Joseph the Charming

He looked to the skies and called to his God. Enkai, God of the Maasai. Of course we couldn't understand the language but we had received a quick tutorial on how to conduct ourselves – that at every pause he made signified the end of a statement, and we, like all the rest, were to respond with “Nai”, which meant Amen.

Before the prayer, while telling us how we were to respond, this slender gentleman had introduced himself as Joseph. It was clear that he wasn't introducing himself as Joseph to show he honoured the Christian God too but as a way of sparing us the agony of having to pronounce Naipanoi, which meant he was born a large baby, never mind his current slender frame.

After prayers, we shook hands for the umpteenth time and smiled into each other’s faces. It was how the Maasai greeted and their smiles were too infectious to not reciprocate.

I remember noticing the wedding ring on Joseph's finger because when he shook my hand, he held on for a little too long. It wasn't those uncomfortable handshakes. Far from it. There was genuine warmth in his eyes. An invitation, open-hearted at that, for us to feel at home. Such is the homeliness that, centuries ago, was narrated by many a missionary who encountered African natives and was astounded. Yes, that ancient eagerness to open one’s doors and granaries to strangers - even at a time of need! That generous spirit that celebrates you for no achievement and thanks you when you show up unannounced, bearing no gifts. That spirit was alive here. A tenderness that sharply contrasted the Morans’ well-toned, dark bodies.

Joseph's wife must be over there, I hoped. Right there, next to the men, where the women lined up. Mary (as I hoped her name was) and the rest of the women had started shrugging their shoulders in preparation for a tune that only we, strangers from the capital, didn't know. I bet even the very earth they now gently thumped with their feet knew the song they were about to belt out. Their neck pieces rocked up and down in a motion designed to trick our eyes, because even though they were numerous and bulky, those necklaces bounced more vigorously than the shoulders that rocked them. It is as if there were springs under the neat beadwork. Some form of warped physics was at play - and it was lovely.

About thirty seconds into the shoulder-dance and the men started humming. A sound so deep it seemed to below from the very earth. By now, the women's feet were thumping the ground harder. Their beautiful voices could be heard, measured to a whisper yet shrill enough to pierce through the humid blockade of air that stood still between the Amboseli Serena Safari Lodge vehicle, where we stood, and the Maasai. It was a humid sunny day. The previous evening's rains had stopped and the sun was busy licking the muddy Savannah dry and dumping that moisture where our tongues could taste it. This was the rainy season at Amboseli National Park just as it was the hustle season back home, in Nairobi. The ground was broken into patterns of sprouting grass, pools of water and dark, glassy volcanic pebbles in layers that told an ancient story of the flash floods of Amboseli - much like the layers of washed up litter tell the story of filth and poor drainage of Nairobi. We were at home! We loved it better here. This was a better story. A story now building into a crescendo as the thumping synced with the rhythm of our hearts. The rhythm of life itself.

“Wee lelelualaaa!” Joseph's voice broke the charm that the ladies had been laying on us, with their musical murmur, rocking neckpieces on graceful shoulders and rhythmic drumming of feet. His was a high pitched voice which took us by complete surprise and kept us in that state of awe. It was a sharp contrast from the deep bass he had hummed minutes before. Now it was shrill yet not piercing. Nasal yet rich and dynamic. It was is as if he pulled his vocal chords to the tip of his tongue at one moment and swallowed the entire voice box the next. And if you thought this rich vocal dynamism was the most fascinating thing, you'd be wrong.

What I found most fascinating was the fact that the Maasai Morans sang so effortlessly while jumping so high. How was that possible? For a moment I considered that they obviously carried around much less fat but that wasn't the only reason. Something else was at play here. Something purely magical. Maybe it was their diet. Maybe the akala they wore. Or maybe, just maybe, it was their spirit.

My city friends and I were invited to carry our cholesterol into the dance. How could we say no? Kamaitha was even draped in a Maasai leso and Stella almost got a boyfriend. I'm still not sure if it was her looks, or dancing skills, or both.

We danced! We hummed! We shrieked! I tried swallowing my voice box but choked on my saliva. I noticed that Stella had mastered the shoulder-dance - well, somewhat. Her left shoulder was always lower than her right so her neckpiece balanced somewhat oddly, as if it planned to choke her. Kamaitha was a natural and Njoro was the photographer.

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“Habari ya Nairobi?”, Joseph asked calmly after the dance, as we walked into the Maasai village. I was still catching my breath. “Poa…” I started then choked and with that noticed I had lost my voice.

Yet I wanted to tell Joseph about Pamela, the lady who sold us a Chinese phone charger at Makutano and about how we drove 200 kilometres from Nairobi, almost got stuck at Kimana, met a really helpful Kenya Wildlife Services (KWS) lady and how awesome the nature walk that morning had been. He had won my heart plus I wanted him to show me his Mary. So I was eager to tell him everything about Nairobi and my Mary. Maybe I too could win his heart.

But my voice box was still in my stomach and humans, just like elephants, have never been known to chew cud.