“I’m just a regular person,” she said. “Like your mother or your sister.”
Mayani gaped at her, clearly not understanding a word she’d said. Wishing she had a translator, Alexandra searched for old Sambeke. She discovered him amid the group of elders clustered around Grant. There would be no help from that quarter, she realized.
“
I-lotu
, Alinkanda,” Mayani said, taking her hand and pulling her toward one of the low plastered huts. In the scant shade of a scraggly acacia tree sat a group of Maasai women, their legs stretched straight out in front of them, bare feet crossed at the ankles. While stitching intricate patterns of beads onto leather, they chatted, laughed, and kept a watchful eye on their children. Alexandra tried to remember the proper greeting from one woman to another, but nothing came.
“Mungu akubariki,”
she said finally.
The women laughed in delight, and Alexandra found herself grinning widely. She had spoken in Swahili, but they understood! Feeling as victorious as she had the day she’d sold her first line of fabric designs, she seated herself among the women in a space they created for her.
Two of the toddlers crawled into their mothers’ laps. Despite the flies, the women cooed and babbled in universal “mommy” language and kissed their little ones on the cheeks. Mayani crouched beside Alexandra, nestling as close to her as he could. After rubbing the golden hairs on her arm with his small, dark fingers, he laid his shaved head against her shoulder.
“I-saen,”
an elderly woman said to Alexandra. She held out a handful of beads—red, white, blue, orange, green.
“I-saen,”
Alexandra repeated. “Beads.”
The women chuckled with pleasure at her efforts to speak their language. Shyly, but with obvious pride, they began to display their handiwork. Alexandra could hardly believe the fabulous patterns these women had worked onto stiff cowhide. One young woman showed a belt she had beaded in primary reds and blues with a hint of green for contrast. Reminiscent of Native American handicrafts, the belt incorporated geometric designs in a rich, primitive pattern.
“It’s beautiful,” Alexandra said, half forgetting in her amazement that they couldn’t understand her. “This belt would be wonderful to wear. I can picture it on a great-looking denim dress accented by a pair of tooled-leather western boots. You know who would love to put your belt on one of his runway models? Ralph Lauren.”
The woman giggled. “Rafloren.”
Alexandra laughed. “That’s right. Ralph Lauren.”
Another woman held up a choker she was beading. Again, the bold design astonished Alexandra. She examined the ostrich-eggshell central medallion from which hung a short silver chain and arrowhead. “This is amazing,” she said. “It’s very good.”
“Rafloren?” the woman asked.
“Very Ralph Lauren.”
As the Maasai women handed her their delicate earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, she shook her head in wonder. Not only had they incorporated beads, they also had added cowrie shells, bone, snipped tin, chain, and wire. “This is more than a craft, you know,” Alexandra said. “This is art. You are artists.”
The women stared at her unblinking, uncomprehending. Finally, they took back their beadwork and resumed stitching. But the elderly woman who first had spoken with Alexandra pointed at her sketch pad.
“A-inyoo enda?”
she asked.
More wary than she’d ever felt at displaying her portfolio to a clothing designer, Alexandra began to turn through the pages. What would these women think? Would they laugh at her splotches of color and her attempts to capture the essence of their land?
She pointed out the hues of the ocean, the sunset, the dappled green leaves on the tent canvas. Brows drawn together in concentration, the women scrutinized Alexandra’s work. They touched the bold colors and then examined their fingertips. They discussed the sketches among themselves and, shaking their heads, seemed to come to the conclusion that their guest’s book was a mystery.
Resigned, Alexandra turned to the picture she had been working on the night before. She had sketched the big acacia that grew between Grant’s two tents, a huge, yellow-barked fever tree with spreading branches and spiky thorns. It rose umbrella-like across the white page in a detailed execution of each color, line, and shadow nuance.
“Ol-tarara!”
the old woman cackled, pointing to a similar tree that grew inside the kraal. “
Ninye
Rafloren!”
“Rafloren!” the other women agreed as they took the sketchbook and passed the picture around. “Rafloren!”
Alexandra laughed. “Thank you very much. Would you like me to draw something for you? How about those beads?”
Opening her pencil box, she focused on one of the flat beaded collars around the elderly woman’s neck. She selected the bright primary colors and began to draw. Within moments, the women were exclaiming with delight as the necklace appeared on the white paper. When it was finished, Alexandra tore off the page and gave it to the woman.
“Ashe nalang!”
she said in thanks.
Another woman handed over the armband she was beading. Alexandra spent the rest of the morning sketching page after page of beadwork. Some women wanted to keep the reproductions, but others turned shyly from the gift. As they beaded and chatted, Alexandra worked to capture in her sketchbook the patterns of their bright red togas and the beautiful chocolate shades of their skin.
By the time Grant wandered over, she had all but forgotten the pungent odor of her surroundings. She was even oblivious to the flies that settled on her white paper to rub their front legs and air out their wings. In fact, Alexandra almost felt as if she’d stepped into one of her mother’s tea parties—ladies sitting around doing needlework and exchanging the latest gossip. Despite the morning heat, she and her congenial hostesses had been sipping tin mugs of fragrant amber tea thickened with milk and sugar. Alexandra had decided its smoky flavor topped any tea she’d ever tasted.
Mayani was curled up against her side, a piece of sketching paper on his bare thigh as he tried out her colored pencils. He had copied her detail of some of the beadwork, and now he was attempting to draw her rubber sandal.
“Noo kokoo,”
Grant said, greeting the older women.
“Iko.”
“Alexandra, this is Kakombe’s mother.” He introduced the elderly Maasai who had first displayed her beads. “
Ng’oto
Kakombe.”
“Pa-oing’oni,”
she said.
