Adapted from ‘The Maasai’ by S.S. Ole Sankan.
According to Maasai oral tradition, they originally lived in a crater. Then, sometime in the 17th century, a severe drought forced them to climb the walls of the crater (which is now thought to have been the escarpment of the Kerio Valley) using a ‘bridge’. First the Maasai spread into Kalenjin country, and then into Laikipia, where they confronted the Sirikwa. Eventually, the Sirikwa were absorbed into their midst, and the legend of the Maasai was begun.
The home of the Maasai people was a vast crater, like that of the Sleeping Warrior
Many silvered moons ago in the world’s dawn-time, there lived a group of people called the Maasai, who spoke Ol Maa, the ancient language of the sky god, Enkai. Their home was a vast crater, as wide as the sky; and as deep as star-space. Clouds danced on the surface of a grey-green lake, which was hushed by a halo of acacia trees; their star-white blossoms wreathed in honeybees. As well as giving the Maasai their crater, Enkai had also planted within it a giant fig tree, down whose sinuous, silver-gray strangler-roots had slithered and slipped all the cows in the world. ‘Love them’ said Enkai, ‘and they shall belong to no one else’.
Cocooned in their calabash-crater, adoring their lyre-horned cattle, plump on milk and honey, the Maasai lived, unaware of future, or past. Until, one day, the face of the moon became shadowed by a frown; the rain ceased; the grass became the colour of an eland, the lake shrank, and the bees formed a buzzing black comet, which twitched its tail and whirled away into the sky. Soon the crater simmered slake-dry, howling dust- devils screeched, and bleach-white cattle bones rebuked. Time had grown tired.
A meeting was called; the people hunched, parched lipped, on their haunches in the shade of a tree; scratching images of bees and rain clouds in the dust. Nobody spoke. Then, a small boy, with death-dull eyes and an ostrich-egg stomach, pointed upwards. ‘Look’ he said. A yolk-yellow weaver bird had begun to weave his nest with a blade of fresh green grass. Startled by the stare of a hundred hungry eyes, the bird fluttered into the air and flew away over the grim-gray walls of the crater, from whence it had come.
‘If the bird found grass, so can we’, said an old man. ‘But no one has ever climbed the walls of the crater before’ said another. The old man looked towards the ranks of wilted warriors, ‘which of you will climb?’ he asked. ‘All of us’ they said.
After many days, the warriors discovered a snail-thin track, which crept up the sheer black walls of the crater. So tortuous was it that they had to crawl on their hands and knees, squeezing themselves naked into crevices hardly wide enough for a lizard; and wrenching themselves up rocky chimneys too narrow for a hyrax. At dawn, the first warrior levered himself over the glowering lip of the crater. A great whoop of joy rent the air, ‘There are rivers, birds, animals, trees and green grass’ he said, and jumped high into the air in jubilation.
Once all the warriors had assembled and marveled at their new world, they sent out scouts to determine its extent. In the far distance, lazy plumes of smoke drifted upwards into the lilac haze but the warriors took no heed. Lashing lianas into ropes, they sailed down the face of the escarpment and ran cheetah-swift to tell the Maasai of their find.
‘We must all climb the crater’ said an old man, ‘How?’ said another. ‘We must build a bridge to the skies’ said the old man; and the work of the great Maasai star-ladder was begun.
It took many days to string a rope-bridge from the floor of the crater to the cruel curl of its lip; but, eventually, it was done. Then the clan began to climb, carrying their cattle with them. When half the people had swung their way up the rope-bridge, they turned to encourage the ant-chain of people below. The strain on the rope was too much: it snapped. Whereupon those below fell back into the crater and those above climbed out. It is said that those who fell became the Il meek (meaning ‘those who are not the Maasai’); while those who climbed became the true Maasai.
The Maasai settled and prospered; their cattle multiplied along with their children and soon the boundaries of their new world had wriggled stealthily through the grasslands towards the spirals of smoke on the horizon. One morning they could smell the smoke, the next, they awoke to find their huts ringed by a forest of spears. Their neighbours, the Ilarinko, had arrived.
The Ilarinko had ruled the grasslands since the dawn of time, fashioning gargantuan long-bows with which to slay the elephants; and brewing poisoned elixirs in which to dip their spears. They did not wish to share the meat of that labour. Their leader, a giant called Arinkon, stood forth. ‘Who comes to usurp our land’ he said, and the thicket of spears rattled like porcupine quills. The Maasai, who had never known aggression, turned to their elders in consternation. ‘We must bribe them’ said an old man, ‘With what?’ said another, ‘With cows’ said the oldest man.
