“I tell you he’s running away from something, coming to live here, so far away from his own people.” The charcoal-dark skinned man spoke in his vernacular Kamba native language looking thoughtfully down the scenic valley several hundred feet below where he sat. He was seated on a three-legged stool that he usually carried around with him everywhere he went.
“I don’t agree with you. Maasai warriors have a reputation. They are scared of nothing. They never ran.” The much younger, much-lighter skinned African companion to the older man had a stick in his hand and stood, keeping a close eye on his half a dozen cows grazing lazily in the thicket just behind where the two men stood.
“But there is always an exception to the rule.”
“No exception with Maasais. Since the days of our forefathers many generations ago, when they would come here in the hills to steal our cows. Sometimes we would fight them off with our bow and arrows and our people would kill some Maasai warriors who were obviously cowards."
“How do you know that? You were not around. If my memory serves me right, you were just born the other day.”
“My father tells me stories. But neither were you around yourself, old man.”
“What else does your father tell you?” Charcoal-skin would occasionally stroke his chin where a few white stubs stuck out like white ants on a dark coal-black hillside.
“That the Maasai preferred to steal cows from other tribes rather than try to get our cows, because our people were always so fierce with their deadly poisoned arrows.”
“Their cows,” charcoal-skin corrected.
“What do you mean their cows? The cows were ours.”
“Maasai’s believe that all cows on earth belong to them. Through the centuries they have always believed that. So when they steal, they believe that they are simply recovering what their forefathers lost to other tribes during raids in the past.”
“Yeah, yeah. It still doesn’t change the fact that the Maasai warrior is scared of nothing.”
“My friend you are young and you have not seen enough in this life. There are always exceptions, that is a rule of life.”
“And I insist that with Maasai’s they never run away. Nothing scares a real Maasai. Unless you'r’ talking about a fake Maasai.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I am right. They are not even scared of death itself.”
“Can I prove to you that even this Maasai warrior that you say is not running away, is different?”
“Yes, please.”
“Look at his wife.”
“You mean his companion?”
“Yes, his woman.”
“What about her?”
“What do you mean, ‘what about her?’ You have eyes don’t you?”
“Yeah. She’s white. So what?”
“What do you mean, ‘so what?’ Is every Maasai married to a white woman?”
“Ok this is an exception.”
“Finally you admit.”
“But it still means nothing. There are so many Maasai’s with White women as their girl friends, still doesn’t make them cowards”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not the young fool that you think I am. So many white women want Maasai husbands that many people from other tribes quite often pretend to be Maasai’s at those holidy resorts for tourists at the Coast these days.”
“You know too much for a person your age.”
“I even know one Mkamba man. We went to school together. He does that business.”
“Business?”
“Yes. The white women usually pay the Maasai warriors of course.”
“For what?”
The younger man grazing the cows did not answer. Instead he burst into laughter revealing his perfect brownish front teeth and generous gums which dominated his mouth.
“What are they paid for?” Charcoal-skin insisted.
“Why are you asking me a question whose answer you already know.”
“I honestly don’t know the answer. Please tell me.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I honestly have no idea why a white woman would want to pay a Maasai man. To have his photograph taken?”
The younger man laughed again. This time more loudly, revealing more teeth.
“What is so funny?”
“They pay for sex.”
“Really? How much?”
“A lot of money. They pay in dollars, so it is a lot of money here.”
“Only for sex?”
“Yes, and in the case of our Maasai friend, the inconvenience of staying with an old white woman for the rest of your life.”
“That white woman is not old.”
“Her skin is wrinkled.”
“That is how white women are. Tose are not wrinkles. She was a little overweight, that’s all.”
“She’s still overweight.”
“I don’t agree. I think she’s very pretty,”
“You sound interested.”
“She would make a good fourth wife for me.”
“You would have to deal with the Maasai first.”
“No problem, my great grandfather killed many Maasai warriors in his lifetime. I carry the same blood and the same anointing.”
“You can actually kill for a woman?”
“You are a young man. You think you know a lot but actually you know nothing.”
“You can actually kill, for a white woman?”
“Why not?”
“It is against the law. You’ll get arrested.”
“Yeah if I am stupid enough to do it with witnesses around.”
“You sound very serious.”
“I am.”
“So how will you get him alone? He’s always with his white woman. They even go to the market together.”
“But they don’t go to the toilet together.”
“So you’ll kill him in the toilet, outside?”
“Yeah.”
“For the white woman?”
“Why not?”
“And what makes you think the white woman will fall in love with you after the death of her Maasai?”
“You know my third wife?”
“Yes.”
“Is she young and pretty?”
“Yes. So what?”
“I’ll win the white woman’s love in the same way that I won my wife’s love.”
“That young girl married you for your money.”
“I am rich, am I?”
“You tricked her into thinking you were.”
“It is called perception. To get any woman in the world, all you need is to portray the right image to win her.”
“What sort of image would you need to win this white woman belonging to the Maasai?”
“That’s my secret.”
“You seem to have some experience with white women.”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me young man. As a matter of fact I do.”
“Now you’re pulling my leg.”
“You know I was a tailor in the army.”
“You went to Britain?”
“No, Burma.”
“Those are Asian women.”
“They’re white aren’t they?”
It always seems to happen when you are talking about somebody. They suddenly appear out of nowhere. It was still early morning, too early for the odd couple to be seen making their way to the market. But without any warning, they suddenly appeared on the foot path a short distant from where the two men were having their argument about them.
The Maasai warrior walked majestically with his head held high as always. His spear was in one hand and with the other he held on to the white hand of his woman. Her white skin looked oddly white, in fact too white, wrapped around the huge dark muscular hands of the Maasai warrior.
Everything about the white woman seemed round, almost perfect circles. From the shape of her face to the shape of her body which on this day was covered by a green and gray flowery trouser suit that matched well with her almost-gray cold-looking, calculating-looking pupils, but was a little too tight for her. On her rotund ears, she wore ring-shaped multi-colored, decorated Maasai traditional earrings.
Despite the Maasai earrings, her looks looked better suited to some board room or office of a Fortune 500 company somewhere in the States. Or to some old respectable 200 year-old European company, rather than on the side of this half-naked savage warrior in traditional regalia deep in the bush somewhere in the heart of Africa. Her board-room looks contrasted sharply with the environment and the man whose hand she now clutched tightly and added to the bizarre nature of this unlikely couple.
Suddenly the Maasai warrior cleared his throat noisily and spat some thick heavily-loaded phlegm into the bush on his side.
“Sirma,” the woman’s sharp voice rang out, “I told you never to do that again.”
Sirma was much taller than his woman. He just smiled and looked down at her. Suddenly you could sense the electricity between the two. He leaned forward and hugged her. As the two men watched, fascinated, they could see the violent shiver that went through the white woman’s body as her hands quickly reached round her man’s neck. It was the kind of shudder that could only go through a woman’s body. And the kind of shudder that meant only one thing in whatever culture or tribe of the world you belonged to.
"You naughty boy," she whimpered.
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