The figures of this story are so real and at the same time so fictional that you don’t believe. These nine guys decided to join us one afternoon in Nairobi, Kenya, and have populated our living room ever since. The long journey from Kenya to Kuwait, then to Norway, and finally to UK with us claimed its toll. Their legs hardly bend, and the body is completely motionless. Anyway, they are tall and otherwise fit looking chaps. In the past, in another life, all of them were strong members of the family branch. Over the years, many of them became involved in army circles, as they made good weapons. Two of them are still carrying spears, and wouldn’t let them go with exception of vacuuming days. The smaller of these two tends to lose his grip on his spear if I happen to shove him off balance, but even then he’ll claim it back sooner than I read his mind.
The wives of our friends would have joined their husbands, but were framed in undisclosed circumstances. They were accused for their husbands' disappearance.
Our friends belong to the previously semi-nomadic “Maasai people”, and the language they should speak is called “Maa”. Although, they all are very slim, a group of three out of these nine clearly stands out taller than the others. Sometimes, the “Maasai” are incorrectly called “Masai”. Perhaps in this story, we should call the short ones by that name.
As you know, Kenya is a republic with, nowadays, a pretty open and democratic coalition cabinet. Some unnamed neighbouring countries of Kenya have not been so much “open”, and our Maasai and Masai pals have come to know it. In the mid 1950’s and early 1960’s their home country was in continuous unrest, and vegetation in hiding places was fatal for many. In periodic family meetings, called “Annual Ring”, memories of the fallen relatives were, and are still, cherished, and the new sprouts of the family tree are welcomed. Quite likely, a sense of rootlessness makes these guys so stubborn, still and quiet that they almost resemble wooden carvings. At one point, we even hired a botanist for rooting out the reasons, but in no time he had to give up weeding.
Homesickness springs up easily. When feeling like it, the guys get together for a traditional dance, “Square Root”. Although so stationary, this dance easily produces new runners. The most senior Maasai-man doesn’t understand this modern dance at all; he doesn’t see the wood for the trees. When not dancing, the guys like to study the root script of their favourite horror video game “Weak end of chainsaws”.
Leading semi-nomadic life, maintaining old customs, and at the same time building up a new stoned (wooden?) life in the UK, would be ungodly hard and wouldn’t work. Semi-nomadic folks used to have semi-permanent settlements, but a part of a year they would also move with their animals for better, semi-green grazing lands. They were familiar with travelling long distances by foot and eating extremely little when the sun was up. Have you ever tried to feed a Buckingham Palace guard with a sandwich? No, they don’t eat anything in daytime either; they pretty much only stand all day long. What we know for sure is that the wondering years of our Maasai and Masai are definitely over as they have now adopted a standing policy of their own.
I don’t know if they eat at night when Pirjo and I are asleep, but if they do, they definitely have to be on a very strict diet as almost nothing disappears from the fridge. If the tall guys feel different from the others, and by force tend to share the major part of available nutrients to themselves, who cares. On the other hand, regarding the balance of power, the both groups have only one spear, and the Masai beat the Maasai by number. Anyway, I have figured out that they only follow a culture based pecking order that we don’t understand. Still, it is only the tall guys that are able to reach the two lowest shelves in our fridge. I suppose they like sausage meals with vegetables. The short guys will sooner or later bite the dust, no.
The names of the characters in this tale are: Robert, Raymond, Gunwar, Vernon, Claude, Roger, Irvin, Taylor, and Swietenia, or Mr S. who belongs to a different generation from the others. As Kenya was under British rule until year 1963, the boys got common English names. Mr S. was named such a long time ago that he doesn’t remember it himself.
As far as I know, Robert and Raymond are twins, or “twigs” in their own dialect. They look so alike that one could suggest they were carved from one and same piece of wood.
