On the fifth day in Kenya, as we drive out of Nairobi toward Mt. Suswa Conservancy, I am fighting nausea and weakness. Our bus stops at the train station, where we board an overland truck (referred to as the moon truck) required for the remainder of the journey. But before we reach our camp spot on the volcano rim, we pull off the road to meet our host, Jeremiah, the Maasai Chief of the Conservancy. He wants to show us his compound.
With very few trees, I find rocks and logs in the shade of the tall men in our group and sit while Jeremiah describes the protective fence for the goats, the salt lick for the cattle, the dung pile the women use to repair the small huts. I stay behind while he leads the group on, and connect with some of the wives. One invites me into her mother-in-law’s huts and then up the hill to her larger, newer one. She is proud of the kitchen and a cupboard in which a large bowl of milk curdles. There is no plumbing, no appliances. Colorful cloth hangs between rooms, and clothes overflow from a chest.
Later, feeling a bit more spry, I purchase a few beaded bracelets from this woman and then have the audacity to ask Jeremiah an honest question: “I’ve seen the women carrying water strapped to their foreheads, repairing the walls of their homes, making food, milking goats, tending to children, and making jewelry. Tell me more about what the men do?”
He pauses, unsure if I am teasing, insulting, or ignorant. He assumes the latter and explains that the men are in charge of making sure there is food for the women to prepare. They buy and sell cattle and other crops in markets as available. And they protect the land (fighting lions and such). It was a cheeky move, but I couldn’t resist. Before we leave, my new friend comes with a shuka or shawl and wraps it around me. She pulls out a smartphone and we take a selfie.
The next morning, Jeremiah and his son, David, are at our campsite. Two of their tribe have kept night watch, fending off multiple hyenas with their machetes and staff. He has come to bestow us with gifts of honor. He pulls me and Chris, as the leaders, up front first. To Chris, he gives a shuka, an elaborate beaded necklace, and a wisdom stick - all meant to acknowledge leadership and “sageness”. They met two years ago, and he now considers Chris a friend. To me, he also gives a shuka and a necklace. I am touched, and feel emboldened again: “What do the Maasai call an elder woman?” Again, he pauses. What to do with this mzungu? He says, “Women are very valuable in our culture.” He did not tell me what they call her.
I have already spent a great deal of time searching for the names of women in Maasai history. I found the highly disapproved of story of a white Californian who trained to become the first female Maasai warrior (I have come across multiple white foreign women who have married Maasai men). I have found the tradition-breaking female Maasai safari guides and the first female Maasai to go to college in the U.S., returning to empower girls in education. But for a centuries-old people group, I had hoped to discover at least the name of one woman they remembered.
From the volcano, we travel west to the savannah. Still in Maasai land, we are now in the wildlife preserve. At our camp, we are greeted by a kind woman who serves as our concierge, and on the second night, I decide to try my luck and see what she knows: “Can you tell me about a woman in history in your culture?” She struggles, then thinks of a name, but isn’t sure, and darts back to the office to confer. When she returns, she holds out her phone to me, and I see that she has asked ChatGPT, “Is mekatili wa menza a lady?” Even the name she has thought of is not a sure bet female.
It’s my only clue, and so I search. Mekatilili wa Menza (mother of Katilili) was a leader of the resistance to British colonization in the 19th century. She was imprisoned twice, each time escaping back to her village to mobilize women to resist. Not Maasai, she is nonetheless an iconic Kenyan heroine, remembered for her leadership, bravery, and persistence. Her name (and memory) symbolizes resistance to oppression today.
I love this, of course. Yet I’m still left without a female Maasai name. They are absent. Nullified. Collectively valued, but the lack of legends and myths speaks to their role in the community. Whether there is a name for an elder Maasai woman, or Jeremiah was just bothered by me at this point, my curiosity is roused. Where are you?
