Alexandria of Africa (10 page)

“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “Renée told me she has some extra pairs.”

“Then why didn’t she offer Tim a pair?”

“She has them here at the centre, not at the school. Be sure to mention it to her and she’ll bring along a pair for you,” Sarah said.

“I’ll do that,” I said. That is:
I’ll do that when hell freezes over or I wear something off the rack from Wal-Mart, whichever comes first
. By not mentioning it to Renée I could get away with not working for at least one day, or at least not working at anything that was too physical. Maybe I could supervise.

“It would be a shame to get those hands all roughed up,” Tim said. “They look so soft.”

I smiled. With the price I paid for moisturizer and hand creams they’d better be soft.

“I just can’t get over your nails,” Sarah said as she picked up one of my hands and looked more closely.

I didn’t know if she’d notice that the colour was a perfect complement to my earrings. I turned my head slightly and brushed back my hair with the other hand to let her have a clear look. She just continued to stare at my nails.
Subtle wasn’t something that was going to work well with this group—even
obvious
subtle.

“How do you get them so perfect?” Sarah asked.

“I have a little help,” I said. “They’re acrylic.”

“You have fake nails!” Sarah exclaimed loudly.

I gestured for her to keep her voice down. “I wouldn’t say ‘fake,’ really, Sarah, but they are artificial.”

“I never would have guessed,” she said.

“That’s the idea. The secret is to keep your look natural—they should be long enough to look good and get noticed, but not too long. Nothing is worse than those people who wear their nails like claws. Claws are for witches and wild—”

My last words were cut off by a loud, irritating sound. We all stopped talking and turned toward it. The man who had offered me coffee was holding a large metal handbell, like the ones that teachers use to call kids in from recess.

“Supper is ready,” he said. He gestured to a long counter set with platters and bowls of food, with plates and cutlery stacked up at one end.

People started to get to their feet.

“A buffet. How quaint. It must be like having your meal at an all-you-can-eat place.”

“I
love
those places!” somebody said, and I had no doubt he wasn’t offering any sarcasm there. He was obviously one of those people who equated quantity with quality.

“I can get you a plate if you like, and you can stay seated,” Tim offered. “I know you’re still probably pretty tired.”

“That’s sweet,” I said, and he actually blushed and looked down at his feet. “But I can serve myself.”

I got up. He’d have no idea what I’d like—if anything. And besides, I’d discovered early on in life that
monopolizing the only decent-looking boy in a group was a really bad way to win friends and influence people. Who knew? I might end up needing some of these girls more than I needed him.

“While everybody is finishing up their desserts,” Renée called out, “we’re going to start our seminar.”

Seminar … that sounded suspiciously like school. I had signed up for diversion, not education. Well, they could make me come here and they could talk at me, but they couldn’t make me listen … and they certainly couldn’t make me learn.

“All of you—with the exception of Alexandria, who hasn’t had the opportunity yet—have met and worked with the Maasai people. Tonight we’re going to learn more about their culture, history, and traditions. Assisting me today will be Nebala.”

He stepped out of the shadows. He was still in his red dress and blanket combination. I got the feeling his wardrobe was fairly limited and strictly in shades of red. Better than an orange jumpsuit, but not much.

He was also holding a spear. Talk about stereotyping yourself. Slung over his shoulder were a wooden bow and
some kind of canister that I assumed held arrows. Unless the bow was just to hit somebody over the head with.

“This is,” Renée said, motioning to Nebala, “the most feared individual in all of Africa. He is a Maasai warrior.”

I guess I could see how he might be scary—to Fred Flintstone. Just about anything from an AK-47 all the way down to a musket would have been more dangerous. He’d only scared me at the airport because he’d practically jumped out of the dark and tried to steal my luggage.

“According to Maasai legend, these people came from the north, in what is now the Sudan,” Renée explained. “They are nomadic herders of cattle, and they followed their herds south looking for pasture. To the Maasai, their cattle are second in importance only to their family.”

