Chapter One

The building under construction was an impressive, loaf- shaped, modern-day manyatta, one that would compete for optical attention against other obscure buildings in a concrete jungle; only that it sprouted in the middle of short and tall thorny trees in the black savannah soil of Kajiado.

Beyond it were yellow-barked and gum acacia trees in different stages of growth and health, spread out for miles to the horizon. The fence, in a thorn competition with what surrounded it, was made up of kei-apple shrubbery, with its thin spiky thorns pointing out, daring intruders. A black high steel metal gate stood in stark contrast to the fence. At night, when all the spotlights placed along the perimeter of the fence were lit, the starry skies bowed in submission.

Closer to the gate, parked away from the construction site, was a black Range Rover Sport. A man, whose great height was evident from his awkward posture, sat inside the car, with a phone perched between his shoulder and ear, his right hand fingers making gentle circular movements around one of his tattooed cheeks as the left hand index finger traced the laptop that was delicately balanced between the steering wheel and the dashboard.

With the side of his eye, he watched the commotion of construction workers a few metres from him with more disinterest than interest. The darkened car windows were up in a half-successful bid to shut out the noise from the construction workers. The air conditioner was on to keep out the heat and the humidity. The man’s name: Masikonde ole Lenku.

His halfway state of peace was interrupted by excited whistles and catcalls from the construction workers. Masikonde, asking the person on the other end of the line to hold, held the phone with one hand and massaged his numb neck with the other, as he searched for the source of the excitement.

He found it and grunted with amusement. It was a young woman. Trust construction workers, he thought, rolling his eyes. He put the phone back to his ear and continued with the conversation, but his eyes were no longer on the computer or the construction workers. He watched the young woman make a short playful jiggle and flash a smile, a ray of sun hitting the teeth just at the right moment for a sparkle.

Then something unexpected happened, something that made him nearly drop his phone. His penis jerked, a thing that only happened when he saw or thought of a woman he desired.

He swallowed hard. He touched his forehead and shook his head. He had sneezed a couple of times in the morning and had blamed the morning chill. Perhaps that had been the start of something. Fever always made him act strange.

“Moraa, I will call you back in a bit,” he said. Moraa was his personal assistant.

Shifting in the driver’s seat, he studied the new arrival. She was tall; he guessed five feet, maybe nine inches. She bordered between slim and skinny. Even scrawny, if he could be brutally honest. Her long neck stuck out of her tee shirt; a less graceful person would have looked stoopy with that neck.

She walked in carrying two clear buckets on each of her slender arms, and a tattered rucksack of indefinite colour strapped on her back. She placed the buckets near her feet. He could clearly see githeri in one, and ugali in the other. He smiled as he watched her lift off both lids with both hands, then take a step back to avoid the uprush of steam. He watched the men line up in front of her, rubbing their hands together in anticipation, their eyes on the buckets. She swung the rucksack from her back and removed plastic plates, a pot he guessed contained sukuma wiki for the ugali, and a container filled with water.

His smile disappeared as he peered up at the hot sun right above him. He looked back at her and wondered how much weight she had carried under the sun, and for how long. She was laughing, smiling and playfully pointing at the men with a wooden serving spoon as she handed out the plastic plates. He smiled.

He slightly lowered his car window, just in time to hear her soft happy giggle. He wanted to hear the giggle again. At that moment, he worried not only about a possible fever, but also his sanity. He was attracted to every tenth woman he met, but he had a type.

That she wore an old faded black tee shirt with sleeves ripped off had him wonder if she had done it out of fashion sense, or the tee shirt had to have the sleeves removed to retain some style dignity. The modified sleeveless shirt exposed skinny chocolate-coloured arms. She had a flowery green and yellow leso around a tiny waistline. The tightly tied leso could not hide a flat tummy, or a pair of small rounded hips, or long enough to cover the black tights under it, tights that ended just above a pair of the most beautiful ankles he had seen in a long time, and he had seen many.

He drew in a sharp breath, stroked his crotch and continued watching her as she served the hound of hungry men, still pointing her serving spoon at them now and then. They were listening to her like children hungry for knowledge, keenly. He let his eyes travel down her legs to look at the ankles in detail, but instead saw a pair of old Bata Ngoma canvas shoes, dusty with Kajiado dust.

He skimmed over the rest of her body and came face to face with a heap of untidy braids. He scoffed – untidy hair was his biggest turn-off. He should have dismissed her immediately after seeing her hair, but he did not. He shifted on his seat again.

The realisation that he was never going to forget how the young woman looked as she stood serving githeri and ugali to hungry labourers hit him so hard, he coughed to clear his throat and nearly choked on his own saliva. He wiped off the saliva, first with the palm then with the back of it, eyes still focused on her.