Their mother was a no-nonsense-type of character. She was an old Muhuhu lady with long straight arms that kept the boys in order until it was their time to move on. A local old wood carver took them as apprentices, and kept them in his workshop for more than ten years. Honing their skills was a laborious job as the two soon revealed their true nature. According to the old man, their best or worst asset was "lie ability". Blame the mother? Rob and Ray are definitely the laziest of the nine chaps and their energy is clearly wasted in daydreaming of a basketball career as net posts. Hands tucked deep in trouser pockets don’t help much in practicing anything but self control. The twins do everything together, and in a way close their cousin out of their circles. Muhuhu tribe is dark by nature, almost mahogany, but in a state of anger the appearance may adopt even darker stains.
So, Rob and Ray have a cousin, Gunwar, who represents the opposite side of a manly character. Gunwar’s father was a military man and named his son by a Danish lady farmer whose acquaintance he appreciated. The lady’s name wasn’t spelled exactly the same way, but the old man preferred its macho modification. Unlike his cousins, Gunwar is a tough piece of lettuce. Constant handling of a heavy spear has sculptured his trunk and the muscles of his arms hard as mahogany, almost jacaranda. Although Gunwar may have a warlike temper, he’s never got involved in any warlike actions. Still, he would make many a good weapon too.
This is not the case with the five out of six Masai chaps. Three of them: Vernon, Claude, and Roger are slobs, honestly described. They are lazy like the twins, but as they are three, they are much more efficient in it. The VCR-group, as we call them for simplicity, is intensively assisted by our two “thinkers”, Irwin and Taylor, in watching TV. It’s needless to say that we call them the IT-men. As the “slobs” only idle and hang around, hands in their pockets like the twins, the “thinkers” keep on wondering whatever occurs to them. They spend most of a day mumbling nonsense, but consider it most intelligent. This uttermost laziness can be described by quoting author Kurt Vonnegut. He described the role of semi-colons by calling them “transvestite hermaphrodites”; by him they don’t do anything or suggest anything. The botanist whom we hired for the weeding spell could know something about it.
The sixth young man, Edward, has found himself between a rock and a hard place. He knows that he’s the favourite of the old man, but he would also like to make friends with the VCR and IT guys. Mr S. can’t stand the attitude of the “slobs” and “thinkers”. According to their mother, Edward and the other five are stepbrothers having a different bee. Though, the other five are real brothers to each other. Anyway, the affairs between the bees and the boys’ mother were so brief that no real father figure was present when the guys grew up in her shadow. They only saw their fathers, at a distance, wooing other ladies. The bees have only one thing in mind. Sometimes the old Muhuhu woman grieves not to have thrown herself at the mercy of a wind...
Whenever possible, Edward spends a lot of time listening to the stories of the old man Swietenia. In his youth, Swietenia lived in the middle of war zone and got wounded a couple of times as stray bullets or shrapnel tore up his side. This happened long before his time to become "a piece of art" as he describes his essence today. He even claims to have stood upright on the barricades during one of the quite few military coup attempts. He is still so proud of the white flag that was hanged on his shoulders. Edward absorbs every word of the stories, and because of that he carries a spear where ever he goes. If only he had been one of the heroes in that time; carrying a pure white flag must have been a big honour.
Mr S. is the grand old man and the leader of this congregation. He tries to keep his “sons” in order, but it is a hard slog. His remaining time is limited; he knows it as a part of him is already turning pale. His toes are cold. The time when his toes will be covered in warm dark soil are not so far. The future of the young generation is naturally often in his mind. A good thing is that they all have a permanent job in souvenir and decoration business, and in that sense their future is not immediately jeopardized. Anyway, there is this gap between the two generations that makes the constructive interchange of thoughts so complicated. Still, there is one thing in this world where he agrees with the boys: Alan Titchmarsh's family counselling programs on TV provide the young with seeds of wisdom. They also like to watch Woody Allen movies.
There is a chance of separate episodes (the old times of Mr S.) to appear in these pages. The other alternative is that they will later be published as a "New York bestseller" by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
All photographs published in accordance with Pirjo’s definitive Copyright © 2011 clause that can be verified every day from 12.30 to 17.30 if she is available.
Copyright ©2011 Esa Pekka Klemetti
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