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‘That is good,’ Dominic says, ‘because, Just Janie, I love you too.’
Chapter Forty-Six
On Boxing Day, we go out together on a long game drive. We take picnic lunches out on the plains, dinner at the camp under the stars. My world is Dominic and his world is mine. He tells me of his life as a Maasai warrior and I tell him what it’s like to be a hairdresser in Buckingham. I tell him about my village of Nashley and my house, Little Cottage, and of Archibald the Aggressive. I tell him about Mike and then I call my neighbour to see how he and Archie are faring. Our conversation is brief as the line is bad and keeps cutting out, but I think that both of my men are bearing up well without me.
When I hang up, Dominic says, ‘We must go to my village tomorrow. My Daddy and Mummy would like to meet you.’
Wow. Meeting the parents. This is a big deal.
‘Are you sure?’ So soon? is what I really mean.
‘Yes. Yes. You must see my home, my family.’
So the next day, my last day – how quickly the time has flown – we set off for Dominic’s village. In deference to a lazy Brit, we don’t walk what Dominic sees as a measly ten kilometres, but take the minibus instead. Plus I feel it wouldn’t do to get eaten on the way to the in-laws.
The village – manyatta – is completely surrounded by a circular fence of thorny acacia branches to keep out the lions, Dominic tells me. When we pull up, the gate swings open and it’s clear that we are expected.
Two lines of Maasai people come out to greet us, one of men, one of women. They’re dressed in the most amazing colourful clothes. The men are in the traditional red shukas and carry hefty sticks, the women are in pink and blue and orange tunics, wrapped with bright cotton blankets and heavily adorned with beaded necklaces, some of which fall all the way to the ground. They’re singing joyfully and they dance towards us, hips swaying.
‘This is a song of greeting,’ Dominic explains as we stand and wait for them to approach us.
‘What shall I do?’ I ask anxiously. ‘What shall I say?’
‘Be your own person, Just Janie,’ is his only advice.
But I’m as thrilled as I am struck with terror. This is as far away from Nashley as it’s possible to be. The Maasai people come close, bumping against me, the level of the singing increasing. They’re all distinctively tall with the most striking facial features and elegant bearing. Then a girl smiles shyly at me and takes my hand, easing me into the dance.
‘My sister,’ Dominic says and he slips into the line of men beside me and we make our way, chanting into the village.
I stumble along with her, unsure what to do. Dominic’s sister emphasises the words of the song for me and I try to copy but from the hysterical giggling that ensues, I’m not sure that I make the best stab at it.
The spectacle of these people coming to meet me is stunning but to be honest, I’m stunned at how basic the village is. A half-dozen mud huts are formed in a rough circle inside the walls and that’s it, there’s nothing else here. This is where Dominic lives and, suddenly, here in his own domain, I see, in shocking contrast how very different our lives are. The dancers surround us and I cling to Dominic in the middle of the circle.
‘Our songs are about our lives,’ he explains, while they mill around us, chanting. ‘They are very important to us. Songs tell of nature, of love, the struggle between good and bad. This one tells how the women build the houses, milk the cows and care for the children.’
‘What do the men do?’
‘The young boys look after the cattle until they become warriors,’ he says, ‘and the rest of the men, we jump.’
‘Jump?’
‘It is very important to jump.’ His face is serious. ‘It is how we show that we are good men, good husbands. If you can jump well, you do not pay for your wife.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘I am not.’
The women dance, another song now and I’m urged to join in, which I do to the best of my ability, but it still causes hilarity. Their rhythm is so alien to me, a person who is used only to dancing around her handbag at weddings or nightclubs. The Maasai movement ripples through their bodies from head to toe. Then the ladies stop dancing and just chant while we stand and watch the men show off their jumping skills. Each one comes forward separately and shows his prowess.
‘I am the best jumper,’ Dominic tells me proudly and then he steps forward to show me.
And as jumping goes, he certainly does look like he knows what he’s doing. Repeatedly and rhythmically, he leaps gracefully into the air, higher and higher. Much higher than any of the others have done.