“Sorcery…” he muttered to himself. He met tens of women daily, women who donned expensive clothes, shoes, weaves, wigs, braids - hairstyles that always looked fresh from the salon. They wore designer perfumes. They were his type, and they were polar opposites of the woman he was looking at.

Yet…

What he was looking at took him back to his younger days in the Maasai Mara, where women were authentic to a fault. He imagined she smelled of sweat, perhaps the sweet scent of oloirien leaves used to clean milk gourds. Women so raw and unbothered by their appearance, women unfamiliar with vanity.

Her jewellery was imankik, worn by married women. He dismissed its significance. Living in the city had taught him that just because someone wore imankik did not mean they were married. He was used to every second person claiming mostly an imagined Maasai heritage; jewellery was easy and cheap to claim.

His many non-Maasai girlfriends were regular culprits of mixing up jewellery. As soon as they realised he was Maasai, and it was easy to tell because of his tattooed cheeks or name, their next shopping spree would be anywhere with Maasai jewellery on sale. He had learned to stifle his chuckles and not roll his eyes when they mixed up wedding and mourning jewellery.

His phone rang, snapping him out of the hypnotic reverie.

Masikonde braved traffic on Ngong Road with a smile. His windows were up, as they always were whenever he was in a traffic snarl-up. It was his way of avoiding open window encounters with roadside thugs looking for an opportunity to rob unwary motorists. He tapped on the steering wheel to the rhythm of music from the car stereo, and allowed himself to think about the young woman who had jiggled into his life an hour before.

That she bothered his thoughts an hour before and an hour later was not a matter up for debate. What he was clueless about was why his penis had favoured her, as if there was even the slightest chance of him being sexually attracted to her. She was down there, at the bottom of the human income and sexy pile. He was up there, CEO of a successful tours company, magnet of the crème de la crème of women. Perhaps, he reasoned, he was just sad that she lived a hard life of cooking githeri and ugali for a bunch of rowdy men? Perhaps, she had stirred nostalgia in him because he grew up with women who looked like her?

On a typical day, he hated the mundane, time-wasting Nairobi traffic. He hated it more when hawkers ignored the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his shut windows. Today, he did not even bother to snarl at the hawkers. He was spending the wasted time in traffic not getting angry but to collect his thoughts, to try and make sense of his reaction to the young woman.

It was not unusual for his penis to have a mind of its own at the sight of a beautiful woman. He had long accepted that his sexual appetite was insatiable. He loved his virility, celebrated it privately. But this would go down in history as the day a woman so far from his ideal woman stirred his sexual urge. Even worse, he had not had a good look at her.

****

Sinta, Masikonde’s wife, breathed softly in between the maroon duvet and a maroon bed sheet, her head threatening to disappear in the soft pillow covered in a maroon pillow case. Like the beddings, everything in their house was colour- coded. Theirs was a grand bedroom, as was the rest of the house, choice and décor courtesy of Sinta and funding by Masikonde. The walls were white, drapes were white and maroon.

Masikonde stood in front of Sinta’s dressing table, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He never thought of it as their dressing table because everything on it was hers, except a bottle of moisturising lotion for his hands, a bottle of cologne, and a comb he never used. After all, his hair was forever cut close to his skull. His three items were set against tens of different bottles of nail varnish, several types of night and day lotions and perfumes from as many designers and stuff he referred to as paraphernalia.

His moran nakedness was visible in all its glory. After a quick glance at his sleeping wife to make sure she was not witnessing his impromptu slide into vanity, Masikonde returned his attention to the mirror, nodded and smiled. Not bad. He was a tall man, thanks to his highland Nilotic genes. They were also to thank for his slender body, long face – one that many a woman loved to trace their soft, manicured fingers that often carried talon-like nails. His back bore the marks of those talons that had become one with his tattooed back. His intense eyes above high cheekbones were impossible to ignore. Unlike his wife, he never went to the gym, but he retained his lean physique.

He traced his fingers along his cheeks and chin. Twice a week visits to the barber-shop ensured he maintained a clean shave, safe for a three-day stubble beard cut.

He was a handsome man. Even he knew that. His charisma overwhelmed his adversaries and supporters alike. People were drawn to him; people looked at him, sometimes for too long. Masikonde could never disappear into a crowd, he was a people magnet. He had learned to live with it, and use it to his advantage, especially with women, sometimes in business.

