You Have Not a Leg to Stand On by D.D. Mayers

would suddenly decide to stop, and nothing, nothing would persuade it to start again.
    For some reason, best known to herself, my little wife, who looks after me as though I’m made of the thinnest porcelain imaginable, doesn’t let me drive alone in the car. The buggy is another matter entirely. All she’d ask, ’Have you got enough petrol?’ I’d say, ‘Yes, and I’ll be some time, I don’t know how long.’ That’s all.
    So it was on one occasion, I set out, on my own, down from the house in the Valley, on to the plains below. In those days the plains were full of all sorts of game, Thompson gazelle, Grant, Kongoni, Zebra, prancing Impala, all the plains game. Way, away I went,further and further; it was so beautiful; compelling. I stopped and turned off the engine. I was ‘there’, complete, listening to the silence. The sound of the soft breeze wafting gently through the tall brown succulent grass, the sweet smell of fresh hay, the munching of the animals all around. I felt part of the whole, I was part of nature.
    I don’t know how long I was there, but it must have been an hour or two. I began to think I should get back. I reluctantly turned the key to start the engine. It didn’t take. I turned it again, still it didn’t fire. I opened the choke; still nothing. I wasn’t worried yet; I waited a bit, I tried again, nothing, again and again, still nothing. The battery started to show signs of strain. There was nothing I could do, I just sat there, I was marooned. What was I to do? I looked all around me in a different light; instead of the beauty I’ve just described, I saw nothing for miles around; there were no roads anywhere near, why would anyone come this way. I knew I’d eventually be missed, but where would they begin to look for me? I just sat in a stunned stupor. I stared ahead, empty of thought.
    Then slowly in my gaze, on the horizon, there seemed to be a figure. I went on staring. It was a figure, it was a Maasai, his skin covered in red ochre, his hair braided with fat and ochre, falling to his shoulders. He was carrying his long sharp spear and wooden knobkerrie, his long knife in its red leather sheath around his waist. He stopped right in front of the buggy, threw the blunt end of the spear into the ground to lean on, he said, ‘Sorba (hello).’ I said ‘Sorba.’ He said, ‘Habari (How are things).’ I said in Swahili, ‘I can’t start my engine.’ ‘Ah,’ he said and continued in Swahili, ‘let me look.’ I lifted the cover off the engine, we both bent over looking into it, like two men anywhere in the world, ‘Ah,’ he said again. He pulled his spear out of the ground, turned it around, and carefully threaded the long sharp blade down to a little screw on top of the carburettor. He gave it a small, gentle turn and said, ‘Jarribu (try it).’ I turned the key and the engine burst into life.
    Without another word, he got into the buggy next to me and pointed with his spear where he wanted to go. After a little while we approached his Manyatta (a collection of rounded huts made of dung). A crowd of little children, all completely naked, poured out of all the huts, screaming with laughter, running to greet us. They were laughing so much they could hardly stand up. As the Moran stood up to get out, the children, still doubled up with laughter, formed an orderly little queue. They moved one by one, towards the Moran, bowed their little heads, while he gently laid the flat of his hand on each one. We shook arms goodbye, and amid gales of laughter, from jumping, waving, naked little black bodies, I sped off into the fast approaching gloom.
    I was slightly worried about my reception. Dusk was just beginning to come down. I’d been away quite a long time. I drove into the parking area and up to my chair. I transferred out of the buggy, into the chair and gingerly