Blood & Milk (5 page)

Needless to say, it couldn’t have been any further removed from my Catholic upbringing.

It was fascinating and remarkable.

Throughout the manyatta, at any given time of the day, someone would be singing or dancing, and there was always laughter. There was so much joy in the simplest of things.

The children were a highlight for me. Free of any responsibility, it was their duty to learn through play and stories of their ancestors: the young Maasai in the manyatta were like one large kindergarten. They laughed and squealed with delight, they were rarely still, always running and jumping, and role-playing. It was their true belief children of the same age-set, these kids from about four to eight years old, would share everything: food, homes, friendships, brotherhood, and sisterhood. They would remain in that same age-set with their fellow “brothers” and “sisters” until the day they died.

It was a society that remained unchanged for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

Damu broke my train of thought. “I see Jaali sit with you today.”

“Yes!” I laughed. “He sat on me,” I said, patting my knee. “When I was sitting with Amali.”

“You happy.”

Of course it made me happy. The kids were all petrified of me when I first arrived, and now, just a week later, they were climbing all over me and patting me on the head in some Maasai kind of game reminiscent of Duck, Duck, Goose. “Yes, it makes me happy.”

“You have children?” Damu asked me.

“No,” I answered softly.

“No wife, no child, no goats,” Damu said. “Like me.”

I nodded slowly. “Tell me, is that why they put us together.” I motioned between us. “Did Kijani and Kasisi insist I stay with you because we have no wife, no goats?”

Damu was quiet for a moment, and I wondered whether he would answer me at all. Then he said, “I have no… worth.”

“You mean wealth?”

Again, silence, until he replied. “No. No worth.”

“Yes you do,” I said quickly. “You are very kind and very helpful.”

“Not a man.”

“You are just as much a man as Kijani,” I whispered. “Just because you don’t have a spear doesn’t make you less of a man.”

“He is brave warrior,” Damu said, sounding almost offended that I’d said such a thing.

“Why do you not have long hair like him? Why are you not a warrior?” I asked. “You are in the same age-set.”

“I do woman’s work, not a man.”

An irrational anger welled up inside me. I had no right to be mad at his cultural differences, but saying he was not a man when he clearly was, really fucking irked me. “You are a man,” I said, with more heat in my tone than I intended. I scrambled over and grabbed the bucket of water then snatched up the empty dirty bowls and went outside.

Being told you’re not a man because of someone else’s opinion on what they believe makes a man was such a sore point for me. I’d spent years being told I was never a man, would never be a man until I decided to be straight instead of gay. And it raised my hackles every fucking time.

I poured some water into the bowls and angrily scrubbed them clean until the fight in me was gone. My shoulders fell, suddenly weighted down by the fact I’d taken my anger out on Damu―the very person who least deserved it.

It also made me realise that I had been placed with Damu and spent my days with the women―whom I respected immensely and enjoyed their friendship and camaraderie. But in the eyes of the Maasai men, that made me a non-man too.

Somehow it didn’t bother me so much that they thought little of me, but they thought the same of Damu, and that upset me. With a defeated sigh, I took our bowls and bucket of water back inside the pitch-black hut and felt my way back to my dirt bed.

Damu was quiet, though I could hear him breathe, and I knew what I must do. “I apologise for my anger,” I said softly, hoping he would hear the sincerity. “I apologise if I upset you. I am sorry.”

He never said a word.

After a minute or so of silence, I said, “Thank you for my bowl.”

I heard him roll over, onto his side or back; I couldn’t tell in the darkness. “You leave your country because you are not a man?” he asked. “Who is Jarrod? The one your dreams speak of?”

Hearing his name spoken reopened the wounds I’d tried twelve months to close. I closed my eyes slowly, instant tears pooling in my eyes. “He is… He…” I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t. I rolled over on my bed of dirt and faced the wall.

I knew my dreams that night would be unforgiving.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Jarrod walks amongst the Serengeti grasses, smiling. The sun shines brightly on him, and the breeze gently messes his brown hair. But then he turns, looking sharply over his shoulder, his face quickly overcome with fear.

In the distance on the African plain, lions appear. A pride of them, separating us and herding Jarrod. Hunting him. He sprints, he yells at me, though no sound leaves his mouth, telling me to run. And just as the lions set upon him, I realise they aren’t lions at all. They’re men in a darkened alley, a Sydney side-street, kicking and punching under the cover of night…

I scream for help and try to fight them, until the darkness takes me too.

I woke up in complete blackness, and for a split second, I thought I was reliving my dream: helpless and fading in and out consciousness, unable to move but trying to fight just the same. But then I understood the strong arms around me weren’t restraints, but Damu. He pulled me onto his mattress with him and hushed me like a child. It was then I realised I was crying. The dream was so real, the memories too raw. I buried my face into his chest and sobbed.

When sleep finally slithered in around me, it was, for the first time in far too long, thankfully dreamless.