After winking at his reflection with satisfaction, he dressed slowly and quietly, careful not to wake his wife up. As was the morning norm, looking at his beautiful wife left him with chunks of guilt over his many extra marital affairs. She was good to him, and perfect in every way. Whenever he returned home, she would be waiting on him with that beautiful smile, a hug, often a foot and shoulder massage as they caught up on their days.

Sinta. She was exceptionally beautiful, and he was not the only one of that opinion. Standing at only five feet three inches, she was petite. She was proudly averse to any fat on her body and spent hours on end in the gym. Celery juice was an essential part of her daily diet - how he hated its smell. How humbling it was to learn to live in a house that constantly smelled of celery and other vegetables he did not know existed until he got married.

Hugging Sinta could get awkward because he had to bend so far down from his six feet four inches. She had a light brown complexion and sharp sculptured features. People looked at Masikonde with admiration, but Sinta’s effect on people was spellbinding. Masikonde never tired of smiling smugly at strangers’ reaction towards Sinta; strangers who often looked away in bewilderment as if caught in mischief. Then they would quickly return their slightly averted gazes to her, as if to confirm what they had seen the first time.

He could not blame them. Sinta had two slim teeth gaps; on both her top and bottom teeth. He loved just about every one of his wife’s features, but her teeth fascinated him most; milk white and so straight, like the work of a meticulous artist. Then there were the dimples. When Sinta smiled, everyone stopped to stare. Sinta made people dig out for jokes – anything to get her to smile. Her hair was natural, and so long it touched the small of her back. Her eyes, especially against her little body, were big and almond-shaped. According to the village grapevine, Sinta’s mother had been fathered by a man with Ethiopian blood. Nobody spoke about it because Sinta’s grandmother had been married to another man when Sinta’s mother was conceived.

Masikonde often joked how his wife spent more time in the gym than she did anywhere else. What with swimming, yoga, weight lifting and aerobics. He had slept with hundreds of women and none of them measured up to Sinta’s fitness and agility. In and out of bed.

Like him, she was from the Maasai community, a daughter of a family friend. As far back as they could remember, they knew they were destined to get married. Their engagement ceremony had happened when Sinta was nine years old and Masikonde eleven. The engagement had lasted sixteen years.

They had both obeyed their parents’ wishes not to have sex before marriage – mostly. They did not have sex with each other until the night of their wedding.

He loved her. True, pure love. They had been born a kilometre apart. Their fathers had been, still were, friends. They could both vaguely remember their esiret, the engagement ceremony, when Masikonde’s father and his brothers had visited Sinta’s family to announce their intention. A goat, or perhaps two, had been slaughtered. Enaisho ormarwa, a traditional brew, had been consumed in plenty, and Masikonde remembered trailing behind his staggering elders on the way home. During the ceremony, Sinta and Masikonde had continued doing what they usually did on any other day, climbing trees and shooting at birds with slingshots alongside their friends, unaware of the pact the grownups were making on their behalf.

****

Many times Masikonde loved his wife like a friend; more times, he loved her like a wife. Often, the two types of loves were intertwined and could be inter-changed accordingly. He never flaunted his extra-marital affairs to his wife, he liked to believe she did not know, but sometimes she gave him that knowing look that made him want to bang his head against the wall. He had tried several times to stop the cheating without success.

If one could ignore his cheating, they had a good marriage. They were still friends, and their sex lives improved with age. But there was one factor. Children. Or lack thereof. Married for eight years with no children. The snide remarks from family almost as old as their marriage. Eight years of assuring each other that they did not need children. But if they were okay with not having children, outside forces were not. Slowly and surely, the pressure was building from all sides and the peak was approaching.

He had thought hard about it. Deep down, he wanted children. He wanted to know that his children would break down by his graveside when he took the final bow. His father was most vocal about it, “You can make all the money in the world, but if there are no children, what would be the point of all the wealth?”

Forcing himself to tear his thoughts away from children, he gently kissed Sinta, and left for work.

He turned on the car radio, searched for a station with his taste of music and immediately started thinking about the woman he had seen in Kajiado. What was it about her? She reminded him of the notorious boomerang flies from Maasai-land, flies that refused to be swatted; always managing to land at the exact spot they had been swatted from. Olpaiyan, Masikonde’s father, was a wealthy man by any standard. Like many Maasai people, the only obvious measure of his wealth was the number of cows he owned. At only a couple of inches shorter than his son, he still walked upright in his late seventies, and had all his teeth white and intact.

He lived at the periphery of the Maasai Mara, in a compound comprising several manyattas. A passer-by might wonder about the larger than usual size of the manyattas. If the passer-by cared to look keenly, he may see solar panels secured on the roof. He may even wonder about the satellite dish, but then again, Olpaiyan was not the only one who owned a satellite dish in the vicinity.

