Wings for the butterfly The day my life newly began

By Ntailan Lolkoki

Wings for the butterfly, the day my life newly began is a journey; a long and hard one inside a woman’s life who travelled far away from her own country and also inside herself to find a meaning to her existence and get back the integrity that she had lost at a young age.
Today female mutilation is still practiced in various parts of the world, and many young girls who undergo FGM live in Africa. FGM is most prevalent among ethnic groups like Samburu, Maasai, Somali…The author is a victim of this cruelty, and through her book wants to raise awareness among young African girls, and more, against a brutal practice that changes their lives forever.
The book starts with a description of a simple but happy life, until the mutilation day comes and Ntailan’s existence changes completely. The way she loves herself and her body, the way she sees her parents who are guilty of allowing that, her feelings towards men and life, everything is discombobulated. So, the journey starts, through sorrow, and through a long spiritual and psychological path of healing, in order to find her real identity and roots.
From pain, confusion and loss, through a long period of wandering and discovery, to eventual happiness – this is her story.
 
Ntailan Lolkoki is a Maasai-Samburu living in Berlin. She is a painter, dancer and writer but most importantly she is an activist against FGM. Her biography was first released in Germany under the name of Fluegel fuer den Schmetterling, der Tag Mein Leben neue Began. It explains her life through FGM and the transformation thereafter. Her life is dedicated to inspiring many others with the same or similar cases of FGM, to rise and stand for themselves, facing and accepting their traumas as well as forgiving their perpetrators. She has given talks in Germany and in Kenya on the subject, to say no to FGM. She has written three books, all of them with a message to girls and women against FGM. One of her books is known as the Kingdom of Watetu and Songaland. It is an African Fairy Tale about a Princess who discovers as a child that FGM was wrong and went against it at the cost of almost losing her life. In the end her sacrifices paid off as she managed to save the girls of her tribe and reunite two neighbouring tribes at war because of FGM. Her third book is known as Life After Reconstruction, My Life After FGM Reconstruction. In it, she also continues to raise awareness against FGM.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Europa Edizioni
• Release date: May 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9791220141611

Book preview

Prologue

17 May 2019

Something was different.

My body was different and for a moment, I actually thought that I was another person. A wonderful energy was flowing through me, from the fingertips to the toes, it passed through the spine gathered at the neck, found its way through the head and above...

I sensed a sensational tingle that was spreading through my whole body, and I could not believe that was my body, yes, it was indeed hard to believe that woman on the hospital bed was me, Ntailan Lolkoki. Waves of joy flooded through me, and I felt an inexpressible joy, a joy I lastly knew back in my wonderful childhood in Maralal... then..., when I was still happy and whole…

Chapter One

Childhood in Kenya.

On the way with Paapa.

The deep evening sun had bathed our house in a wonderful red light. We lived in the middle of a small Manyatta, a traditional village. A few houses made out of straw and clay which were simple huts. The cows were still grazing outside, therefore there was still enough space in the Manyatta for myself and other children, and so we played with the dried-up cow dung, a material that we were well acquainted with, and a material that was used to cover the huts.

With one ear we listened to the bells that we had hanged around our cows. The louder the bells became, we would know, it was time for the cows to take their daily evening walk, back to the domestic stall. On this particular day, we did not pay much attention, it was only when we heard a particular noise that I jumped, because I recognized that particular sound...

From different directions children streamed and cried out, gari ya trac, gari ya track, which means the tracking four-wheel drive vehicle...

Without a doubt it was the tracking four-wheel drive vehicle, my father's official service vehicle that we had heard. He was often for a longer period on the road in it. Together with his coworkers, it was his duty to track and seek out cattle rustler and bandits throughout the whole Kenya.

Our small village was surrounded by a fence out of branches. And like other children, I slipped through it to await the tracking land rover, that we had by then fully

recognized. In it, the soldiers in their camouflaging uniforms.

Once again, the motor roared ferociously as it went past us to come into the Manyatta. My cousins and I could not wait to tear down the doors and welcome father and his guests. 

Gari ya trac,gari ya trac! we chaotically screamed from different directions.

Attention, attention! the mothers and the aunts cautiously said. They had equally hurried to scene to partake of the strange happenings.

A number of kids pushed their way through to welcome my father, the others stormed to the soldiers in their impressive camouflaging uniforms. My older sister Esther, the second oldest Hellen and I also ran full of joy to embraced Paapa.

Habari Zenu? he said to us, how are you, in Kiswahili.

