signals all night long and it’s always the same question: will I really come back? I promise for the twentieth time and realize how genuinely worked up Lketinga is too.
Half an hour before my departure we turn up at the hotel, accompanied by two other Masai. The whites waiting for us, tired from the early start, look at us with obvious irritation. With my suitcase and the three Masai with their rungu clubs we must make a curious picture. Then it’s time for me to get on board the coach. Lketinga and I fall into each other’s arms one more time and he says: ‘No problem, Corinne. I wait here, or I come to you!’ And then – I can hardly believe it – he kisses me on the mouth. I’m moved. I climb on board and wave goodbye to the three figures vanishing in the darkness.
Burning Bridges
B ack in Switzerland, I immediately begin looking for someone to take over the shop. A lot of people are interested, but only a few are suitable and they don’t have the money. Obviously I want to make as much as possible on the deal because I don’t know when I’m going to start earning again. You can live for two days in Kenya easily enough on ten francs. So I’ve become very stingy, putting aside every franc for my future in Africa.
A month passes quickly, and I hear nothing from Lketinga. I’ve already written three letters. Now, somewhat worried, I write to Priscilla. Two weeks later I get a letter from her that confuses me. Two weeks after I left Lketinga vanished and she hasn’t seen him since; he’s probably living back on the north bank again. Things aren’t going well with his passport and with good intentions she advises me that I’d be better off staying in Switzerland. I’m knocked sideways and write a letter straight away, addressing it to the P.O. Box on the north bank where my first letters reached Lketinga.
After two months back home a girlfriend decides to take over the shop at the end of October. I’m delighted that at least this big problem has been solved. Theoretically, therefore, I can take off in October but unfortunately I still haven’t heard a word from Lketinga. I reckon there’s no point in him coming to Switzerland now that I’ll be back in Mombasa soon and continue to believe in our great love. Another two confused letters arrive from Priscilla, but with my faith intact I go into the travel agent’s and book a flight to Mombasa for the fifth of October.
That leaves me with two weeks to get rid of the flat and my cars. The flat is no problem: I sell the lot, furnished, to a young student at aknockdown price. That way at least I can remain in the flat until the last minute.
My friends, business colleagues, everyone who knows me think I’m crazy. It’s particularly hard for my mother, although I have the impression that she understands me better than most. She hopes and prays that I will find what I am looking for and be happy.
I sell the soft-top on the very last day and have the purchaser drive me to the station. Buying a ‘single’ ticket to Zurich Airport excites me. With a tiny piece of hand luggage but a huge suitcase packed with T-shirts, underwear, simple cotton skirts and a few presents for Lketinga and Priscilla, I board the train and wait for departure.
When the train starts moving I could jump for joy. I lean back glowing like a lantern and laugh to myself. I’m overcome with a wonderful feeling of freedom. I could shout aloud and share my happiness and plans with everybody on the train. I’m free, free, free! I have no more obligations in Switzerland, no letterbox filled with bills, and I’m escaping the miserable grey winter weather. I don’t know what’s waiting for me in Kenya, whether Lketinga got my letters and, if he did, whether anyone translated them properly for him. I know nothing except that I’m enjoying an ecstatic feeling of weightlessness.
I’ll have three months to settle in before I need to apply for another visa. My God – three months! Time to
Half an hour before my departure we turn up at the hotel, accompanied by two other Masai. The whites waiting for us, tired from the early start, look at us with obvious irritation. With my suitcase and the three Masai with their rungu clubs we must make a curious picture. Then it’s time for me to get on board the coach. Lketinga and I fall into each other’s arms one more time and he says: ‘No problem, Corinne. I wait here, or I come to you!’ And then – I can hardly believe it – he kisses me on the mouth. I’m moved. I climb on board and wave goodbye to the three figures vanishing in the darkness.
Burning Bridges
B ack in Switzerland, I immediately begin looking for someone to take over the shop. A lot of people are interested, but only a few are suitable and they don’t have the money. Obviously I want to make as much as possible on the deal because I don’t know when I’m going to start earning again. You can live for two days in Kenya easily enough on ten francs. So I’ve become very stingy, putting aside every franc for my future in Africa.
A month passes quickly, and I hear nothing from Lketinga. I’ve already written three letters. Now, somewhat worried, I write to Priscilla. Two weeks later I get a letter from her that confuses me. Two weeks after I left Lketinga vanished and she hasn’t seen him since; he’s probably living back on the north bank again. Things aren’t going well with his passport and with good intentions she advises me that I’d be better off staying in Switzerland. I’m knocked sideways and write a letter straight away, addressing it to the P.O. Box on the north bank where my first letters reached Lketinga.
After two months back home a girlfriend decides to take over the shop at the end of October. I’m delighted that at least this big problem has been solved. Theoretically, therefore, I can take off in October but unfortunately I still haven’t heard a word from Lketinga. I reckon there’s no point in him coming to Switzerland now that I’ll be back in Mombasa soon and continue to believe in our great love. Another two confused letters arrive from Priscilla, but with my faith intact I go into the travel agent’s and book a flight to Mombasa for the fifth of October.
That leaves me with two weeks to get rid of the flat and my cars. The flat is no problem: I sell the lot, furnished, to a young student at aknockdown price. That way at least I can remain in the flat until the last minute.
My friends, business colleagues, everyone who knows me think I’m crazy. It’s particularly hard for my mother, although I have the impression that she understands me better than most. She hopes and prays that I will find what I am looking for and be happy.
I sell the soft-top on the very last day and have the purchaser drive me to the station. Buying a ‘single’ ticket to Zurich Airport excites me. With a tiny piece of hand luggage but a huge suitcase packed with T-shirts, underwear, simple cotton skirts and a few presents for Lketinga and Priscilla, I board the train and wait for departure.
When the train starts moving I could jump for joy. I lean back glowing like a lantern and laugh to myself. I’m overcome with a wonderful feeling of freedom. I could shout aloud and share my happiness and plans with everybody on the train. I’m free, free, free! I have no more obligations in Switzerland, no letterbox filled with bills, and I’m escaping the miserable grey winter weather. I don’t know what’s waiting for me in Kenya, whether Lketinga got my letters and, if he did, whether anyone translated them properly for him. I know nothing except that I’m enjoying an ecstatic feeling of weightlessness.
I’ll have three months to settle in before I need to apply for another visa. My God – three months! Time to
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