Maasai Men at the Gate

There’s a corner house with a huge wall and Maasai men at the gate. In the morning, there are usually five or six men sitting on the stones outside the compound they're guarding. They are all slim and tall with their bright red robes wrapped about their shoulders, for it is cold these last few weeks and they wear only pieces of cloth draped and flowing.

Maasai warriors grow their hair long and do the most interesting things with the braids, like upsweeping them or making loops around their ears. Ma is their first language but these guys know a little Kiswahili. So we nod or wave or speak each day and they end up laughing at me for some reason. The always have their spears with them and when they walk down the street, usually in pairs or more, they balance the spear across the top of the shoulders and rest their wrists on either end. That’s how they walk and stand about while tending their cattle in the open areas of Africa. Employed as escaries (watchmen), they have no cattle to tend.

The other day, I came to the gate and found one lone warrior. He was sitting on a stone in Rodin’s "The Thinker" position. But I didn’t recognize him, until I looked into his face. For he was wearing a crisply ironed, long-sleeve dress shirt and navy dress slacks. He seemed taller than normal. The things that gave him away were the large holes in his earlobe and that familiar face. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I yelled out when I recognized him, and laughed. Two Kenyans on the opposite corner started laughing, too, saying he was dressed differently today. I said, "nzuri sana," to mean "very good," that he looked nice.

But it really messed with my mind, to see this man in western clothes. Almost as mind-twisting as seeing a real maasai warrior for the first time.

Maasai warriors stare at me as much as I want to stare at them. And I’d love to take their photos, but never have and never will. Our association is as acquaintances on the street and I’d never exploit that "friendship" to have interesting pictures to share with friends. But this young man's image is in my mind, the image of him leaning forward, his chin on his hand, his long, lean body covered in dress shirt and slacks instead of the usual bright red plaid folds. His face turned toward me, looking at though he might, suddenly, understand English.