His old, now banged-up Peugeot 504 that only got a wash from infrequent rains had at some point been joined by an equally old banged-up Land Rover that did not get cleaned any better. No effort was made to secure the two cars. Olpaiyan was the only one with the guts, and the knowhow to get behind the wheel and start the cars. A key was no longer needed to start the 504. Instead, he used the wires hanging under the dashboard. The Land Rover’s diesel manual pump needed to be pumped several times before switching on the engine, and every time Olpaiyan started either of the cars, Masikonde, would shut his eyes tight and wait for an explosion.

Both cars, in their banged up states and age were still impressive in tackling the rough savannah terrain. Masikonde had lost count of the number of times he had offered to buy his father a new car. Improved versions of the same brand. ‘I don’t need a new car at my age – the old understand one other.’ Olpaiyan owned dogs, in their tens – like the cows, no one bothered to count them anymore. Years before when Olpaiyan was a        civil  servant,       he    had  brought       home  two  German Shepherds, a male and a female. They had bred but in a land where all herders owned dogs to keep out predators and to hunt, it was impossible to keep the breed pure.

Subsequent puppies often came out looking like guinea pigs of dog breeding. Masikonde had laughed hard when he spotted a puppy that had greatly resembled a hyena. That the puppy had suddenly died at two months had only acted to convince him that it had been sired by a hyena. Once in a while though, a pure looking German Shepherd with its long coat grandiose would be born and it would be a good reason for Olpaiyan to have a drink of whisky to celebrate. ‘My German investment is still there,’ he would say in between sips.

****

Since retirement, Olpaiyan’s days were simple, slow and predictable. He watched sports and news channels on his large flat screen television. Or sat on his three-legged stool outside his manyatta while listening to a portable radio, catching up on world news and watching the skyline. Once in a while, he drove one of his cars to the nearest pub, twenty kilometres away, to catch up with his friends.

Watching the Mara skyline was something Masikonde looked forward to doing during his visits. He knew the Milky Way like the back of his hand; he could predict to the hour the length of time it would take for any size of moon to be full. When the moon was not visible, he would still watch the stars, allow himself to be fascinated by the twinkles, wonder if there was life in any of those stars, if there were people watching his planet the same way he was watching theirs.

Olpaiyan called Masikonde early morning as Masikonde drove to work. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and smiled as he slowly shook his head before putting on the speakerphone. Typical of his father to be up so early. He could even picture him sitting on his three-legged stool watching the last display of the magical Maasai Mara orange sunrise. “Ero, I need to see you as soon as possible,” Olpaiyan said before loudly clearing his throat. Masikonde could hear him spitting phlegm.

“Come alone,” he added before unceremoniously disconnecting the line.

That come alone, one that was said with such finality, left him nervous. He did not need an agenda written for him to know what Olpaiyan wanted to discuss. It was a long overdue talk. That it had finally been allotted time was a relief, but it did not make him less nervous. If he was being honest, he would admit it was not going to be a discussion, but a monologue. Olpaiyan would talk. Masikonde would sit, eyes downcast, and listen.

Olpaiyan’s split earlobes grew longer with age, and his eyes smaller, but he cut a dashing figure. Those who had known him in his youth were fascinated at how alike Masikonde and his father were, and whenever he looked at Olpaiyan, Masikonde was not afraid of ageing, but only if he would age like his father, minus the split earlobes. Olpaiyan’s eyesight was near perfect, but he had photosensitive eyes and often covered his eyes with a pair of expensive sunglasses. His usual regalia was the red or blue Maasai shuka, complete with a walking stick he did not need, and a flywhisk. He preferred sandals for his feet, either handmade from car tyres popular with his tribesmen, or expensive ones gifted to him by any one of his many children.

That figure, sitting outside the manyatta on his three-legged stool, was the one Masikonde found when he drove into the compound late morning. Beside Olpaiyan was a heavily pregnant dog. The bitch, too tired to lift her head, opened one eye to peer at the newcomer and went right back to sleep. The sight of the calm and collected old man made Masikonde smile even in his nervousness. His father was a perfect clash of cultures.

Olpaiyan made no effort to acknowledge Masikonde; instead, he placed the radio close to his ear, as if struggling to listen to something inaudible. For a split second, Masikonde wondered if his father was aware he was there. He was chewing on an enkike twig used to brush teeth. With a familiar tension, Masikonde approached him, and stood still for a moment, waiting for his father to acknowledge his presence.

After a long half a minute, Olpaiyan put down his radio and looked up at his son.

“Ero supa?”

“Ipa, ashe papa?”