* * * *

So apparently not having uji for breakfast or ugali for dinner meant drinking milk for breakfast
and
dinner. Not just any milk, but goat’s milk and cow’s milk, and it also meant drinking it warm, and while I was respectful and grateful for the gift of food, it was far from my favourite.

I’d already begun to re-evaluate the way I thought of food. Back home, food was something you might take for granted. We demanded a variety of ingredients, insisted it be fresh and prepared in sanitary environments. We also went out for meals that cost ridiculous amounts of money―which seemed absurd to me now. We ate when we were bored. We ate because it was simply there.

Here, in the world of the Maasai, people ate exactly enough food for the nutritional content to get them through their daily activities until their next meal. Of course there were ceremonial meals and feasts. I’d yet to see one. I’d only drank water and uji and eaten some nuts and berries and ugali since I’d been here. It was bland, like a semolina porridge. But it filled my tummy. I didn’t miss anything else. Sure, steak or chicken would probably be divine, but I knew my body was getting enough sustenance to survive. And strangely enough, that was all I needed.

But there was much excitement around the manyatta this day. The new moon brought with it a buzz and everyone was looking forward to the festivities. As Damu and I walked to the river, I didn’t want him to bring up my nightmare―or how I woke up still cradled in his arms―so I asked non-stop questions about what the new moon signified and what it meant for our diet. Why did we only drink milk? Why for three days? What did the new season mean for the Maasai, and what did it mean for the Serengeti? How cold did the winters get here?

Damu, as always, showed nothing but patience and answered every question, even if he’d explained it before. I was certain he saw through my thinly veiled attempt at distraction, though he had the decency to pretend he didn’t.

He simply walked beside me back to the kraal, tall and proud in his red shuka, his smile ever present. When I’d run out of questions, he told me stories of his people and, in particular, how the animals played a part in their history.

“Will you take me to see them?” I asked. “Not today, but one day. I want to see giraffes and elephants.”

Damu laughed and pointed to the west. “That way.”

“Do they come here?” I pointed to the ground.

“Some. Not always. Down river. No here because of the people.”

Ah, right. I nodded in understanding. “Why do the Maasai not hunt antelope or wildebeest?”

“Our law says no.”

“Tanzanian law?”

He shook his head. “Maasai law. No harm to animal. Be at one with the animal and the land.”

“I understand that. I agree with it,” I added. “But some people might wonder why the Maasai struggle for food when it roams so freely in your land.”

Damu just smiled. “Why people worry what we do?”

And there it was.
Why
do
people worry about how other cultures and people live their lives?
Because some people weren’t happy unless they were sticking their noses into other people’s business, trying to convert their beliefs and way of life. “You speak the truth.”

He grinned at the compliment, and he was excited to get back too, walking quicker than normal. “So tell me, you like drinking the milk?”

He nodded quickly. “Very much.”

I quickened my pace. “Then come on. Hurry.”

He laughed freely and matched my strides without even trying.

* * * *

Though nothing quite prepared me for the taste of the milk. I took my ration, the white liquid sloshing in my bowl, under the watchful eye of Kijani. He’d as good as left me alone for the last few days and not so much as even looked in my direction, and I was kinda glad. He was intimidating and fierce, and his hatred of me was not something he had to hide.

But I took my bowl back to Damu and sat with him, sipping at the milk. Two weeks ago, back in Sydney, if I’d been offered warm goat’s milk I would have laughed and refused point blank. But now, after eating the same porridge every meal for a week, the milk wasn’t so bad. Well, the first taste was warm and wasn’t too bad, but I wasn’t sure how much of it I could stomach. I had doubts three days of it would be pleasant.

Damu savoured every sip, smiling to himself as he drank it. The Maasai consumed enough starch and protein to survive, and this ceremonious milk was a crucial part of their diet.

“Good?” he asked, clearly proud and happy.

I would never insult him or his people, and I only had to tell a half-truth. “Yes.”

He laughed like he could tell I was lying, earning a pointed stare from Kijani. Maybe he didn’t like to see Damu happy. Maybe he’d never heard him laugh before. I didn’t know, but I didn’t make eye contact and I kept my smile hidden behind my bowl.

The children laughed, the women sang and danced. The plate-like beads around their neck bobbed and swayed in a show of hierarchy and grace. Amali wore the most necklaces, which in turn made her dancing more alluring, and this cemented her position as first wife of Kasisi, the tribal elder chief. She was the grandmother figure to the women here, the most respected for sure.

On the third day, when I thought I couldn’t stomach any more tepid goat’s milk, and when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it got a whole lot worse. The third day signified the end of the ceremonial days, and to celebrate, the Maasai would drink a mixture of goat’s milk and blood.

“
O-saróí
,” the people sang, which led them to point and laugh at me and Damu. “O-saróí. O-saróí. Damu, Alé.”

“Why are they laughing at us?” I quietly asked Damu. We had taken our bowls of the pink, sloshing liquid, and as usual, gone to drink away from the others.

He smiled as he sipped his meal, slowly closing his eyes and savouring the taste. “Blood and milk.”

