Aborted Mission

By Nehemy Willy G.

The Maasai are a nomadic pastoralist community that co-exist alongside lions in savannah grasslands of wild Africa. It is their traditional custom to expect, in fact to demand that a young man must kill a lion to graduate from boyhood to young adulthood. Hunting lions for this cultural passage may explain the documented observation that lions instinctively fear the Maasai, easily identifiable from other humans by the red cloth with which they wrap themselves.
As an anthropologist lecturer in an American university, Brian felt so fascinated with the Maasai that he could never settle without compiling his first-hand account of the life of this unique community. Consequently, he travelled to Africa where, unfortunately, his obsession eluded him in the most unfathomable manner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nehemy Willy G.
• Release date: Apr 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301600243

Nehemy Willy G.

Personal Profile Nehemy Willy G. is a journalist by profession, with over fifteen years of work experience in several media-based organizations. He started his career in journalism with Mid-Africa Publicity as a freelance contributor, rising through to the position of Managing Editor with Media Survey and Analysis. He later joined Pacific Publishers and eventually Biznet Communications. Drawing from his experience in journalism, (where he goes by the name of N. Willy Gachamba), he went into publishing in 1996, where he mainly specialized in technical journals. Towards this end, he has been publishing a magazine on the science of food production (agriculture), and, most recently, a magazine on human heath. The two publications are the Farmer’s Journal and the Health Journal respectively, both of which he has been the executive editor. He is also the administrator of the Christian website: www.christiansmedium.org. Born in 1972, Nehemy Willy G is married to his wife Ruth. Together, they have been blessed with two kids, daughters precisely, namely Faith and Hope. He and family resides in Nairobi, Kenya. Spiritually, Nehemy Willy G. is a committed Christian of Adventist fellowship, where he also serves as an ordained church elder.

Book preview

Aborted Mission

Never swear you know the truth – ever!

Copyright:2013 Nehemy Willy G. All rights reserved.

Characters in this book are fictitious. They bear no allusion to any person, dead or living. On the other hand, names of places and cultural references of the Maasai people are real. This factual base is a deliberate effort to educate you on the curious lifestyle of this celebrated African community more intimately.

Published by: NehemyWilly G.

Smashwords Edition

Brian travelled to Africa to learn about the fascinating life and culture of the Maasai people. He was bewildered to end up learning something completely different: That is,

the dark, most hidden secrets of his family, and that of his girlfriend Linda.

The subsequent consequence of the unveiled secrets was tragedies involving loss of three lives. Inevitably, Brian’s academic mission aborts.

Chapter One

My first fascination with the Maasai people of Kenya came from a sensational news item featured by media outlets across the world. I was then only nine years old, but have not forgotten the incredible story.

The story was about a young Maasai boy who had been admitted in some hospital in Nairobi, Kenya’s capital city with serious injuries after a fierce battle with a male lion. The huge beast had reportedly attacked a heard of goats and sheep the boy was herding. Zealous to protect the family’s wealth, the boy attacked the vicious carnivore in return, with a spear. The king of the jungle was, however, too strong for the boy. In one agile move, the lion clamped the boy’s waist between its jaws and hurled him down the ground some meters away, then dashed towards him for a furious annihilating attack.

Miraculously, the wounded boy still held his spear firmly in the grip of his hand when he landed on the ground. As the beast rushed to tear him apart, he held the spear’s edge upright while the attacker was in the air. The spear went through the beast’s chest as it landed on its victim, groaning … dying.

In that brief moment, history was written - the heroic history of a ten year old who killed the most ferocious of wild animals. That was the first time I ever heard of the Maasai.

Years later, I was to know from my anthropological studies that what the young boy had done was outstanding for his age, but not exceptional achievement among his distinctive people. His nomadic pastoralist community co-exist alongside lions in savannah grasslands of wild Africa. It is their traditional custom to expect, in fact to demand that a young man must kill a lion to graduate from boyhood to young adulthood. Hunting lions for this cultural passage may explain documented observation that lions instinctively fear the Maasai, easily identifiable from other humans by the red cloth with which they wrap themselves.

