Baptised in Maasailand
It was baptism day in Kimuka village, Kenya. The confining, corrugated walls of the church were replaced by Maasailand’s flat, yawning expanse. The parched earth was brick red, and scattered with stones and boulders. Young acacia trees jutted out of the ground at every angle, their spiny, green canopies littering the ground with barbed thorns tough enough to pierce the sole of any shoe. The sky was a tranquil blue, the Kenyan sun oppressive, beating down on our party as we silently trod the dusty trail to the nearby watering hole.
With a spluttering cough, the generator kicked into life. Its low, throaty rumbling was soon joined by a rude whine of feedback and a few tentative triads on the Yamaha keyboard. The village pianist and two young Maasai girls, armed with microphones, set up camp beside the water’s edge. A breeze taunted the villagers, all sprawled in any available…
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