Realisation sank in. Alé meant milk… “What does your name mean?”

Damu’s eyes flinched, his happy façade slipped for the briefest moment. “It is Swahili word. It means blood.” Without any explanation, he nodded to my untouched bowl. “Drink.”

I looked at the mixture of blood and milk, and my empty stomach rolled at the thought of actually drinking it. This was their most revered meal. The Maasai were world famous for drinking this mixture of goat’s blood and curdled milk. It sustained them when they ate no other food for days or weeks at a time. They’d been known to walk for days, surviving―no, not just surviving, but thriving―on this ghastly mixture.

I noticed then that others were watching me, waiting for me to drink it, Kijani included. I couldn’t,
wouldn’t
, offend them. But more so, if Damu was responsible for me and I disgraced his people, the punishment of only God knows what would be inflicted on him, not me. And that was something I couldn’t bear the thought of. So I put the bowl to my lips and tried not to think of words like
coagulation
and
congealed
, and I drank it. Even though I was starving hungry, the taste was putrid.

Sour and metallic, warm and thick, I willed myself to swallow it down. Not for me, not to sustain or nourish my body, but for Damu.

Instead of thinking about what I was drinking, I concentrated on what questions I would ask him as I drained my bowl.

Damu, grinning widely, clapped my shoulder. “Good. Good.”

The others, who had been watching, both men and women, seemed pleased with me, and even Kijani gave me a nod like I’d passed some test. I couldn’t let on that the liquid sat like a brick in my stomach and threatened to be expelled at any second.

Instead, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and asked Damu, “How many more of these?” I nodded pointedly to my bowl.

He grinned at me. “Not today. We eat meat this night.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Damu laughed, and I really did like that sound. “You did good.”

Pleased by the compliment and relieved at not vomiting, I gave him a smile. “Thank you. Your approval means a lot to me.”

Damu’s gaze shot to mine, an intense look―one of shock and gratitude―before he looked away. He had obviously never been given praise before. Was it so bizarre that his opinion be held in high regard of others? Something had definitely happened with Damu. There had to be a reason why he was so excluded from his people.

“Your name means blood?” I asked.

His smile slowly faded away. “Yes. My mother die in birth to me. There was much blood. I was born in blood.”

Oh man. “I’m very sorry,” I whispered. It was a natural reaction to put my hand on his arm before I’d given thought to whether it was an acceptable gesture between men.

Again, his almost-black eyes met mine, though now he didn’t speak. He just stared at me, into me, and I couldn’t look away. He didn’t seem to mind my touching him, and no one seemed to notice us or even look in our direction, so I didn’t pull my hand away.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You ask many questions.”

I smiled at that. It was true, but these questions were personal. “Why are you not a warrior? Are you not in the same age-set as Kijani.”

He pulled his arm away from me, and my hand burned at the loss. I expected him to get up and walk away, but he didn’t. He stayed seated with me, though he looked out across the kraal, at the huts and people. “I not deserve warrior. I kill my mother. Kijani’s mother.”

Wait, what
? “You and Kijani are brothers?” I whispered, not able to hide my surprise.

He nodded. “Chief Kasisi, our father. Mother was first wife, most favoured.”

Oh Jesus. “It was
not
your fault. You were just a baby.”

He sighed and still wouldn’t look at me. “No matter. Amali raise me and Kijani like mother.”

“Amali is a very good woman,” I said. “I like her.”

Damu almost smiled. “Kijani good leader. Good warrior.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed. I couldn’t deny it. Kijani was a good warrior and protector of his people. Didn’t mean he was likeable, though. “You are a good man too.”

Damu shook his head immediately. “Not same.”

I pursed my lips together so I wouldn’t argue. Maasai lore was that all boys, or moran, go through warriorhood. They are circumcised, have long braided hair, and carry spears. Then when the new age-set of boys are ready, they enter warriorhood and the older warriors step down, shave their heads, and hold long white sticks instead of spears. They get married to their first wife and have children and more wives.

That was how things happened here.

But not for Damu.

He had no long hair, he held no spear. His people had basically told him he would forever be in no man’s land. Literally.

“I not warrior. So no cattle. So cannot take wife. I not bear children,” he said quietly. “Not man.”

The last time we had this discussion, it hadn’t ended well. I needed to curb my temper. It wasn’t even the whole man-qualifying thing that annoyed me, but the use of cows and goats as currency to buy wives was, to put it bluntly, an insulting mindfuck.
Don’t get angry. Don’t judge their culture,
I repeated this in my head over and over until I could think of a more objective thing to say.

“Whose decision was it that you not enter warriorhood?”

“Kasisi, he see, he dream of future. He see Kijani be great warrior. They make decision for our people.”

His own father and brother basically sentenced him to a life of nothing. I bit back my anger and frustration on his behalf.

“Kasisi say I have hearts,” Damu said quietly, holding up two fingers. “One heart for this people, one heart not here.”

I blinked, trying to guess the significance. “What does that mean?”