If I’d known I was in for this I would have brought along my iPod. I’d spent a lot of time in class perfecting how to intertwine the cord with my necklaces, put it behind my neck, and then have the earbuds hidden by my hair. I’d made it through grade ten math with a sixty-eight average with music in one ear and the
blah, blah, blah
of the teacher in the other. I know I could have gotten a higher mark with both ears open, but we all have sacrifices we need to make.

“Of all the tribal groups of Kenya, the Maasai have stayed closest to their traditional way of life. Because of this, they are often viewed by the other groups as the most backwards people, rejecting western ways …”

Except for maybe their cellphones.

“… while, on the other hand, they are respected by others because of their pride in their heritage. And pride is one of the most important characteristics of the Maasai people. This is intertwined with honour, integrity, and, of course, legendary bravery.”

I guess you would have to be pretty brave to continually appear in public wearing a blanket.

“I mentioned cattle as being important to the Maasai, but I need to talk about them more. The Maasai describe themselves as, simply, keepers of cattle. A man’s wealth is measured by the number of cattle he owns.”

I almost laughed, and then thought better of it. After all, there was a certain logical sense to it. Cows were visible, countable, and out there for everybody to see. They were like Mercedes, mansions, and expensive clothes and jewellery, except easier to evaluate. There was also no need to try to figure if somebody had overextended themselves and the bank actually owned what they were using. I didn’t think there was a credit system for cows. Either you owned them or you didn’t. It wasn’t like some bank somewhere was going to foreclose on your cattle.

“Maasai legend also says clearly that all the cattle in the world belong to them. So when other people have cattle, the Maasai believe that they are illegally in their possession, and a Maasai is simply reclaiming what is his when he takes the cattle back.”

“Takes back?” a boy asked. “Do you mean they steal other people’s cows?”

“The Maasai don’t consider it stealing as much as reclaiming.”

“Where I come from they call it rustling, and people take that mighty serious,” he said.

There was a twang in his voice that made me believe that he probably did take cows very seriously. That was rather bizarre … and pathetic, and kind of sad.

“They take it very seriously here, too,” Renée said. “There was a major clash between members of two groups
just last week about fifty miles from here.” She turned to Nebala. “Do you know what happened?”

“Eleven killed. Two Maasai.”

I shook my head. Killed for a bunch of cows? But I sort of understood. Cows, money, jewellery, gold, oil—what was the difference?

“These conflicts are much, much less common than in the past,” Renée emphasized. “But obviously they still exist. And in these conflicts, the Maasai believe that it is not murder to kill a member of another tribal group.”

“They can just kill somebody and it’s not murder?” that same boy questioned. Somehow stealing cows didn’t seem quite as serious.

“No, the Kenyan government does not agree with Maasai beliefs. They will arrest anybody who commits assault, murder, or theft of cows,” Renée said. “Now, going back, once again, to cattle. Traditionally a Maasai meal often involves both milk and blood from the cattle.”

A whole bunch of people groaned.

“Blood … they drink blood?” I gasped. Were these people from Kenya or Transylvania?

“Yes, they make an incision on the neck,” Renée said. “But it’s rarely done these days. Mainly just for ceremonial purposes or a traditional gathering.”

“In my house we just order an ice cream cake from Baskin-Robbins,” Sarah said, and everybody laughed.

“Nebala?” Renée asked.

“I’d rather have a Tusker.”

Renée and the other staff members burst into laughter. Everybody else looked at them like they were crazy.

“Tusker is the most popular brand of beer in Kenya,” Renée explained. “And I, too, would prefer a cold Tusker to a warm mixture of blood and milk. Now, I’ll turn things
over to Nebala, who will tell us about how a Maasai boy becomes a man.”

Nebala stepped into the middle as Renée retreated. He drew back his blanket to reveal his weapons. He took out that wooden club thingy and placed it on the table.

“This is the
konga
. It can be held as a club in close contact fighting or thrown at a target far away.”

Next he drew a long knife from a sheath still hanging on the belt. It made a swishing sound as it was withdrawn.