Ordinarily, the perilous feat is accomplished by a group of young men in their late teens or early twenties, but is still credited as individual accomplishment for each participant. It is only after such achievement that a young man is crowned as a moran, or community warrior.

Additionally, I also now know that the typical Maasai diet is unique. It comprises of meat and raw blood from their cattle, mixed with raw milk. A cow is selected and shot in the neck with an arrow, just enough to puncture the skin and the vessel supplying blood to the animal’s head. Gushing blood is then collected into a gourd, from where it is mixed with milk for their traditional delicacy. These few things constituted my knowledge of the Maasai, and ever allured me to learn more about the distinctive people.

Exactly seventeen years later, I was ready to venture into Africa, specifically into Kenya for some first hand academic study and compilation of personal ethnography of the Maasai people toward enlightenment of fellow anthropologists in the University of Chicago, where I had been lecturing for three and a half years.

Off to Africa, Kenya

I was escorted to the airport by my dad and mum. My girlfriend Linda was not there. She was recovering from severe bite on her lower lip, inflicted by her pet cat some two days earlier.

According to her, she had just finished chewing some fried meat when she attempted to kiss the male cat on its mouth. That turned out to be a tragic mistake for, in the twinkle of an eye, the cat sunk its needle sharp teeth into her lower lip. The aroma of fried meat on Linda’s mouth may have led the cat to mistake the lip for actual meal. It was by a miracle that she did not lose her gorgeous lip.

As sorry I was for my love over the mishap, I was not bothered that she was not available to escort me to the airport. This may sound contradictory, I know. Let me explain.

You see, Linda was one of the most exceptionally pretty girls in my entire neighbourhood of a Chicago suburb, possibly the prettiest of them all. Apart from her generous endowment with outstanding physical features, she was also intelligent and reliable.

On the flipside, however, Linda had some two quirk habits which I loathed with my whole heart. One of these was farting. I am not sure whether it was a medical problem, but my guess was that she had a mischievous sense of humour. She would release stinking gas in the middle of a delicious meal, only to follow it up with wild burst of exaggerated laughter.

I always wondered how she could do this, knowing full well that it spoiled my appetite. It hurt me even more to observe that she really seemed to enjoy it, and never entertained my complaint about it. Had she been at the airport, most likely she would have seen me off with a blast of pungent gas to ensure that I remember her all the way up to our next meeting. How can one describe that kind of misbehaviour? Is it sadism of some sort, insanity or simply bad manners? Well, may be a combination of all.

I said there were two habits I hated about Linda. I cannot remember the other one. However, that should not be surprising. You see, I forget many things. Sometime while I was in Berlin, Germany, I wanted to send Linda a birthday present. I bought the gift and packed it ready for dispatch through DHL. Unfortunately, I forgot her name when I was writing down recipient’s address details. I tried to remember, nothing coming! I wished I had saved her actual name in my mobile phonebook instead of, ‘Sweet-heart’. I ended up calling her.

Sweet-heart, there’s a gift coming for your birthday. Can you please remind me your names, kindly? I can’t remember!

She must have thought I was joking. Thus, I insisted. Honey, I am in the DHL dispatch office here in Berlin. I want to send you a birthday gift, but have lost your name from my memory. Please remind me – I don’t mean to joke!

Linda was so infuriated. Forgetting her name could have only meant one thing as far as she was concerned. That is, I had found comfort in another girl in Berlin, had cast her to the background of my mind until she finally disappeared from memory. I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. I mean, that was the most probable thing anyone could have felt in such kind of circumstance. Well, she called me the most unprintable words you ever heard, including a two-legged hyena, a human-hyena that is, which was actually the mildest of the insults she hurled.

Now back to the airport. I was there in the company of my millionaire parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay Brian. As their only child, my parents were my best friends. We hugged and patted for farewell before I disappeared to mingle with other passengers in the departure lounge. I was to fly aboard Pan American World Airways to Heathrow, London, for a connecting flight to Nairobi aboard British Airways. We had a timely departure, exactly as scheduled.

