The Brave Moran
There was a moran, a warrior who wanted every Samburu to know that he is brave. This moran lived a traditional life. He had no education. He never went to town. What he knew was cattle, dancing, and raiding. He had been washed in milk more than once. When the moran returned with cattle he had taken in a raid on the Borana, the Turkana, or the Somalis, the manyatta celebrated. His girlfriend sang his praises. He gave her necklaces, and he felt strong, proud, and brave. But there is reason to wonder whether the moran understood what bravery is.
One day, a sister from the Wamba Catholic Mission Hosiptial was in Mabati with a mobile clinic. The sister was vaccinating children. Two young women, their necks rich with red beads, asked for a ride. Whenever there was room, the sisters gave the local people rides, so the sister told them to get into the front seat. She then drove to Barsaloi. The young women stayed in the car while the sister went about her business. When she returned to the car there were two morans talking with the young women. The brave moran was one of them. He asked the sister whether she could give them a ride to Suari. She said she could, and she told them to get in. But they didn’t get in. They just stood there. The sister had lived in the Samburu district a long time. She realized that they didn’t know how to open the car door, so she asked them whether they would like her to open the door for them. The brave moran said, ‘Yes, we would like that’, so she opened the door, and they got in. The brave moran was last.
The sister still had a little business to do. She stood by the car talking with the chief. When she was finished, she asked the brave moran whether he and his friend were ready to go. He said they were, but he didn’t shut the door. So, she asked again, are you ready? ‘Ready!’ they called out. But the door remained open, so she asked, shall I shut the door? ‘Yes,’ the brave moran called out, ’shut the door!’ She slammed the door shut and got in.
The brave moran had been seated with his hand holding onto the outside of the car. When she slammed the door, it closed on his fingers, but he didn’t call out, so the sister started the car and drove off.
You know, the road is in poor condition, often little more than a track. As the car maneuvered over rocks, around holes, and between ruts it rocked and twisted, and over washboard it vibrated.
Something was obviously wrong with the brave moran, but when his friend asked him what was the matter, he snapped back, ‘Nothing is the matter. Everything is fine.’
‘But you are sweating,’ said his friend, ‘and from the way you are sitting, it doesn’t look as though you are comfortable.’ The pain made the brave moran crazy. He shouted at his friend, ‘I’m comfortable! Leave me alone!’ And so, in the back seat, they continued to Suari, the only sound the shaking and rattling of the car, and when they could hear it, the conversation of the Sister and the young women in the front seat.
When they reached Suari the sister stopped the car. As the brave moran did not open the door, she got out of the car to open it for him. ‘What is this,’ she called out, ‘blood on the door!’ She opened the door, saw the moran’s mangled hand, but before she could do or say anything the moran pushed passed her and ran into the bush. The sister called after him, ‘Moran, moran, come back, I have medicine,’ but he didn’t come back.
This is the moran you can sometimes see hanging around Wamba, the one with no fingers on his right hand.