Being „Kamba‟ among the Kamba

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Besides the fact that it proved rather difficult to trace the new chief⁶⁵ for a letter, I had to acknowledge that the basic mutual trust with the former chief had been breached. Later on, I tried to make sense about the whole experience. The old man had behaved as if approaching him in the company of his son had amounted to some form of insubordination. A generational issue could not be ruled out considering the highly structured Maasai society. As a senior elder, he might have felt intimidated and would not submit to his son‟s request. On the other hand, he appeared not only quite unhappy with the Kamba but he also maintained an intransigent position. I was to find out later that some of the most serious interethnic conflicts were witnessed during his tenure as chief in-charge of what used to be a very expansive Maasai territory. I had also to take into account that he served during the one-party state when research was restricted.

Apart from such challenges, my marital status was a problematic subject among the Maasai, where men marry as early as in their late teens and early 20‟s. It was often taken for granted that I was married. So the question used to be “when” I married and “how many children” I had and what my “wife” was doing for a living. With time, I discovered that depending on who was asking or making the assumption, I could jeopardise my position as a researcher by insisting on the truth. Being a society where age-grades and sets define relationships and responsibilities, being „unmarried‟ gave me a junior status. In some cases, saying that I was not married is what was seen as a lie. If the question was posed, I answered correctly, when it was taken as a foregone conclusion, I had to judge what would be the consequences of my clarification.

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to be relatively more challenging, all the advantages (including a mother tongue) notwithstanding. I was to realise that some of the „advantages‟ outlined above could also work against the researcher. In my case, the Kamba, unlike the Maasai, were more problematic to engage as research partners. While some used to be busy in the farms or engaged in various income generating activities, others would say that the Kamba who “know more” about the Maasai are those living among them or taken as wives. The paradox was that some of these Kamba women married to the Maasai would pose as “Maasai” and even deny their ethnic descent. Other Kamba considered the subject of inquiry as “very sensitive” with three respondents suggesting that for such information, I should talk to the “authorities”. One clarified that the Kamba have “permanent homesteads” and therefore can be easily traced if they were to be victimised for what they shared during interviews. Even more discouraging, other respondents insisted that they did not know “anything” about the Maasai “apart from what you know”. Others felt that I was basically interested in the Maasai respondents since earlier researchers who had conducted fieldwork in the area had targeted the Maasai and

“ignored” the Kamba. I was concerned that such a notion might discourage many potential respondents from taking part in the study.

Unlike among the Maasai, it was hardly taken for granted that I were married. Respondents used to ask. Older and illiterate men and women would also inquire about my clan membership and lineage while younger and educated respondents showed little interest. Those older respondents who happened to be members of my clan were usually more receptive to the study. Other research partners wanted to know I was interested in doing research on coexistence between the Maasai and the Kamba and not between the Kamba and other Bantu groups like the Kikuyu and the Embu. Others wanted to know how the data would be used. A respondent (Ann Mwende)⁶⁶ asked: “Will this (the study) solve all the problems we have with the Maasai?” I told her that such studies could be useful in creating deeper understanding among the two groups.

I had to be conscious of the fact that in a narrative, the story is being told to a particular audience/person and that it might have taken a different form if someone else were the listener (Miller and Glassner, 1997:100; quoting Riessman, 1993: 11). This might explain why on many occasions, Kamba respondents used to tell me “you know them (Maasai)”. To the Kamba, I was not just a researcher but also a member of the society, who shared their world view. Asking the Kiboko location chief about Kamba-Maasai relations, he quipped: “are you

66 Ann Mwende comes from Emali. Her experiences with the Maasai are discussed in chapter three.

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testing me? Which Kamba doesn‟t know about these things”? (i.e. “enmity”). There was a general tendency to portray the Maasai as unchanging.

In the course of my study, I met and interacted with many teachers particularly those working in primary schools. They were generally so enthusiastic about the study that in some cases, they would seek to direct its course. Some had strong opinions about who should, and should not be interviewed. As „rural elite‟, teachers are accustomed to being „consulted‟ on various issues. Since they are often the only people on regular salaried employment in the rural areas, they are role models in Ukambani and to some extent, also among the Maasai. With higher literacy rates, they shape and influence opinion on many issues ranging from political representation, ethnic relations, government policies and activities of non-governmental organisations. Teachers are held in such high regard in the rural Ukambani that a peasant who has looked after his wife well often say: “If you meet my wife, you will think she is a teacher/a teacher‟s wife”. Teachers are not only some of the prime movers of the local economy as businessmen and women but also lead women groups and other self-help grass root organisations. As opinion leaders and shapers, they are sought by politicians, they are the church leaders and are the ones who neutralise the powers of local leaders, particularly chiefs.

They cushion the rural masses from the excesses of the provincial administration particularly exorbitant fines, arbitrary arrests and land disputes. The Kamba teachers working in Maasailand engage in commercial farming, while others have intermarried with the Maasai.

Such teachers provide vital links in interethnic relations although on the other hand they are despised by the Maasai who see their deployment in their territory as “external domination”.