Naturally it was well with us back then. I knew exactly that it would be well with us especially when father came to visit. Ahyoo was then in a particular good mood and cooked Paapa's best meal, Managu Na Matumbo, a kind of a wild spinach and intestines.

Mother did not nag us when we did something wrong, she was busy. She had to look after my father's clothing, and father had enough time for us. Even though none of the children in the tribe had a close relationship to their fathers - particularly not girls, back then, when my sisters and I were young - we knew our Paapa as a gentle and a loving man, who we loved.

After the soldiers had strengthened themselves with chai out of mother’s best China, they departed finding their way into Maralal center, where they stayed for the evening.

Our home, the house and the Manyatta, the place where I spent the happiest times in my childhood, was situated one kilometer from Maralal center, the capital city of Samburu County council. When I think of my childhood, I see the huts surrounded by a thorn fence in the middle of a savannah, surrounded by hills.

I see our house, and our Manyatta. It was situated slightly out of town, but not in the bush, where Samburu relatives and members of the other tribes lived. I see the hut belonging to our aunts covered by cow dung, their children, their cows and goats, I see the red evening sun at the end of the horizon.

I see the green grass, and the colorful flowers that mother had planted in front of our house, my two sisters, Esther and Hellen and my mother a wonderful Maasai, that took care of us.

In my eyes, she took care of everything. Paapa's visits were always something special.

On that specific evening, after the soldiers were gone, we very much enjoyed that he was there. My older sisters Esther, Hellen and I dared not to leave his sight. While he was still taking part in discussions with the elders of the tribe, who had come to him with requests, we hang around his legs clinging onto them like little monkeys, occasionally hugging them closely.

He had brought us delicious foods, delicacies that the soldiers eat on their trips in the bush. Most importantly he had brought us stories, which he told us in the shimmering evening light and which we devoured in awe and anticipation.

Father worked for a special Kenyan police force, which was responsible for the retrieving of the cattle from cattle rustlers. His stories were about the bush, where together with his troops, they spent most of their time looking for stolen cows and cattle rustlers. His stories were about lions that attacked soldiers while they were sleeping and devoured some of them. They were stories about landmines, how their four-wheel drive vehicle was thrown into the air and some of the soldiers got severely hurt.

In his stories, we overheard Paapa's love for nature and how well he understood it. We admired him, while narrating his adventures, we were glued to his lips. And so, Hellen who had a way with manipulating father best, asked, Baba, Kesho utatupeleka kutembea? Would he take us for a walk the next day?

Indeed, he was actually going to take us for walk the next day...

At dawn, we were already awake and so excited. It was still very early but we could not wait. Hurriedly, we slipped into our clothes, washed our hands and feet and were on our way with father. I remember that on that day he was wearing black trousers. He always wore black or grey trousers and with them white shirts which mother kept in best form.

Mother remined at home to look after our little sister Naserian.

At first Esther took the lead, Hellen and then myself, as we followed father through a pond near a small bush that I knew very well. I had often looked after our goats together with my cousins there, as it was our duty as children. Next to it, there was a tropical forest, that I very well knew from my aunt's myths and legends. A place that represented great fascination. It represented adventure and at the same time fear. The roaring of a lion that we often heard from the bush had frightenedly robed me of sleep, night after night.

On that particular day, we were with father and felt secure. With the light green grass of the savannah under our feet, we were escorted by butterflies.

At last, we reached a thick wild forest with its diversity of not only plants but animals.

From our Paapa, we had learned the names of the plants there. When we think of Lamuria, Lmorijo or Lmisigiyoi we knew that we were in the tropical forest. Indeed, our father did not only know the names of the plants, but he also knew the animals. Using broken branches and trodden on grass to serve as orientation, he explained to us how to search for bandits in the wild. No footprints of the bandits or huffs of animals evaded him. He was able to read through it and conclude when the animals or bandits were on the spot. From the smell and the look of the saliva which the animals left behind, he could tell, when the animal was in the spot, and concluded how far it must have been at the time.

Naturally he knew all the animals that lived there.

He understood their behaviours and was capable to predict when the moment was dangerous. He could sense when elephants, giraffes and gazelles were around and surprised them before they discovered him. With our Paapa, the forest represented no dangers whatsoever, instead the visits were an exciting adventure that we loved.

We wandered through a thicket that was slightly cool and moldy.

There, father told us the different names of the plants. Here were also beautiful butterflies, and if you raised your head slightly above the green thicket around, you would notice an opening that led towards the blue sky. Every now and then we recognized different smells that our father explained. As we suddenly recognized a different type of smell that was revolting, and stared at father bewildered, he said nothing.

