Olonana and Jack conversed, while the old woman eyed me from her stool. She rummaged through a burlap sack then held something out for me. As I reached for it, something landed on my head. It was wet and warm. I was about to touch it when Jack grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What is it?” I could feel it settling into my scalp.
“A drop of rainwater from the roof.” His spoke the words softly, in my ear. “The gods have favored you. Just smile and accept the gift she’s holding out for you.”
I did as I was told, retrieving a bracelet from the old woman. It was a string of small, round beads threaded through a leather cord. Jack tied it around my wrist.
“It says something.” I held my hand up to the light. There was a letter seared into each bead.
“Taleenoi olngisoilechashur,” said Jack.
“Talee-what?”
“There is a saying among my people, that everything is one,” said Olonana. “We are all connected. Taleenoi olngisoilechashur.”
I was momentarily taken aback that he spoke English, but it made sense that he would use the local dialect when he spoke to Jack since they both understood it.
“We are all connected.” I touched the beads, feeling their cool, smooth surface. “Thank you,” I said to the old woman, touched by her simple, meaningful gift. “Asante.”
She smiled back, revealing two missing teeth, a gap that made her look like a wrinkled baby.
“My mother speaks Maa, not Swahili,” said Olonana. “The word Maasai means the people that speak Maa.”
“Please let her know I love it.”
As I admired the blue, green, and red beads on the bracelet, a platter of hot, roasted meat was brought into the hut, along with a gourd filled with some kind of fermented drink.
“You will accompany my mother to the other hut now,” said Olonana, looking at me.
Clearly, the men and women ate separately, so I followed Olonana’s mother to a smoky inkajijik, similar to the one we’d left. A large wooden pole held up the roof. The walls were made of branches, plastered over with dirt, cow dung, and ashes. There was a sick calf being tended to by one of the women. All the other women were gathered around a large wooden bowl, chewing diligently on the meat. It was nothing like the prime cuts that Jack and Olonana had received.
Olonana’s mother offered me a piece of charred, marbled fat. I knew better than to refuse. The kids touched my hair and picked at my clothes as I ate. Flies bunched around their mouths and eyes, but they didn’t seem to notice. Someone passed me a horn filled with soured milk. I dipped my lips into it but didn’t drink. There wasn’t a single loo in sight, and there was no way I was making a mad dash for the bushes in case it didn’t agree with me.
You’re such a wuss, Ro.
Thanks, Mo. Like I need to feel any worse about myself right now.
I always said you need to get out more. You meet yourself when you travel.
I ignored her but she persisted.
Wuss.
Fine! I bit into the meat ferociously. Happy now?
When I was sure she was gone, I spit it out, but didn’t want to risk offending anyone. I thought about dropping it in a dark corner, but my covert operation turned out to be unnecessary. A dog entered the hut, sniffing around the women and children. I scratched his ear and fed him the charbroiled lump in my hand, turning his face to the wall until he finished eating.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry it’s kind of pre-chewed.
My stomach growled because I hadn’t eaten anything since we left the campsite that morning. Olonana’s mother smiled and handed me another piece of goat meat.
Crap.
Thankfully, a busload of tourists arrived, and everyone headed out to greet them. Jack emerged from Olonana’s inkajijik with the chief and joined me. Olonana grabbed a handful of coffee beans from a pouch and threw them into his mouth.
“He chews the coffee beans raw?” I asked.
“They’re roasted. But yes, he eats them whole. For energy,” replied Jack. “Sometimes the morans use them on long treks, or when they want to stay awake at night.”
Olonana took Jack aside while I wished his mother goodbye. The rest of the villagers were putting on a welcome dance for the tourists. A few were trying to sell them bracelets and other handicrafts.
“What was that about?” I asked, when Jack returned. “It looked pretty intense.”
“He was giving me a message for Bahati.”
“He wants to reconcile?”
“He just had two words for him: Kasserian ingera.”
“Isn’t that what he said to you earlier?”
“Yes. It’s a Maasai greeting. It means, ‘How are the children?’”
“I didn’t know Bahati had children.” I stopped by the stall at the entrance to the boma. It was filled with colorful, hand-made souvenirs.
“Bahati doesn’t have kids. It’s not about his children, or mine, or anyone else’s. You always reply ‘Sapati ingera’, which means ‘All the children are well’. Because when all the children are well, everything is good and right with the world.”
“That’s beautiful. And profound. What strange, wonderful people they are.” I might not have been able to relate to their customs or lifestyle, but I admired them for the pride and authenticity with which they held on to their rich, fierce heritage.
“You like that?” Jack motioned to the wooden figure I was holding. It was about the size of my palm, carved in the shape of a boy playing a flute.