after the customary greetings, they’d break into exuberant conversation, sharing the details and dramas of their lives, even though I had next to no clue what they were saying. So one of the first things I learned to say in Maa was mayiolo maa: “I don’t know Maa.” They seemed to find this absolutely hilarious.
After a number of these visits, I was jittery with cups and cups of strong tea and my stomach was full to bursting. Yet I had to keep graciously sipping, nodding to show my appreciation even as the cup grew cold. Once again, I reminded myself to keep an open mind and, more importantly, to keep hope in my heart.
In the days to come, I met an endless procession of Maasai neighbours. Guests showed up regularly at our boma, with the expectation that I’d greet and serve them, just as they’d done for me. Usually, however, Faith was one step ahead of me and already brewing tea by the time it occurred to me to begin serving. Again, all I could do was just try and fulfill my role, perform my chores, then sit quietly and fit in as best I could.
I was expected to know and recognize all the people I’d met. But there were so many: stranger after stranger came by, each speaking in a foreign tongue. There were so many names to remember, so many faces. Yet my family was adamant: How could you forget her name? You just met her yesterday! She’s the sister of the neighbour’s brother’s market lady’s . . . I pretended to keep it all straight. But I really couldn’t.
When guests left our boma, Mama and Baba would request that I walk them part-way back home. But I’d eventually get lost on the way back and usually ended up asking someone along the way for help. By accident, I learned my way around just by stumbling foolishly from one boma to another, helped along the way by friendly souls seeing this fish out of water scrambling to get home.
One time, after a late afternoon visit, I tried to lead a group of guests back to their home. After we’d said our goodbyes, I headed back in the direction I’d come, looking forward to relaxing after an exhausting day. Trudging home under the blazing sun, I was in somewhat of a daze and lost my way. Still getting used to meagre, basic meals and only tea for breakfast, along with a busy slate of daily tasks, I was left with little energy at the end of the day.
Then I stopped in my tracks. I was at the intersection of several footpaths, each stretching off into identical landscapes of rough brush and reddish dirt, well-worn by many feet. In my tired stupor I’d lost my bearings and had no idea which way to go. The sky was darkening, and dusk fell quickly here, and with dusk came hyenas. If there were hyenas, were there other animals, too? Like . . . lions?
I heard slow footsteps crunching in the dust behind me. I wheeled around to find a small Maasai man, draped in red, coming up behind me. Bracing himself with a walking stick, he muttered a few words I didn’t understand, except for one: Naserian. Apparently my reputation had already preceded me.
Sensing my confusion, he gestured with his walking stick in several directions, speaking in a low, calm tone. I still didn’t understand, but I caught the essence of what he was asking: Where are you trying to go?
I had no idea how to respond, except for a Swahili word I’d recently learned: nyumbani. Home.
He nodded, indicating understanding. My relief was inexpressible, and in my gratitude I momentarily forgot how tired I was. He led the way, down one of the several paths, and I followed closely behind. We continued at his slow pace as evening began to fall.
Night skies in Nkoyet-naiborr were a revelation of stars, a sweeping sky of twinkling constellations unlike those visible in the cities of America. While I gaped with amazement at the view overhead, my Maasai guide shuffled forward, leading me, and soon I recognized the trail that led to my boma. I thanked him profusely, but he simply continued on his way.
I knew Mama would be annoyed, and possibly concerned, at my late return. I was embarrassed that I’d gotten so lost so easily. But I was determined to feel my way forward on my own. After all, finding my own path was I’d come here to do. A little help along the way didn’t hurt.
5
Samuel
After a couple of weeks, I mentioned to Mama my plans to begin running in the mornings. At first she resisted the idea and couldn’t understand why I’d want to waste time running when there were so many responsibilities to manage. A leisurely jog wasn’t exactly a typical Maasai way of greeting the morning. But at home I’d always been in the habit of playing sports and exercising to ease tension; running in the mornings could be a way of enjoying one of the comforts of home while still maintaining the duties of my new life.
With a bit of pressure, Mama gave her approval, though she didn’t want me out in the wilds alone—you never know what, or who, you’ll encounter, she said. She secretly contacted a friend of the family, Samuel, a young man about my age from a boma more than a kilometre away, and asked him to accompany me on my runs.
So one rainy Monday, Samuel arrived with my brothers on their return from school, then stayed for dinner. Afterward, as we all sat around the fire, we talked as best we could, despite our limits in each other’s language. Samuel’s home was near the water source, so we’d met before in passing, but had barely spoken. He was tall and muscular, with a quiet demeanour. Yet he was also quick to relax into laughter, and he listened intently to others when they spoke.
The next morning, after Mama, Faith and I had woken, fetched water and cooked tea, we sat together in the kitchen. Dressed in old basketball shorts, I began putting on my running shoes, when Samuel appeared wearing a red T-shirt and basketball shorts instead of the traditional shukas. He announced he was going to escort me on the run.
My eyebrows shot up. On one hand, I was glad to have him join me; running on my high school track team had shown me it was always more fun to run with someone else. But on the other hand, I didn’t know why Samuel, a boy I barely knew, wanted to accompany me.
I looked to Mama, and she gave me a slight nod that told me he could be trusted.
“Sawa sawa! Tuende! ” Okay, I said. Let’s go!
Clouds overhead threatened rain as we headed down the footpath toward the dirt road beyond. As we ran, I periodically glanced back at Samuel, still unsure about his intentions. I hadn’t been in Nkoyet-naiborr long enough to know what to make of Maasai boys.
Samuel seemed to sense my slight apprehension and gave me my space, running in silence behind me. Samuel wore the traditional Maasai shoe—with soles made of recycled tires and a crossover strap tacked on with rusty nails. Yet his breathing remained even and his pace steady, almost elegant compared to my clumsy steps and panting breath; I was still getting used to the thin oxygen of the region’s more than 2,000 metre elevation.