His father tapped on another stool close to him.

Masikonde took the cue and sat down.

The pleasantries and catching up on the goats and cows and the hectic Nairobi life took the better part of an hour. Only then did his step mother, his only surviving mother out of four, come out of her hut, carrying two imowarak, cow horns. She offered Olpaiyan the larger one.

“Koree epa entito ai Sinta?” she asked after Sinta.

 “Eti ake naa supat oleng. Iroroki ntae.” She is well and sends her greetings, he answered.

“Ashe. Tell her these old bones are going dry as they wait to be called grandmother again…” Three of Masikonde’s siblings living abroad had ten children between them. “… and remind me to give you nkiposhat. It has special herbs. They will help stir her womb. Please do not drink it or you will go impregnating all women around,” she added with a wink. He understood perfectly. Whatever had been put in Sinta’s sour milk would have been herbs meant to unclog her ovaries, or to increase her sexual appetite. Sinta loved the nkiposhat. It might have increased her sexual appetite, but it certainly was not unclogging her ovaries.

He smiled at his mother in understanding. He longed for somebody to offer herbs to possibly unclog him because that would be accepting the possibility that he may be the reason he and his wife had no children.

Watching his graceful stepmother walk back to the hut left him with a nostalgic lump in his throat. His biological mother died when he was eleven, a month after his engagement to Sinta. In the midst of his chaotic life in the city, Masikonde was able to stifle memories of his mother. Half his time here in his father’s compound was spent missing her and being mad at the lions that had mauled her one sunset, many dozens of moons ago. He still felt a strong urge to throw up whenever he remembered that the only evidence they had that she had been the victim was a chewed up sandal next to the bloody grass. The hyenas, the official savannah clean-up crew, had cleaned up the scene, but forgotten a sandal. That single sandal had been a source of many of his nightmares.

The woman who had just served him and his father had taken over as the official mother. Theirs was a polygamous family. His mother had been the second wife, and there was a third wife when she was alive. It had taken Olpaiyan and his first and third wives three months to find a replacement for Masikonde’s dead mother. Wife number four had been so young that the other wives had treated her more like one of their children.

His young stepmother had been accepted into the family and had borne two girls and one boy into an already large family of five boys and five girls. In his young mind, her presence meant that his mother would not be returning. He avoided being in the same vicinity as her. Peeping around the manyattas and through the gaps in the kei-apple to see if she was around, then dashing across like one running from attackers. To avoid her, he had found joy in going away with the shepherds whenever he was not in school.

Wife number three had died from a snake bite just as Masikonde was exiting his teenage. The youngest one, the one who had replaced his mother, had died in childbirth. She had died before Masikonde allowed his tongue to call her yeyo, mother.

Now it was just Olpaiyan and his first wife living in the compound, all the children having left for Europe and America except Masikonde. To anyone who did not understand, it looked like a lonely life, but to anyone who knew his parents, they understood that they found the solitude satisfying.

****

Olpaiyan spent most of his waking hours watching television and visiting friends, while his wife spent the time tending to her kitchen garden, making homemade butter, packing it for a young man who collected it to sell in Narok town, along with the fresh milk. She always kept some for Masikonde when he visited, along with nkiposhat, the sour milk doused in blood and various medicinal herbs. In the evening, they spent their time in Olpaiyan’s manyatta. He was watching television; she was dozing on and off.

Masikonde waited for his father to sip his drink then followed suit. Fine whisky, as he had suspected. His father’s taste for good whisky was legendary, and anyone who wanted to be in his good books gifted him a single malt bottle or two. In Masikonde’s car were three bottles he had taken from his own bar at home. His father’s taste in whisky had rubbed off on him, and a drink was not a drink unless it was whisky.

 Why his father used imowarak to drink whisky would always remain a mystery to many, but Masikonde knew it was meant to confuse his visitors. The horns allowed him to share his whisky with whomever he chose. He could easily have five visitors and share his whisky with only one, while the rest sipped on enaisho ormarwa.

“Shall we go in? The winds are so strong, and our secrets may echo at the neighbours.” Olpaiyan said as he used his walking stick to pull himself upright. Masikonde followed suit, hoping luck and strong bones would give him half the grace his father had when he got to that age.

Whenever Masikonde entered one of the manyattas in the compound, he had to make a conscious effort to remember he was in the middle of the wilderness surrounded by man- eating predators and malicious wild grazers. The rooms were all spacious, and whitewashed. Inside his father’s manyatta, the seats were black leather, and somewhere was a six-seater glass dining table. A water dispenser stood between the fridge and a bookshelf full of books and old newspapers

The chandelier hanging in the middle of the hut, suspended on wooden rafters, looked lost but gave the most endearing look. The large flat screen television was deliberately positioned to allow the old man to watch it when he was on his favourite seat, and in bed. A red wall to wall carpet covered the floor.

