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But in truth, I’m quite frightened by this. It’s the first time I’ve seen Dominic away from the Kiihu Camp, the tourists, among the things that are familiar to me. Now, in this raw primitive setting I see who he truly is, where he really comes from. I am in awe of these people who are still trying to cling to traditions that don’t appear to have changed for hundreds and hundreds of years, but I also realise that I don’t know where to begin to understand them. I hate to admit this, but I wonder whether my friends are right to be worried for me. Are our cultures just too far apart for us to be able to form a relationship on middle ground? He’s a man who lives entirely on milk and blood, doesn’t sleep and thinks that fighting lions is no big deal. What exactly is the middle ground between my twee Nashley village and Dominic’s harsh Spartan homestead? Or between my comfortable modern life and his ancient tribal customs?
The chants reach a crescendo and then we all applaud Dominic’s skill. He comes over to me, not even out of breath despite his exertion.
‘Do you have a dance, Just Janie? My people would consider it a great honour to see it.’
‘A dance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Er . . . er . . . not really.’ I wrack my brains. Do we even have any traditional British dances? Other than morris dancing, of course. And no one sane would want to be seen doing that in public.
‘It is important,’ Dominic whispers.
‘Oh, right.’ Wish he’d given me some warning about this. Then it hits me. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know one.’
‘If you start, the women will follow you.’
‘Right.’ Taking a deep and disturbingly wobbly breath, I step forward. This is the best I can come up with so I might as well give it my all.
‘Oh. Oh. Oh,’ I begin nervously. Then thinking what the hell, I kick into Beyoncé’s excellent hit tune, ‘’, and the accompanying dance. How many times have I done this on the SingStar with the guys from the salon? It’ll be a piece of cake. ‘All the single ladies,’ I intone. ‘All the single ladies!’
The Maasai women look slightly bemused as they watch me, but after a few verses and when I’m getting into my stride, they gamely join in. We all smack our rumps in unison and wiggle around in a circle.
Dominic laughs heartily at my efforts – as well he might do – particularly when I advise him that if he liked it, he should have put a ring on it.
‘Oh. Oh. Oh,’ the Maasai ladies chant as they copy my strutting.
And I think, Oh. Oh. Oh. What have you started Janie Johnson? What have you started with this relationship? And how exactly are you going to finish it?
Chapter Forty-Seven
I meet Dominic’s father and his mother and then the other three wives in the family. There seem to be dozens of children in a wide range of ages who are all Ole Nangon offspring – some who look older than Dominic, some who are still babes in arms.
My greeting is warm and enthusiastic and I feel very humble to be welcomed into their home. Instantly, my heart is captured by their sunny disposition and open manner. But inside the hut, things are even more basic. Even at my height, I can’t stand up and all it consists of are a couple of sparsely furnished spaces that serve as the living room and communal bedroom. The beds are wooden pallets on the floor covered with traditional woollen kangas. Cooking is done on an open fire, which is smouldering in the centre of the room. There’s no window or chimney and the air is stifling, hot and heavy with smoke. A few pottery dishes grace the single shelf that is fashioned from mud and there’s a curved tubular jug, a calabash, in which, Dominic tells me, the milk is fermented before drinking. But that’s pretty much it. No microwave, no fridge, no state-of-the-art range cooker. Just a few pots and some spare fire wood. And I know straight away, in my heart of hearts, that never, no matter how much I love Dominic, could I ever contemplate living here.
‘They think you are strange,’ Dominic says with a smile, ‘because I tell them your family has no cattle.’
‘They’re very kind to have me here,’ I say. ‘Very kind, indeed. Asante. Asante.’
His whole family grin broadly at me.
‘Come,’ Dominic urges, ‘I will show you our school.’ He leads me out of the hut and to the far side of the manyatta.
Under an acacia tree, there’s a range of wooden benches. Children, tiny ones from the age of two, up to self-conscious teenagers, crowd on to them. Their attention is held rapturously by an elderly gentleman wearing an orange kanga and leaning heavily on a stick. On the tree, a piece of paper is pinned. It has the days of the week and the months of the year both in Swahili and English. A young girl, about eight-years-old, is pointing out the words and the rest of the children are chanting them musically.
