United States or Togo ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
And they, racing eagerly forward, their faces illuminated with one of the strongest joys the native knows, shouted back: "Nyama! nyama!" For another two days the provisioning was assured. The little safari made the distance to Simba's guarded water in a trifle over the four hours. Camp was made high up on the kopje whence the eye could carry to immense distances.
"Jambo, bwana," said Simba's voice a moment later. Something in his tone caught Kingozi's ear. "Yes, Simba?" was all he replied. "All has been done as you ordered, bwana. This is the fourteenth day, and I am here to tell you." Kingozi caught his breath sharply. "Bwana Nyele was captured?" "Mali-ya-bwana holds him prisoner at a certain water." "There was no trouble?" "None, bwana.
The immediate result was five loads of potio brought by safari men to "somewhere in Africa," and thence transported by Simba's men to Simba's camp. As game was thereabout abundant and undisturbed everybody was happy. Thus passed a week, which brought time forward to the moment when Simba, following his instructions, was to report to Kingozi at the village of M'tela.
Nor had he Simba's magic bone. Simba took that with him. Winkleman knew nothing of the supposed virtues of that property; and in consequence entertained a respect for qualities of Simba that were not entirely inherent in that individual.
For at sight of the bone Bwana Nyele's eyes lit up, he uttered an astonishing bellow of delight, and sprang forward with such agility for so large a man that he almost succeeded in snatching the talisman from Simba's hands. Acting precisely on his instructions the latter backed away, pointing over the hill. "Where did you get that?" Winkleman demanded. Simba continued to point. "Give it me."
The supposed savage experienced a growing excitement over the task he had undertaken. All his training had taught him to respect the white man, as such; and now he was called upon to abduct forcibly one of the sacred breed and such a specimen! Only Simba's undoubted force of character, and the veneration his long association with Kingozi had inculcated, sustained him.
The sun had him to a certain extent; so that, although he could rouse himself at will, nevertheless, he moved mechanically in a sort of daze. He heard Simba's voice; and brought himself into focus. The gun bearer was staring at something on the ground. Kingozi followed the direction of his gaze. Before him lay a dead man.
Firearms were familiar to them. The usual sequence to Simba's deed would have been an immediately defunct Simba. But his serene confidence in his magic caught their credulity. The white man's prestige and privileges were invested in him. "Yours is undoubtedly a great magic," said Winkleman's gun bearer politely. "Let us talk."
To be fair, having published Little Simba's disgrace, we should publish also Little Simba's triumph: to tell how, at the end of a certain very lucky three months' safari he was perched atop a pole and carried into town triumphantly at the head of a howling, singing procession of a hundred men.
The fierce countenance of the gun bearer lit up in triumph. He shifted the heavy rifle and reached out to touch the lighter weapon resting again in the crook of his master's arm. "Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!" he murmured. That was Simba's name for the light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant simply "my meat."
Word Of The Day