Olpaiyan took his spot on a recliner, adjusting it so he could stretch his feet. Masikonde grudgingly took one of the sofas meant for lesser beings. He stretched his feet across it, laying his head on the armrest, careful not to spill his drink. It was undeniably cool to drink from an imowarak, but it was restricting because one could not place the drink on any surface, unless it was empty. He had horns in his house, ones he loved showing off to his friends. He had tailored his bar surface with circular metal rings to hold the horns upright.

Olpaiyan cleared his throat. “So, how are your people?” “Sinta is fine, papa,” Masikonde answered, ignoring the

premeditated jibe in your people.

 “Uh huh. Is she pregnant yet?”

He shook his head, more out of frustration than confirmation.

“You need to do something about it.”

Masikonde stole a quick glance at his father, who had his eyes shut, one hand behind his head, and the other one balancing the horn on his knee.

Masikonde sipped his drink quietly and swallowed loudly.

“You need to take another wife.”

“What?” He sat up too quickly, spilling a little whisky on his white tee shirt. He rubbed the wet part with his fingers, which only served to spread the wetness.

“You heard me,” his eyes were still shut. “And do not act so shocked, as if this is a new concept. Have you forgotten the ways of our people?” Olpaiyan managed to sound bewildered. “You need to get another wife. You need to have children, and obviously your wife…”

Masikonde had of late noticed Olpaiyan no longer referred to Sinta by name. “Your wife is unable to give you children.”

Masikonde counted to ten, glaring at his horn and wondering what would happen if he hurled it at his father’s television. Even better, at his father. “I could be the problem,” he finally muttered under his breath.

Olpaiyan gasped, finally opening his eyes and lifting his head slightly.

“What nonsense! In our bloodline, we don’t have men who cannot impregnate.” He shut his eyes again and slumped back on the seat.

“Do you know if Sinta’s family has barren women?” Masikonde used the politest tone he could summon to water down the intensity of the question.

His father shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. It is not something I have bothered to investigate, but perhaps I should have, then all this could have been avoided. So, do you have a woman in mind or shall I embark on getting one for you?”

He shook his head. “Sinta is your friend’s daughter. Why would you do this to him?”

Olpaiyan smirked. “It seems living in the big city has wiped off your traditions. You are a Maasai man. A moran. Stop talking nonsense.”

Being reminded of his moran status, Masikonde knew, was a form of emotional blackmail meant to make him act stronger and tougher than he felt. He remembered only too well the day he became a certified moran, the satisfaction of driving the spear into the lion had given him. Finally, he had avenged his mother’s death. However, killing lions no longer happened during initiation, something that made him both sad and happy. His personal grudge with lions aside, he found them majestic and did not want to see the last of them. The new breed of morans was still grappling with ways to demonstrate their fearlessness with something that did not involve driving lions to extinction.

“You are allowed to marry more than one wife, and her father understands this very well. He has three wives. Do I need to remind you that our culture allows us to marry more than one wife, just as long as you can satisfy them and take care of all their needs…or do you think just because you went to university you stopped being one of us?”

Masikonde exhaled.

“Good. Besides, this is something your wife’s father and I have discussed.”

Masikonde looked up sharply, hoping to catch his father in a lie. Olpaiyan had turned his head to look at Masikonde, like he knew his son would react just the way he had. Masikonde, shifting his eyes, started imagining how that conversation had progressed. If it had been over a fine whisky, with Sinta’s father sitting where Masikonde was sitting.

“He understands our ways and expectations. In fact, even if your wife had children, you would still be at liberty to marry a second wife. Or a third. You are a rich man. I am a rich man, between us we can afford you many wives and you can have many children.”

The reality that it did not matter how urbanised he considered himself to be was given to him slowly, layer by layer. In the city, he was Mr Masikonde, CEO, and his word was law. In his ancestral home, he was Masikonde ole Lenku, and he was expected to abide by traditions with no questions allowed.

He sighed inwardly in submission and sipped on his drink, wondering how urbanised Sinta considered herself to be. Would she accept it, or would she threaten to divorce him? One of Sinta’s friends, a Maasai girl married to a Maasai man, had recently filed for divorce when her husband married a second wife.

Masikonde was more mentally exhausted than physically. He had spent five hours with his father, listening to him categorically state how he, Masikonde, had no choice but to be a polygamist. So much for being an adult if he still felt the pressure to do stuff to make his father happy.

