Welcome to the Maasai

The first time I received a marriage proposal, I was caught rather off guard. It was our first week in Kenya, and everything was still so new – the dirty streets, the friendly locals, the hostel mates. For a few days now we’d been treating ourselves to the “African Massage” – the loosening of your muscles, joints and brain as your vehicle violently vibrates across the plains. We were in the Maasai Mara, a dusty expanse of land that is home to perhaps the most traditional tribe still living in Kenya. The Maasai, we’d been told, live solely off the meat, milk and blood of cows. Their warriors kill lions as a mark of initiation, and gain wives as a reward for their bravery.

At around midday we came upon an isolated cluster of mud huts. Malnourished cows grazed on yellow grass under the weathered faces of elders, elaborate beaded jewellery hanging from their mutilated ears. Half naked children wandered around, as if waiting. For what, I’m not sure. Time felt different here.

Men began to emerge from the village, as tall and thin as the staffs they were carrying, draped in cloths as vivid as the Kenyan sunsets. A low wailing sound began, and we watched, unsure, as the warriors began to skip into a circle formation, their incoherent song gaining rhythm and volume until they came into a line before us. One warrior stepped forward and began to jump. Up. Down. Up and down. Higher and higher each time. His body was lean, his movements lithe, and his landings so soft they didn’t disturb the dust. He jumped in time to the rhythmic chants of his fellow warriors until he’d reached his highest height, and returned to his place in line as the next warrior came forward to prove himself. To earn a wife, so we were told.

The chants continued until the last warrior had returned to his place in line. Then they began advancing towards us in deliberate, jerky steps… closer and closer until they were near enough that I could see the brandings on their faces, feel the breath of their song. Suddenly one took my hand. Bewildered, I looked over at my friend, who shrugged, wide-eyed. My warrior smiled as he pulled me into their dance. In the most unexpected way, I was in the middle of the very tribal customs I’d travelled so far to see. And apparently found myself a potential husband in the process.

‘Congratulations,’ our guide shouted, as my unsteady steps gradually came into harmony with the rhythm and chants of the song. ‘He wants you to be his wife.’