“This is a sword,” he said as he held it up. The light glistened off the edge as he slowly turned it. It looked razor-sharp. “The purpose of this is obvious.” He placed it on the table beside the
konga
.

He then took the bow and the long canister off his shoulder. He opened the canister and pulled out an arrow. “For smaller targets at a distance. Sometimes the tip of the arrow is dipped in poison made from a plant root.”

“I should note that Nebala, like all Maasai, is an expert on all the animals and plants of the Maasai Mara and how they can be used. In fact, he is an expert on all living things,” Renée said.

“We also know about the stones, water, wind, stars, and sky. To us they are also living things with spirits.”

He then picked up his spear. It was longer than he was tall. He held it up high and slowly turned it in his hand.

“This is the most important weapon,” he said. His voice was now more quiet and solemn and serious as he looked at the spear. “It is with this spear that a boy must kill a lion.” He looked up at us, and his expression was almost frightening. I had to work hard not to look away, even though he wasn’t even looking directly at me.

“A group of young men go in search of a male lion. They surround the lion and then close in. The boy who
strikes the lion first with his spear will receive the head, the mane. The one who strikes second is given the tail.”

“No offence,” one of the boys said, “but I’d want more than a spear if I was going to try to kill a lion.”

“That does sound awfully dangerous,” another added.

Nebala nodded in agreement. “Many die, almost all are wounded.” He pulled aside his tunic and revealed a series of large scars on his arm and shoulder. “The lion struck me as I struck it.”

There was a chorus of groans and giggles and comments.

“Did you kill it?” the first boy asked.

“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here to tell of it. The spear went through its chest. It was my second kill.”

“How many lions have you killed?” Christina asked.

“Seven.”

“That seems so cruel, like such a waste,” she said.

“To become a warrior, a boy must do this.”

“It still seems cruel.”

“Actually,” Renée said, “the government wildlife services have just outlawed the practice. It is now illegal to kill a lion, except in self-defence or to eliminate an animal that has been consistently preying on a herd.”

“That’s good,” Christina said.

“Is it?” I questioned, before I’d even thought not to speak.

Everybody looked at me.

“Well, I was just thinking, if killing lions is illegal now, how does a boy become a man?”

“Nebala?” Renée asked.

He didn’t answer right away. He appeared to be staring off into the distance. Slowly he shook his head. “We don’t know … we don’t know.”

“Does anybody else have any questions?” Renée asked.

Lots of people raised their hands. I had a question too, but I wasn’t going to raise my hand like some little school-child. I’d just ask.

“You and the other Maasai I saw on the road always wear red. Why?” I asked.

“Some people believe it is a warning to the lion. He sees the red and runs away,” Nebala explained. “Others say that the lion is attracted to the red because it looks like the blood of a fresh kill, so he goes for the warrior and leaves the cattle alone.”

“Which is it?” I asked.

“Both.”

“It can’t be both,” another person objected.

“One thing can be many things,” he said.

I couldn’t tell if that was really deep or if he was just quoting a bumper sticker or a fortune cookie.

“But most animals are colour blind,” Christina said. “I’m pretty sure I remember reading somewhere that lions can’t see colour. It’s one of those myths, like bullfighters having a red cape because it attracts the bulls, even though they can’t see colour either.”

“I haven’t read those books.” Nebala smiled. “And neither have the lions. Maybe next time I am close to a lion I’ll ask him his opinion.”

There was a rush of giggles, including mine. Some people were laughing at his comment. Me, I was laughing at Christina for asking the question. She was
so
pretentious. So she had read things, big deal! We could all read.

“Other questions?” Renée said.

“If it’s only murder when a Maasai kills another Maasai, how do they settle disputes between two warriors? Is there a court or judge or something?” one of the boys, Jimmy, asked.

Nebala picked up the
konga
.

“You hit each other?” Jimmy asked, sounding shocked.

“We throw the
konga
to see which man can toss it the farthest,” Nebala said.

“And the farthest toss wins?”

“The one who throws the farthest gets to go first. Come, let me show you,” he said to Jimmy.