At four in the afternoon, he had finally managed to tear himself away from Olpaiyan. On any other day, he would have spent the night, stayed up late either watching football with him, or sit outside by a bonfire, watching the fire go down and rise with the wind, the stars in the utter darkness, surrounded by dogs, listening to the constant sound of hyenas laughing and the occasional roar of the king of the savannah. The fire going out would be the only reason for him to retire and sleep to the chirping of the crickets.

Not this night. His urge to escape had overtaken his love for Mara nights. His excuse was an imaginary meeting early the following day. Had he not been averse to night driving, Masikonde would have driven all the way to Nairobi, just to be as far away as possible from the Mara.

He left for Narok. Half an hour into his drive, an impending muscle pull made him pull over and step out of the car.

Leaving his car door open, he stretched his body, head to toe several times this way and that way and side and side. A few seconds into his stretches, the hairs on the back of his head crawled. It was pure instinct, not his sight, that made him return to the car and shut the door. He squinted his eyes and scanned the plains. It took him a few moments to spot the mane and its owner, about thirty metres from where he was. The lone lion stood up in disappointment and started walking away, only looking back at him once before it was swallowed by the long savannah grass. “Shit!” Masikonde muttered to himself, realising how close he had come to being mauled by a lion, like his mother.

His muscle pull was, however, gone.

Years before, when he was an active moran, he and his fellow morans knew better than to be roaming about after four in the afternoon. Every predator in the savannah was hungry at sundown, and although humans are hardly choice meat for them, their lack of speed and brute power made them easy prey, especially for loners. Back then, they always walked in groups armed with spears and moran courage. There was strength in numbers, but even then, lone animals were a no-no. They were angry and agitated for being ousted from a herd or pride, often very hungry and fierce.

It was pitch black when he arrived in Narok. He booked himself into a hotel and had dinner in near solemn silence. After dinner, in a desperate search for a whisky and female companionship, he moved to the bar.

He got the whisky. A lot of it. He did not get the woman. Not because he could not find one, but thoughts of the discussion with his father had entirely taken over his brain. At midnight, he staggered to his room and slept a disturbed sleep filled with dreams of dogs with hyena heads.

 Masikonde woke up at ten in the morning with a throbbing hangover headache, one he fought with a couple of painkillers, a lot of water, a cold shower and a greasy breakfast. At midday, he drove out of Narok. He made the drive a deliberately slow one. A couple of times he pulled over at random places and sat in the car, his thoughts all over the place.

Sinta, looking effortlessly sexy, opened the front door wearing her usual smile, and gave him a hug and a kiss.

Years of marriage had not watered down his desire for her. She stood in front of him wearing his tee shirt. He cupped one of her buttocks to confirm what he suspected. She squeaked playfully. What they both wanted needed no words. He carried her to the couch and made love to her, only bothered for a second by the fact that he had not washed his hands.

When they caught their breath, he looked at her and whispered, “I love you.”

“I know,” she said, disengaging herself and straightening her ruffled hair. “You freshen up, I am going to make something light for you to eat.” He looked at her as she disappeared into the kitchen, still naked, wondering why she did not say I love you, too, like she always did.

Half an hour later, they sat opposite each other at the dining table, a chicken sandwich and a cup of tea in front of him. She sipped on her herbal tea.

“So…” Sinta finally broke the silence. “How was Narok?” He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Everyone sent their love. Yeyo gave me a gourd of your favourite mix. I will get it out of the car,”      he    added with a      smile.  She shrugged, looking unimpressed.

“Mmhh…” she sipped on her tea, swallowing loudly. “Why were you there?” She was holding her cup close to her mouth with both hands, peering at him above it.

He did not answer immediately. He even managed to wear a straight face as he studied her face, as he chewed on a sandwich. “Well…Olpaiyan is being his usual self.”

“Meaning?”

Sinta was usually a timid soul. Not a coward, but she despised conflict and would never actively start one. He studied her, both his brows lifted.

“Come on Masii! Why did he summon you?”

He was still studying her. “Surely, you don’t think I am stupid?” She placed her tea on the table and sat back, folding her hands across her chest. “I know it is something to do with us not having a child.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Okay. I guess this needs to be out … yes, it was.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired of everything.

“And?” she nudged.

“And he wants us to have a child.”

He averted his eyes from her challenging ones, then picked up his sandwich, attempted to have a bite, but put it back on the plate and slumped back on the seat, looking up at the ceiling in frustration.

She let out a bitter laugh. “What does he think we should do, have more sex?”

“Sinta?” It did not matter that he had thought the same thing, but coming from Sinta, it caught him upshot. He was not armed for the current Sinta. He cupped his mouth with his hands and shut his eyes.