He only motioned to us to be still.

He then walked carefully and stood still himself. We remained behind him looking past him to an open space that was ahead of us, as our breath chocked, not just because of the smell!

At first, I looked at my sister Hellen then Esther, and with frightened blinks we all stared at father, help!

We could not believe what we saw!

Before our very eyes laid a gigantic elephant! It was probably there for a while. Where once his tasks were, protruded two bloody openings. On top of the elephant there were Tukana men, women and children! Indeed, the Turkana clan was busy trying to skin the elephant! The Turkana, mainly nomads, lived in northern Kenya. They were not very appreciated by other tribes, since they were considered dangerously aggressive.

As soon as they discovered and realized that we were starting at them, they immediately started to argue vehemently.

Ejok, my father said, diplomatically greeting the Turkan elders. Nonetheless the Turkana only thought we wanted the elephant's meat and were upset.

Nyamunen! they screamed, and it sounded aggressive!

Then, one of the Turkana elders swingingly waved a knife into the air and set it where it was supposed to be underneath the elephant's ear! Full of surprise, we closely followed what he did. With the knife he drilled into the elephant’s flesh, specifically where the brain was supposed to be, and cut it open. He then brought out a handful of content and emptied it into a bowl. Then he took the bowl towards his mouth and devoured pieces of elephant's brain!

The content in the bowl looked like a mixture of pumpkin soup with blood and for a moment, I was overwhelmed with disgust and fear.

I stared at my sisters who reflected my shocking glare.

Our Paapa on the contrary seemed to be confident, which enabled us to regain composure. We were assured that nothing bad would happen, father simply acted friendly, as he drove us further away from the elephant scenario

The elephant was our clan's protector.

We would have never killed it. Besides it was illegal to kill an elephant. But this elephant was already dead, and although father was in the government service, he did not take action against the matter.

Instead, he simply took us further in the direction towards Barsaloi, where I felt as though I was in an adventurous movie and could not wait to see what would happen next. Suddenly father stopped and required of us to do the same. Then with his hands, he pointed to his right side towards several trees. In between the trees, there was a group Pavians who lived there. Father explained to us that Pavians could be very aggressive in regard to feeding and warned us to be careful every time we were wondering on our own and discovered them.

From a distance we observed the Pavians, most of whom were heavier and larger than we were. Luckily, they seemed preoccupied with themselves. They freed each other from lice, mated, and quarreled. We keenly watched them with great interest.

At last, our father motioned us to depart. On our way back, he pointed on to footsteps, Simba, he said.

He also immediately reassured us that the lion was already far off. Nevertheless, I was glad when we got back to the Manyatta, to our house, where our mother was preparing the evening meal.

Soon after that father was picked up by his driver in the four-wheel drive vehicle and our lives went back to normal.

Where I come from.

As soon as I was born, mother named me Ntailan. It means the anointed.

Everything I touch should be anointed and turn into gold. Back then, my parents were still happy, and my name reflected the happiness. Father at the time was a Samburu warrior and worked for the anti-stock theft unit. That was a Kenyan police force, a paramilitary unit, cattle retrieving troop, who were responsible for the arresting of cattle rustlers. Back in 1960, his work took him to Athi River, a city near Nairobi, that was at the time, a small industrial center in Maasai land, named after a river with the same name.

In 1960 after my father came to Athi River, cattle still grassed at the flat lands overlooking Ngong hills on one side. In that particular time, the Maasai were well known as cattle rustlers and although it was illegal back then cattle rustling was renowned in the tribe, because through it, the young Maasai warriors would proof their manhood.

Father had just retrieved stolen cattle and was also delivering cattle rustlers into prison.

There he noticed a beautiful young Maasai, who worked as a prison warden, and was to be my mother. It was not going to be easy, because mother was already married to a colleague who was equally a warden, and with him she already had a son. She was obviously not very happy since she was captivated by the charming Samburu warrior and fell in love with him. A few days later when my father and his men were heading back to the headquarters in Gilgil, mother, together with her son, were smuggled out of the city in the back of the four-wheel drive vehicle.

Although father had already accepted the custody for my brother, two years after they escaped from Athi river, he unfortunately died.

I would have loved to have had an older brother. Esther, five years older than him was born in 1963, and two years later Hellen my other sister came into the world. At the end of 1967, I was born in Gilgil, the place where anti stock theft unit had its headquarter.

