The Day of Grace

I remember every detail of that day. I’m guessing she does, too. 

I greeted her and her younger co-wife and made sure they were settled in the back seat. The car started to move, but I looked back at the sound of her murmurring. I could see her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth moving, uttering a soft and fervent prayer as we started our journey. I wondered how long it had been since she had ridden in a vehicle. If ever?

After I demonstrated opening and closing of the automatic windows, she began to call out “supa oleng” happily greeting the people we passed on the road. Sometimes she didn’t coordinate having the window open at the same time as her greeting. 

I remember hearing both of the mamas instinctively making the throat clearing, gutteral noise commonly used in herding cows and goats, as our car waded through a sea of livestock flowing down the dirt road toward the watering point. 

There were clips of phrases that I could make out amidst the happy Maa chatter running like a stream between the first and second wives all the way to town. The playing field seemed to be leveled and both wives were on their way to visit their shared husband*. As we got closer, she kept worrying: “Do they know where the place is?” And her co-wife kept re-assuring her, “they know.”

We pulled the car over after the road changed from dirt to tarmac. I pulled off my seat belt, turned and proceeded to help each of the mamas buckle themselves in, demonstrating how to pull it across their shoulders and not over their heads, making sure to put it behind the baby in the lap. Their beads and bangles jingled merrily as they shifted and adjusted to the belts.

Then, there was the moment we arrived at the small nursing home/hospital where the husband lay recovering. We were met by some male relatives and led into the back left corner of the back left room in the single story building. Metal roof covered a single hall-way with rooms off both sides. 

We entered the long room shared by about six beds. There he was, back in the far corner, a large man, naked without his Maasai shuka, and weak. The whites of his eyes were still completely red a week after the head trauma he’d experienced in a motorbike accident. He seemed sad, a bit bewildered. He’d been through a lot in the last week. 

I suspected it might be overwhelming for these women to see their husband after hanging on every bit of news through the cell phone about his condition over the past week. There was the initial shocking news, the bleeding from the orifices of his head, the unconsciousness for a day, the not recognizing people, the slow recovery to eating, and finally they were seeing him here slowly sitting up to greet them. 

Sure enough, we weren’t there one minute before the second wife, said earnestly, “let’s pray.” We bowed our heads and her strong voice led us with a torrent of words.  Rarely displayed emotion came then, acceptable when expressed in prayer, cracking her voice around its brave edges. 

I remember, as we left the hospital, the pride and joy in her face as she recognized one of her beautiful daughters sitting on the waiting bench outside, her doll faced baby wrapped in blankets despite the heat of the sun. “This is my daughter.” She said to me. I smiled and greeted the young woman and her husband. I wondered how long it had been since she’d been together with this daughter. 

After piling back into the car and re-working the seat belts, we were on our way. I can see clearly her face, lit up like a child’s, when she finally understood that we were offering to take her and her co-wife to lunch. She couldn’t stop nodding and smiling (and jingling.)

The restaurant was on the second floor with a narrow balcony overlooking the busy street. We came to the iron stairs. She looked at me and at the stairs. It suddenly dawned on me that this woman mustn't have been off the ground for a very long time and it caught me by surprise. 

She repeated my name like an exclamation, “Naserian... Naserian!” as she grabbed the railing with both hands, bending in half from nervousness. She climbed right up, though, without even stopping, a grin on her face the whole time. 

Hurrying back to the table, she unselfconsciously sniffed the scent of the soap on her hands after she washed at the restaurant’s sink, a delighted smile playing on her lips. I imagined her feeling like a queen with fragrant soap and water running from a faucet.

I asked her if she would like meat or beans, rice, potatoes or chapati. “Nkiri o enkuashen.” Meat and potatoes, the answer came back decidedly. And when I asked if she would also would like chapati and fanta: “oh, yes!” came the thrilled reply, as if to say, this dream is getting better by the minute!

The food was a hit and all bellies were full. “Thank you” flowed repeatedly, till I felt embarrassed and wanted to change the subject.  I suggested she and the second wife come with me out to the balcony to have a look out over the street. Both mamas approached with reticence, but soon stood near the railing, gazing from their high position over the heads of the people in the street.

I remember her answer when I asked how long it had been since she’d been here in the bustling town of Ngong, located only 50 km (31 miles) from her home in the “bush”. “So far back,” she said, “maybe 20 years. I had one child only, then.” 

Her excitement kept bubbling long after we’d left the multiple story houses and paved roads behind. Chatter, chatter, chatter, she relived the experience, while her co-wife listened, adding her part. The road led us down the steps of the escarpment, almost like switchbacks, through the dust. After a couple hours, we were back home among the dry thorn trees where all but a few houses are made of stick and mud and the closest you come to steps are the rocky paths down the cliffs and bluffs along the dry river bed. 

We pulled up to our gate and the second wife said, “Maatomon.” Let’s pray. Out flowed another fervent prayer of thanks to close the journey. In my own heart, I prayed for this day to be a sweet shared memory, a common footing, a point from which healing begins for this woman named Grace and her co-wife.

* Polygamy is part of the traditional Maasai culture. We observe that there is often angst and antagonism between wives. There is also favoritism by the husband that leaves the less fortunate wife or wives with less resources, more work, more beatings, and more suffering in general.