In the plane, I noticed this little girl seated next to me. She was tiny, almost a midget but not quite. She was about four feet four inch. She was dressed in a white overcoat, with a matching white hat on her head. She kept rolling her eyes at a hundred and eighty degrees, clearly to steal glances of me, I thought. I concluded she wanted some recognition, so I thought we could chart for the rest of the journey - no harm.

I smiled benevolently at her, introducing myself at the same time. I’m Brian. What’s your name?

To my rude shock, she ignored me. It pained me to imagine such a girl ignoring me; a young bachelor, son of a Chicago millionaire, holder of doctorate degree in anthropology and lecturer in a leading university. Who does she think she is? I wondered, wishing that I had a picture of my stunningly beautiful Linda to ask her make some comparison.

Infuriated, I cast one contemptuous gaze at her little shoes, little hat and then mumbled grudgingly: Tiny creature, big trouble!

I should have kept my peace. As it turned out, it was a case of hurling a stone into a wild bees hive.

She turned to me in clenched teeth and with agility of a wounded leopard.

You think I am a woman, don’t you? she snorted angrily, squeezing my chin with her tiny right hand. The energy in that small hand shocked me. It felt like some powerful mechanical device was behind the grip.

That was only one of my shocks. Shock number two, the voice screaming at me did not sound like the voice of a woman. Indeed, she had asked me whether I thought she was a woman. I felt paralyzed more by confusion that fear. What sort of fellow? I wondered.

I was not prepared for what followed. It took me off-guard, like thunderbolt.

You wanted to know my name, didn’t you?

Panic stricken, I waited as she made the announcement. I’m Victor Ivanovich, a Russian sniper; authorized to kill! Any more question?

Confirmed: She was a man! I was freezing cold when he let go of my chin. I had no doubt in my mind the tiny fellow may have been a professional killer. It looked like he could have easily killed me if she, I mean he, really meant to.

At that point, a premonition thought about my mission came to my mind. I feared that my well-planned one-year stay with the Maasai people might be disappointing. How could I have such a wicked encounter at the very start of my journey? I wondered.

In a matter of seconds, a couple of air-hostesses had already responded to the commotion and were demanding to know what was causing the fuss. A male crew member joined them with the same demand. I tried to explain, but the little devil ordered me to keep quiet. When the crew members insisted for explanation, he gave an awkward lie about me.

Nothing much, just protesting some farting from this hyena of a man, he charged, sending everyone who heard it into loud burst of mirth.

Some words in his accusation captured my attention; farting and hyena. The two words reminded me of my girlfriend, Linda. Like I have already narrated, while I was in Germany, she had called me a hyena, not a very common insult in America. Then of course there was farting, a practice in which Linda excelled. I looked at the little devil straight to the eye, wondering what coincidence had put those familiar, albeit stinking words into his mouth.

Suddenly, I decided I was going to leave that seat, even if it meant travelling for the rest of the journey standing. I stood to my feet announcing my decision. However, he protested my move by poking his index finger into my right thigh. It felt as if a knife was tearing into my flesh.

Sit down! he commanded in a chilling voice that whistled through his clenched teeth. I obeyed and sat down, reluctantly. After calm returned back to the plane, the little devil removed a marker pen from a porch hanging on his waist belt. He held my right leg, pulling up my trousers to expose the skin. Then he wrote a number on the flank of my right leg as I placidly watched with my eyes wide opened, wondering what exactly he was up to.

Composedly, he wrote a number with a black marker pen and underlined it. It was number 13.

Looking at me straight in the eye, he whispered a terrifying message: Don’t breathe!

What was that supposed to mean? Could it mean that he intended to stop my breathing; I mean kill me? Or, was I breathing heavily, from panic may be?

Well, how could I know?

Chapter Two

I am not superstitious, but I am naturally curious. As such, I could not help wondering what the number thirteen written by the little devil on the flank of my calf was supposed to mean. It was particularly disturbing owing to superstitions held world- wide about that particular number.

In my search for an answer, I ended up recalling an article I read sometime back about number 13 in motor racing competitions. The article highlighted reasons why the FIA Formula 1 World Championship entry list does not have a car number 13. The number, it noted, is generally considered to be an unlucky number. The article claimed that although the number was used in the early years of the sport in the 1920s, it was dropped after serial fatal accidents in a matter of two