At first, the Ilarinko were pleased with the lyre-horned cows, and feasted upon them day and night. Then they grew discontented. ‘We want more’ they said. The Maasai brought forth beaded necklaces and bright red capes. The Ilarinko preened and capered in their new-found splendour, but gradually it palled; then they began to boil cauldrons of poison. Arinkon eyed the undulating ranks of Maasai maidens and said, ‘Bring me a calabash of warm, foaming milk; or prepare to die’.
The Maasai quailed. Their cattle were a day’s walk away. All eyes fell on the elders, who remained dumb. Then, the small boy spoke: ‘Fathers, fear not. Now is the time of cunning; carry a lame cow overnight into the bushes that surround the Ilarinkon’s camp. At dawn we will milk her and present the calabash of warm, foaming milk to Arinkon’. The elders squinted at each other. ‘It will be done’ they said.
At dawn, the clans gathered, ‘Bring me my milk’ said Arinkon, as his smirking warriors smelt blood. The small boy emerged from the bushes and presented the giant with a calabash foaming with warm milk. Arinkon’s brow darkened; and, suddenly, he began to feel the gnawing of rats at the granary of his power, ‘You are clever, but not clever enough’ he said, ‘now bring me a sandal made from hide that has hair on both sides’.
The beleaguered Maasai blenched, everyone knew that hides had hair on one side only. They retreated and looked to the elders who looked to the small boy. ‘Fear not my fathers’ said he, ‘Now is the time for resourcefulness, bring me the dried ear of a donkey’. The ear was brought and the boy affixed sandal straps to it. At dawn the Maasai presented themselves before the grinning ranks of the Ilarinkon. ‘Bring me my sandal’ said Arinkon. And when it was laid before him, all could see that it had hair on both sides. Scenting the stench of his own death, Arinkon rounded on his tormentors, ‘You are resourceful, but not resourceful enough’ he said, ‘bring me a calabash of jumping fleas or one hundred calabashes will swill with your blood’.
The Maasai winced; to fill a calabash with dead fleas would be the work of weeks, to fill it with live fleas, would be the work of Enkai alone. Withdrawing to their encampment, they surrounded the small boy. ‘Fear not my fathers’ said he, ‘now is the time of deceit. Bring me the tail-whisks of your donkeys; place them in a calabash; find all the fleas you can; and place them on top.’ The puzzled Maasai did as they were bid, but their hearts pounded like zebra hoofs. At dawn, they faced their jeering enemies ‘Bring me my calabash of jumping fleas’ said Arinkon, a lizard-leer upon his lips. Timorously, the elders thrust forward the calabash. The wind arose, the donkey-whisks stirred, and the fleas jumped high in the air. Arinkon twitched; all at once he perceived a vulture-beak curve to the noses of his warriors, whose carrion-feathered collars ruffled in the breeze. ‘You will bring me an iron toothbrush’ he said to the Maasai, ‘or the lions will clean their teeth on your bones’.
The Maasai fell silent; everyone knew that toothbrushes were formed from the twigs of a certain tree; not of iron. With faltering faith, they fell upon the small boy. His brow furrowed, ‘I fear’, he said, ‘that now is the time for action: bring me a club’. A club was brought, and a perplexed delegation set forth. The small boy looked up at his father and said ‘When we are in Arinkon’s presence, speak to me in Ol Maa’.
For the final time, the adversaries met, ‘My iron toothbrush?’ said Arinkon, and picked at his teeth with a thorn. The boy’s father bent and spoke to his son in Ol Maa. ‘Of what do you speak?’ demanded Arinkon. ‘Of iron toothbrushes’ said the father. ‘Speak more clearly’ said Arinkon, and he too bent close to the small boy. Whereupon, the small boy whipped the club from behind his back and struck the giant such a vicious blow on the temple, that he fell stone dead.
Dumfounded, the Ilarinkon surveyed the scene. Feet shuffled, brains laboured, spears drooped. Eventually, their oldest man stepped forward, ‘Arinkon!’ he said, ‘you have got what you commanded; but now you have got what you deserved’. Vanquished, the Ilarinkon surrendered their spears to the Maasai, and thus was a dynasty begun.