Gilgil is situated in Nakuru county, not far from Nakuru and on the highway to Nairobi, with the headquarters of ASTU situated four kilometers west of the city. Because in the former times ASTU unit used horses as means of transport instead of four-wheel vehicles to retrieve stolen cattle, there exists a large horse farm belonging to ASTU which is still in operation to date. The city is equally the home of two military barracks of the Kenyan army, and the center of national youth service.

Up to date the military is the biggest employer in the city, and through that Gilgil's image has been largely influenced.

At the time, back in the early 1960, my Paapa was mostly on the road and so my Ahyoo remained behind with us in Gilgil. I was three years old, when my parents decided that it was better for us children to grow up in Maralal with the Samburus, away from city life, so, we may be more in touch with our culture.

Therefore, like many of the Samuburu warriors who became soldiers, we too, were sent back to Samburuland.

Even mother, a daughter of the Maasai, had to move with us to live with the Samburus.

Although the Samburus and the Maasai speak the same language, and are closely related, back in the seventeenth century, they wandered together with the Maasai into to the modern-day Kenya and settled in northern Kenya neighboring the Turkanas and the Rendilles. Like the Maasais, the Samburus are half nomads, and belong to the proudest ethnic group of Kenya which consists of more than forty tribes. Maralal the capital of Samburu district and a town for which to the Samburus it means the house of gods, to visitors on the way to the wild northern Kenya however, it is a transitional center, where they spent a night, before travelling further northwards.

So, at the age of three, Mother Esther Hellen and I moved to Maralal.

Shortly after our arrival, my younger sister Naserian was born. In the first year we lived in a house in Changaa estate, an area named after an illegal brew. We lived in the midst of people belonging to different tribes, who however, had given up their traditional lifestyles and with it their cultural pride.

In Changa estate, we only had one room with two beds.

One bed belonging to our mother and Naserian, the other belonging to my two older sisters and myself. There was a small toilet which was situated outside, in a different building. At night, when we desperately needed to relieve ourselves, we did not go to the toilet but relieved ourselves anywhere outside in the darkness, underneath billions of stars staring down at us.

I remember one evening, an evening where my mother had cooked Chapatis. Esther, Hellen and I went outside to urinate.

Hellen was the first one to finish, and found her way back into the house, followed by Esther. I was still sitting in the darkness as I panicked that there would not be enough Chapatis left for me, if I took so long. I stopped my business as soon as possible, ran like an arrow to go after my sisters and ended in a Jiko on which my mother was cooking!

Full of force my arm was pressed on the hot Jiko, and with amazement I starred at the huge wounds that appeared soon after. Immediately I was filled with fear and pain, and was scared that the scar, would remain for the rest of my life, so I desperately attempted to oppress my tears, as I stared at mother for help.

Do not worry, she said as calmly as one could be. I will take care of it, and she actually did.

Mother used Ndulele a herb that looked like tomatoes which grew everywhere in the area, and which she collected. Daily, she put the herb on my wound that healed in no time! Indeed, the herb led to my fast healing and to this day there is hardly a trace of the scar on my hand!

Every time I encounter people with burns, I would ask myself why nobody has discovered the herb from Kenya and used it worldwide to help healing people!

And yes, the time in Changaa district was only a bridging phase.

Immediately, mother began building a house slightly out of Maralal center.

Every day she went off to Shabaa to oversee the building and to assist the builders. Sometimes she took us with her and gave us responsibilities. The building site was situated a kilometer out of the city center and near an army training ground not far from the wild bush. Nearby our house was MOW, the Ministry of Public Roads. The Samburus however, called them lopurdi, meaning thieves!

At the same time, back in 1970, after we moved into our house, the machines of MOW had just begun to build the road to Barsaloi.

From our window we could observe the soldiers in their training ground, how they ran and shot at each other. Immediately they were done, we ran off to the ground and collected plastic bullets.

Some of the bullets were used by the warriors as ornaments. From our window we could also observe elephants which streamed out of the neighbouring forest to cross the road nearby where the soldiers trained. Sometime, the soldiers would stop with their training, to allow the elephants to cross the road.

From our house, there was a wide spectrum over the hills that surrounded Maralal. And as a child I always would ask myself, what is behind those hills?

They were huge and wonderful hills, much like the hills in Bavaria, I would much later in life come to know, and I would spend hours dreaming of discovering the lands behind the hills...

Behind the hills extended the wild northern Kenya where the tribal people lived. We would be sold to old men behind