In Emaroro, Mashuru division of Kajiado district, a Maasai man had demanded the removal of a Kamba teacher after the teacher intervened to „rescue‟ the man‟s daughter who had been removed from school and married off as a second wife.

From the foregoing, it is understandable why some teachers asked why I did not interview them. In Loitokitok, a primary school headmaster told me: “If you talk to us, you will save a lot of time...we know everything”. It was in such occasions that the ideas of Strauss and Corbin (1998) regarding “variation” in the research process and how to select research partners were useful. I had to strike a delicate balance between benefiting from the teachers‟

experiences and being recruited into their „camp‟, which, in those settings, constituted the privileged. Besides, although they were sources of very useful information, theirs was not necessarily a reflection of the experiences of the farming and pastoral communities.

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The notion of Language

“You know that they are very different from us”, was the response to a question I had posed to a Kamba respondent, Mr Musango who was living among the Maasai. The simplistic and seemingly tautological answer suggested three things; one, he felt that he was addressing somebody who should know, two, the distinction between the two groups is taken so much for granted that it would be ridiculous to ask, and three, this distinction is so „unreal‟ and exaggerated that substantiating the „difference‟ was an arduous task. Asking for elucidation led to a familiar response; the dressing codes, Maasai huts, cattle keeping (as if the Kamba keep no cattle),⁶⁷ female circumcision, etc. Musango, like Sitonik, was desperate to „prove‟

how distinct these groups were.

Musango moved from one criterion to the next to make a strong case. About language for instance, he told me how „impossible‟ it is for a Kamba to learn Maa language⁶⁸ and dismissed those who had achieved that feat as “those Kamba who aim at taking advantage of the Maasai.” But he was categorical that speaking Maa is not what makes one a Maasai.

“There are other things”, he said. Apart from the attributes above, he also identified territory, Maasai patriarchy and “doing what the Maasai do”. It was quite interesting how actors would start in earnest telling me how „different‟ they were from the other group but then find it difficult to support their assertions. It shows how groups safeguard their identities jealously and would want to hold onto „something‟ that distinguishes them from the rest.

Language featured quite prominently. In Solinketi‟s homestead, he had a „Kamba‟ domestic servant who could not speak Kikamba, prompting the ex-councillor to pose the question “now, would you consider him a Kamba?” And for sure, although he still bore a Kamba name and had Kamba parents, he regarded himself a Maasai. Seeking to find out the extent to which language was considered a criteria in defining ethnic boundaries, a Kamba research partner, Mr Mananu, noted that the Kamba concept of akavila or andu mate Akamba (“other ethnic groups” or “those people who are not Kamba”) is “those people who speak another language”.

However, he insisted that the domestic servant is a Kamba who “had refused to learn the language of his people”. It is a typical example of how the criteria for ethnic inclusion and exclusion shift.

Whatever the case however, one usually affiliated him/herself with one of the groups and rarely did people take the „middle‟ position. Studies done have shown that people can go to

67 In his effort to expound his point on difference, he went into the details of saying how „Kamba cattle‟ are different from „Maasai cattle‟.

68 As part of the eastern branch of the Nilotic languages, Maa language and Kikamba (a Bantu language) do not have much in common, and appear to have hardly benefited from genetic and areal relationships (although there are some loan words). For details on Maa language, see Sommer and Vossen (1993: 26).

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any lengths, often inventing stories, just to show how distinct they are from others, including eating habits in South Asia (Wijeyewardene,1990: 3).

Going back to the Kamba-Maasai identity debate, Palalelei remarked that the „difference‟

between the two groups was “obvious...we live here together but there is a big difference”.

Asking him what kind of differences these are, he adopted a linguistic criterion and asked

“what do you people call water? what do you call milk?”⁶⁹ After telling him the Kikamba names (he speaks Kikamba), he told me the Maasai equivalents and posed a question: “And you ask if we are different”? At that point, I got a bit frustrated since going by his initial determination, the knowledgeable man ended up oversimplifying ethnic differentiation.

Drawing his attention to the bilinguals among a section of the Maasai and the Kamba, he asked: “If you learn kimasai do you think you will be Maasai?”, which takes one back to Solinketi‟s story above. Apart from unshared language, he also highlighted the modes of subsistence (pastoralism and farming), transhumance, construction of huts, development disparities, importance attached to initiation rites (particularly circumcision), polygyny and dressing. He noted though that “it is difficult sometimes to say this is what is Maasai and this is what is Kamba”. Besides, it was clear that nearly all the „differences‟ identified were social practices. The tendency to treat an item like language as a „natural‟ attribute, even when actors know that it is learnt within a certain social space, underscores how eager actors are to stress

„difference‟. As we proceeded with our conversations, it was becoming clear that we were talking about how real and fluid ethnic difference is. Convinced as I am that ethnicity is entirely a social construction, one cannot ignore how actors insist on Barth‟s (1969) “cultural stuff” in defining their identity. Barth noted that ascriptive factors in ethnicity are used to mark boundaries but they may change and the cultural characteristics of the members may also be transformed. Common language for instance, has been shown not to necessarily constitute a prerequisite for common consciousness nor protect groups against conflicts (Haneke, 2002: 146).