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yards more and we’ll be there. Already I can see the first huts on either side of the road.
    My heart is pounding as I try to take in as much as possible at once. Where will Lketinga be? Where will he greet me? Is he going to be in the middle of the village or in one of the huts, away from all the inquisitive eyes? There are so many new wooden huts that I don’t know where I should be looking. There are people everywhere. Ahead on the left I spot the Mission building. It looks smaller than it used to. The green banana trees are gone too. The church is finished, however. Children jump out of the road as our car passes by.
    There they are! At last I spot our other vehicle and James’s motorbike. Our driver stops next to them. As I rather uncertainly go to get outsuddenly two arms shoot through the open car window and grab me by the neck and I feel kisses all over my face and hear over and over again: ‘Oh, Corinne, oh, Corinne!’ I have no idea what’s going on, let alone who it is that’s hanging round my neck. James hurries up and guides the obviously emotional man away. One thing’s for sure: it certainly wasn’t Lketinga!

Lketinga
    A t last I manage to get out and can see around me. There, some sixty feet away, in the shade of a leafy thorn tree, I spot Lketinga. Tall and proud, he’s standing with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, the typical pose of the Masai.
    I know there’s no way he’ll move an inch. It is simply not done for a traditional Samburu to come to a woman. So, with the eager eyes of the surrounding crowd watching, I walk up to him. There isn’t a thought in my head. I can’t think anymore. The only thing I’m aware of is the throbbing beat of my heart. Each step seems like a hundred.
    Lketinga is every bit as tall and slim as ever. He has one hand on his hip, while he leans elegantly with the other on a tall stick. He is wearing a red loincloth with a yellow T-shirt and a white shawl with blue spots across his shoulders. As ever, his feet are clad in sandals made of old car tyres. In the hand resting on the stick he also carries his rungu , while from beneath his T-shirt on his right side protrudes the red leather sheath of his bush knife.
    My eyes take all this in even as I’m walking towards him, and at the same time I hear his slightly hoarse, soft, laughing voice call out to me: ‘Hey, you are looking big, very big, like an old Mama.’ With a welcome like that, all my shy embarrassment evaporates and I give as good back: ‘And you look like an old man!’
    And then I’m right up close to him, looking into his eyes, when everything happens of its own accord. We throw our arms around one another, and hold each other tight. Neither of us cares that the locals don’t do things like that. We hadn’t planned it; all of a sudden it just seems theright thing to do. After a few seconds I let go of Lketinga and look him in the face. We run our eyes over one another. He looks much better than he did six years ago when Albert met him in Maralal to give him a copy of The White Masai . The picture he brought back with him had shocked me. Today, however, I can see in his face much of his old good looks. He still has his magnificent profile, fine features, not too big a nose and full, attractive lips. When he smiles his white teeth – with the gap in the middle – sparkle. His cheek bones stand out more strongly than ever, which creates the slight suggestion that his cheeks have sunken somewhat. There are a few wrinkles now on his high forehead but his crinkly hair is as almost as black as ever. In his ear lobes – stretched long, Samburu-style – are little silver metal rings.
    As we’re talking relaxedly to one another he suddenly grabs my right arm with its silver bangle holds it up and asks me in some confusion: ‘What is this? Why are you not still wearing the bangle I gave you at our wedding? What sort of a bracelet is this and what does it mean?’ A bit taken aback, I answer