She got off her seat and went to the window, peering through the clear drapes into the darkness.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, Masii. I know our situation bothers other people more than it bothers the two of us so please, do not insult my intelligence by skirting the issue. Does he want you to take another wife?”

He opened his eyes, but instead of looking at her, he focused on the half-eaten sandwich.

“I take that as a yes. Look, you and I are Maasai, this kind of thing should not be uncomfortable.”

He looked at her under his brow. “Meaning?”

She shrugged, still looking away. “Meaning, if you want to take another wife, you can take another wife.”

“Sinta…” He got up, opening his arms to hug her. She stopped him with a hand gesture.

“Don’t…”

“I do not want another wife!” “Why not?”

“Because you are enough for me!”

 She smirked. “What difference does it make if you take an extra wife or three? You sleep around anyway. Making it official may be the better option.”

“Sinta…” He sank back on the seat because his knees had suddenly become weak. In all their years together, she had never referred to his behaviour.

“I am not stupid – at least not as stupid as you may think I am.” He caught his breath at the venom in her words. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind.

“Look,” she said with a softer tone, walking to him and squatting in front of him. “I love you. Very much. I have no doubt that you love me.” She had her hands on his lap. He had his on the table, but he was looking into her eyes in fascination. Then she looked up at the ceiling to fight tears and sucked on her teeth. He swallowed hard. “I long ago stopped expecting you to be faithful – don’t ask me why. Often, I have wished you would just make some girl pregnant, bring her home as my co-wife, that perhaps that would be what it takes to settle you down.”

“Sinta…” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Please…let me talk while I still have the guts to say what I need to say. If you made a girl pregnant, at least that way, we would confirm that I am the one with the problem.”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slowly. “Somehow, I knew getting a girl pregnant was not going to happen because I know you are too clever to expose me and yourself to diseases. For that, I am thankful. So right here, right now, even before you tell me what Olpaiyan had to say, I am giving you permission to marry another woman.”

He stood up. “What?”

She stopped him again with a hand gesture, forcing him to sit back down. “I am a Maasai woman, remember that. I know I am required to help you look for a wife, to welcome her into the house, to teach her the do’s and don’ts… I could throw a tantrum and say I will not allow it, but I am choosing to allow it.”

 “Sinta, stop it, please. This conversation is…is not you. Are you drunk?” He had tasted wine in her saliva, but that was not unusual.

“Of course I have. I am flooding with Dutch courage, but this… this is what I want, drunk or otherwise.”

He looked at his wife, long and hard and decided she looked like she meant what she was saying. “None of this is necessary…” he muttered as he looked away.

“That is where you are wrong. I want you to take a second wife.” She was back to squatting in front of him. “I do, really I do.” Her tone was plaintive, and she looked near tears.

Unblinkingly, Masikonde studied his wife as he ran all sorts of scenarios in his head. “Why?” He asked in a near whisper.

She shrugged. “Why, indeed? Because you should, it is that simple. And I do not mind. Between her and me, we may manage to tame you from a twenty-woman man to a two- woman man. Why, because you need to have children. Because your father will not give you, or me, rest until you marry a second wife. Because it is either I leave you, or let you marry another woman. I choose the latter.”

“What if I do not want to?”

Sinta sighed, getting up and sitting on his lap. She cupped his face with her hands, bringing it close to her and looking into his eyes. “You need to want to,” she whispered. “You need to want to, for the sake of everybody. For my sake, that you will stop cheating. For your sake, that you will stop sleeping with every second beautiful girl in Nairobi, it’s not healthy, Masii. For our families’ sake …”

“Oh my God, you really are serious!” His face was still cupped in her palms.

“I am serious. I promise to be good to her, as long as she is good to me. I will not allow her to disrespect me – that’s my only condition.” She finally let a tear roll down her cheek as she held his gaze. “There, I am done.” Then she collapsed on his shoulders and wept as he rocked her like a baby. A while later, she stopped crying and stood up, went and stood by the window and looked into the night.

He watched her back, felt exhausted but his mind was running all sorts of scenarios. The last twenty-four hours had suddenly taken a toll on him. He just wanted to switch off for several days, escape to a faraway place that did not have problems to solve. But they were his problems, he was a moran, and they never ran away from battle. Slowly, half afraid that his suddenly weak body would not support him, he got off the seat and walked to her and hugged her.

“I want us to do one thing before I respond to all this … I need us to go for tests. It’s not like we are sure you are the problem.”

She drew in a sharp breath. There were things she knew that he did not know, like she was the problem.

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