating enough heat, Faith placed another pot, filled to a third with water, atop it—water to be used for washing dishes from last night’s dinner. When the water began to steam, Faith removed it from the fire and placed it at her feet, dumping the dishes inside, along with the yellow bar of soap. A second pot was filled with a mixture of water and milk to boil for tea.
Maasai families typically only have chai tea with hot milk for breakfast, or occasionally fruit, if available, or on some occasions a small fried dough pastry called mundazi. Chai tea is a staple found in every Maasai pantry or kitchen, and brewing tea was considered another chore of great responsibility. It is considered essential to provide guests with tea, no matter the hour of day, and all Maasai—kids and adults alike—consider it an essential part of daily life.
Faith grabbed an unlabelled red container from the wooden shelf, unscrewed the yellow lid and poured loose tea leaves onto her hand to carefully assess the amount. Once the water and milk mixture had boiled she added the tea leaves and let the mixture boil some more. Faith then spooned in an equally diligently measured amount of sugar and sieved the completed tea into a plastic Thermos.
Just then the boys began to arrive for their breakfast tea.
“Naserian!” Saigilu, the eldest of the brothers, entered first, followed closely by Parsinte.
“Ao!”
“Sopa!”
“Ipa!”
With each family member’s entrance, our voices rang with greetings, and a fresh cup of tea was poured. Next came Morio, who giggled shyly at me, followed by Kipulel, who beamed proudly at greeting me in Swahili and his rudimentary English.
Then their father, Baba, who had returned from his travels late the previous night, entered the kitchen. Morio’s giggles came to a halt and everyone rose at once to greet him. He stood in the doorway, his head freshly shaven, wielding a long walking stick. He was clearly older than Mama, yet he had the slightly clumsy movements of a younger man. Though he was of average height and build, he possessed an aura of importance, and the children all met his greetings with hushed respect.
He and I hadn’t yet met, and I wasn’t sure what to expect or what he would think of me. I watched Faith to see how she responded. She bowed her head, as did my brothers, presenting the top of her head for him to touch.
Baba greeted me last.
“Naserian,“ he said in a deep, solemn voice.
“Ao? ” I replied. He placed his fingertips gently on my head, then gestured for me to lift my chin. He leaned in, his dark, probing eyes close to mine. I looked over at Mama and Faith, but they were busy scrubbing dishes, soaping cutlery and plates in one pot, rinsing in another.
“Sopa.” His eyes crinkled in a wide grin.
“Ipa . . . ?”
My voice was so quiet I barely heard myself, and Baba have me a quizzical look. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“Ipa! ” I shouted.
Baba laughed as my brothers scooted over, making room for him in the centre of the bench. Baba spoke loudly, his broad shoulders wrapped in two red shukas knotted around his shoulders, his chest dangling with beaded necklaces. The only non-traditional aspect of his appearance was the pair of jeans he wore under the shukas. The entire family was subdued and on their best behaviour in his presence. Mama poured a steaming cup of chai for him from the Thermos, reaching across the fire to hand it to him.
Mama was generally fairly protective about telling me about her past. She’d told me she had been born in Kuputei and came from a large family of farmers with three brothers and six sisters. She and Baba had been married for about nine years, and from the moment I met her I could see she was a dutiful, responsible mama and wife. I always tried to follow her lead when interacting with others in the community.
Seeing Mama and Faith’s dutiful demeanour in Baba’s presence, I felt myself also tighten up, even though he was eager to talk and ensure I was okay so far, and that I felt safe and secure in his home. Baba asked each of the children if they’d done all their schoolwork, then shared with us what had caused his late return last night: he’d visited neighbours whose cow had given birth, standing by in case his assistance was needed, and he’d helped another neighbour who was sick and needed to be escorted to a clinic in the market town. The entire family listened with admiration.
Soon Baba departed to check on the livestock, and the kitchen returned to its previous chatter. Faith snapped at Parsinte for almost knocking over her tea. Morio cried, complaining about not getting enough attention. Then Mama announced time was running out, so the kids hurried off to quickly wash up before their half-hour walk to school.
Kipulel lingered behind, and I asked if there was a problem. As if sharing a deep secret, he asked if there was enough tea left for a second cup. I laughed and poured him out the remainder of the Thermos. He chugged the hot liquid down in one gulp before running after the others.
As Faith and her brothers headed off for school, I settled in to finish the dishes, wishing them all goodbye in my best Swahili.
“Kwa heri! ” Goodbye!
“Haya!” Let’s go!
And off they went, excited for another day of school.
In the afternoon, Mama and I headed back out on foot. Though her days were typically occupied teaching at the elementary school, she’d freed time to show me around to all the community’s important sites: the school, the dam where the cows drank, churches, the health dispensary recently implanted by the government, many nearby bomas, the spot on the highway where we could catch a bus to the market town on our weekly visits. She indicated useful shortcuts and introduced me to many of our neighbours, who greeted me with laughter and enthusiasm. We followed long, meandering paths—to me they all appeared identical, but Mama navigated them as adeptly as I could Schaumberg’s winding crescents and avenues.
At each boma we were greeted with welcoming smiles and a fresh cup of tea. With hospitality and generosity toward guests at the cornerstone of Maasai culture, at each boma mamas and their families opened their homes to us, especially tickled at entertaining a guest from far away. No one thought twice about visitors dropping in for an impromptu visit, and they were always ready with a pot of tea, sometimes a plate of ugali at lunchtime.
News travelled fast in the close-knit community’s chain of gossip and word spread that a girl from America had arrived in Nkoyet-naiborr. Wherever we went, people knew who I was before I knew them, and they met me enthusiastically.
“Naserian!”