“What did she call you?” Alexandra asked. “Was it that
he of the white behind
thing?”
He chuckled. “Unfortunately, I acquired another nickname by giving her a gift one time. It’s a Maasai tradition to refer to people by the name of the animal they offered you.”
“So what did you give her?”
“A bull.”
“Bull, huh?” Alexandra said, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“No wisecracks, please.” He hunkered down beside her. “So, what have you been up to while I was getting roped into the initiation ceremony?”
“Art.” She pointed out the beadwork and sketches. “These women are so talented. They’re wonderful.”
“You’re wonderful with them.”
Blushing in spite of herself, Alexandra held up Mayani’s drawing. “Look at this. He reproduced my shoe on paper. It’s not perfect, but he’s getting the idea.”
“Mayani’s crazy about you.”
“He’s so comfortable with me. I’m sort of amazed. And you know what? I’m comfortable, too.”
“You fit, Alexandra.”
“Maybe.”
“So stay.”
She gripped the pencil in her hand. “Grant, please.”
“Please stay.”
Dismayed at the intensity in his words, she searched his eyes.
Yes,
her heart answered him.
Yes, I’ll stay. I’ll stay here forever if it means I can look into your face and listen to the sound of your voice.
But such an act would be rash. Impossible. She glanced around at the circle of women as if their strength could lend her support. Their dark eyes flashed back and forth between the young couple.
Yes,
the women seemed to be urging her.
Do this. Give your life to this man.
“I’m . . . um . . . I’m thinking about getting back to the camp,” she fumbled. “I’d like to rest up for the climb tomorrow.”
“All right.” Grant stood and stretched, easing the tension of the moment. “The elders have offered lunch, but I’m guessing you’ll want to pass.”
“Actually, a banana sounds pretty good right now.” Alexandra rose and looked around at the assembled group. The children were coming to their feet, ready to accompany the visitors to the gate. Alexandra scanned their faces. “Grant, what happened to that little boy’s leg? The wound is infected.”
“Thorn,” Grant said. “It’s been getting worse by the day.”
“Why don’t you do something? You should take him to a doctor.”
“I never interfere in their lives.”
“This wouldn’t be interference. It would be
intervention
.”
“I’ll help when they ask, but they probably won’t say anything until it’s too late.” His face grew somber. “The boy’s father died last year, and his mother is blind. She has very few cattle and no money. She’d never be able to afford medicine.”
“But that’s exactly why the child needs your help. Look, I’ll donate the money for medicine. What would it take— a few dollars? The boy could lose his leg if somebody doesn’t do something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why won’t you get involved, Grant? These are
your
people, not mine.”
“Why aren’t they yours?”
“I hardly know them, for one thing. And I don’t speak their language. I’m not . . . I’m . . .”
She glanced around at the faces, women who had welcomed her so warmly, children who already accepted her. Maybe they weren’t her people, but they belonged to God.
“He made us, and we are his.”
Wasn’t that what the Bible said?
“I’ll get the money as soon as we’re back in camp,” she said. “But I still don’t understand why you won’t do anything to help. That doesn’t fit with what I know about you.”
He said nothing as they left the women and waved farewell to the elders. But when they had stepped outside the
kraal
, Grant turned a harsh glare on Alexandra. “What do you really know about me and the way I live my life?” he demanded. “Tell me.”
“You’ve said a hundred times how much you care about these people.” Alexandra jammed her hands into the pockets of her skirt. “If you really cared, you wouldn’t stand around and watch them die.”
“That’s the way it works. Dying is part of living.”
“But look at the way they live! They have absolutely no sanitation. No running water. No sewage system. Do they even have soap? I doubt it. The flies are crawling all over the children’s eyes—and you can be sure those exact same flies have just been walking around in cow dung. No wonder the boy’s mother is blind. I’m surprised they’re not all blind. This is appalling, and something ought to be done about it.”
“So do something.”
“Why don’t
you
?”
“Why should I? I’m an observer, a recorder. I’m not here to change things. In making a record of Maasai stories, I’ve learned to appreciate their way of life. They have a culture—a civilization—that works. It’s worked for centuries. Sure, some of them die of injury and disease. And I mourn with them. But I didn’t come to upset the delicate balance of their lives.”
“Soap would upset the balance? Antibiotics would upset the balance? Come on, Grant. Don’t bury your head in the sand like some ignorant ostrich.”
“Ostriches don’t bury their heads in sand. That’s a legend that has no basis in fact.”
She stopped, sure that steam was coming out her ears. “Okay, maybe I don’t know Africa as well as you do, Dr. Thornton. But that little boy shouldn’t have to die just because you’re a scientist and don’t want to get involved. If there’s medicine out there that could help him, he should have it. And he will because I’ll give it to him.”
“When did you start caring so much about people, Alexandra?”
She gulped down the hurt his words evoked. “When I realized they were
God’s
people.”
“So you’re going to throw your money at them? Big wads of American bucks. You think that’ll help?”
“Can it hurt?”
“Has all your money ever done you any good?”
As they entered the campsite, Grant left Alexandra’s side and set off toward his tent. Frustrated, she kicked at a pebble and sent it skittering across the beaten ground. It bounced into a tin rain barrel with a ping that echoed across the open space.
Grant turned. “Do you really want to help that little boy?”
Breathing hard, she glared at him. “Of course I do.”
“Then give yourself to his mother.” He strode toward her again, his finger pointed in a challenge. “Live inside her darkened world. Teach her how to make a better life for herself.”
“Not everyone can exist out in the bush like you do, Grant. Not everyone can give
themselves
to the Maasai. Some of us have to figure out ways to help from a distance.”
“Yeah, but not you. Not you, Alexandra.” He stopped a pace away. “You can give yourself.”