As a Maasai boy about to be a man, no meter in the world can measure your happiness. Those circumcised before you come to mock you, they hit you with sticks, they sing you coward songs. They ask you why you are still holding on to your dirty foreskin at this age. Like it’s your fault. If you had a circumcision choice, you would have followed Jesus. They sing for you the whole night, those evil beings in black clothing. They mock your manhood; they say you will never get beautiful girls. Look at me now, idiots.
They try so hard to kill your excitement. But you are not excited about girls, or your manhood or singing the whole night. In the morning you will kill your foreskin – whatever that piece of tissue ever did to people. That is what you are excited about. After that you get to stand at the gate and all the women and children leave whatever they are doing to address the emergency of greeting you, you get to go to night dances with girls wearing nothing but a few shukas, you get to greet men with your hands, you get to get laid.
Then there is the blessing and the lessons. The elders teach you to be a man. You never drink from the same cup with children including women; you don’t get beaten by a woman. Since you are a man now, you should start thinking about your own family. Then they take a sip of some milk and alcohol concoction and spit it all over your face. Sip and spit, sip and spit, sip and spit, your eyes, your lips, your forehead, until they are all done
They tell you that Maasai men don’t go home early. It’s a rule. They make it clear that going home to sleep early is for mothers, small and big girls, young boys, goats and small things that crawl this earth too afraid to be tramped in the thick of darkness. Earlier in life, when I still didn’t mind my foreskin, my father would carry his walking stick and leave after making sure the animals and the children are fine. He would come back after most of us are asleep, stand outside the house and say mmmmhhh. Anyone who is awake and in their right mind would not dare let him say that again.
They say women and children have too much noise. If you think this is insensitive, try boarding a train full of Maasai women most of them carrying babies. Maasai women have this annoying high pitch voice especially when they argue or sing. Combine that with hungry babies and if you are not lucky it will be the last music you hear. They tell us that the more you stay around children, again including women, the more the chances of getting mixed up in their uchafu (I was torn between crap and shit here, I chose to be neutral)
So as a culture and in search for better indulgence for my ears, I don’t go home early when I am on holidays. Here is where the entire problem is. Picture this, me with my crew seated on stones by the roadside because we can’t pay to watch translated outdated movies, even if we wanted we couldn’t because they have managed to lose all the money we had in the local pool. There are guys there who are experts at living by the number of balls they put in holes.
Those stones are strategically placed. Furthest from the video, close enough to the coolest pub so that we can listen to roots and drown the video show noise and close enough to the road to identify who is passing
She passes. She knows am seated there. She knows I have eyed her several times. So she does like they all do. Change her walking style. If her mama gave her what she is shaking now I wonder if there is any left with her mother. She has a body, a good one. The kind of bodies men create in their sleep. The kind body that belongs in a glass house with the words ‘marking scheme’ written above her head in Hebrew.
The good thing about having no electricity is that there are no street lights. Makes work easy for the hunters with eyes sharper than infrared lights. There are a few lamps with the market women, not much trouble though.
One of my friends says ‘get her’ like an evil whisper. That voice of the devil that lives inside you, the one that says ‘just one more beer, you have already spent most of the food money anyway……. So what is the harm if she is his girlfriend, he says he is going to dumb her anyway……. Why do they care if am gay, its not like they are the types I can get down with……. I will go to church next Sunday….. The dog ate my homework’
There and there, as truly as that hypocritical oath witnesses give in court. I follow. Slowly at first to give her time to be clear of the small paraffin lamps these market women curse our hunting practices with. Like I always do, I catch up and start a conversation. I hate silence, it freaks me out.
If I was American I would avoid like a plague those dates people go to where they pour half glass empty Champaign, toss and take a silly sip, smile, and peck and later lie down, look at the stars and smile silently. Before your hammer is down and your verdict is Josh is not romantic, hear me out.
One, if you decide to give me alcohol, you’d better give me alcohol. I drink from the bottle – old fashioned but like every African man, quantity matters. I am not the guy you peck, that is your dad and relatives. I am the guy you kiss until your heart stops, until you need me to breath for you, until both your feet are off the ground. I don’t lie down next to you looking up at the sky (do I need to explain this?) and most importantly I don’t keep quite for more than one minute if I am not alone. Heck, I don’t even keep quite when am alone, I sing or whistle
‘Niaje’ I start
She gives me the look. I know it, all straight men know it. Even gay men know it –they have their girls in that side of the world, don’t they? It’s the kind of look that takes the color off your face. The look that says ‘keep this up and I am going to pack your crap in porcupine skin and shove it so deep up your ass you will choke on the spikes’. That look makes us buy deodorants. If you are locked in a cold room with that look, you can shower with your sweat. If you walked four miles, ran three kilometers or carried her from the bus stop to your room, you don’t sweat as much as you would if you are exposed to that look for twenty seconds. Ask men
That is the look that asks you ‘who do you think you are… kwani you think you are how irresistible?’
Keep your cool Josh. Try to pull yourself together and keep the conversation going. Don’t mumble Josh. She can’t hear you well, damn those roots, damn that movie. Now what did you just say Josh? You can’t find any better joke Josh?
‘I want to ask you something’ I finally manage to ignore the voices in my head
‘I know what you want to ask me’ she jumps in
‘Ok. So you do?’ I ask
‘Yeah’ she says
‘Answer it then’ I say
‘No’ she replies
‘No what?’ I ask
‘You want to ask me to be your girlfriend. Don’t you? The answer is NO’ she says
‘Ok. Where did you get such a question?’ I ask.
‘Your eyes’ She says
Am speechless so I give that awkward smile that separates your lips showing your teeth while the rest of your face stays cold. A desperate effort to look assuring. Once when I went camping with the scouts club by some river 50 km off the village and we realized that I forgot to carry matches, I gave the same smile.
She has been looking in my eyes while they were busy elsewhere on her body. We get off the main road and she keeps walking, just as fast as she used to. I grab her hands and use more force than its necessary to make her stop. She stands there looking straight at me. Her shoulders drop, eyelid rise lips twist. It’s clear she doesn’t like this set up.
And the story continues in the next part two…………..
