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They came to a halt, raised their spears horizontally above their heads; the horns and drums redoubled their din; a mighty, concerted shout rent the air. Then abruptly fell dead silence. From the front rank a tall, impressive savage stepped forward, pacing with dignified stride. He walked directly to Kingozi's chair. "Jambo, bwana!"
About the end of April 1630, the viceroy not only sent him every thing he asked, but gave him full power to act as governor general, without being obliged to wait for orders from Goa. In the meantime Botello sailed with 27 ships towards the straits of Cincapura, and put in at Jambo , a place abounding in pepper, and on that account much resorted to by the Dutch and English.
"Jambo, sultani" replied Kingozi calmly. They shook hands. With regal deliberation the visitor arranged his robes and sat down in the battered old canvas chair. A silence that lasted nearly five minutes ensued. "I thank you, sultani, for the help your men have given. I thank you for the houses. I thank you for these gifts." The sultani waved his hand magnificently.
"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.
"Jambo, bwana m'kubwa!" rolled the latter. "Jambo" replied Kingozi. "Jambo, bwana m'kubwa-sana!" "Jambo." "Jambo, bwana m'kubwa-sana!" "Jambo." Having thus climbed by easy steps to the superlative greeting, the minister uttered his real message. As befitted his undoubted position in court, he spoke excellent Swahili. "I am come to take you to the manyatta of M'tela," he announced.
Kingozi stared up at him coolly for a moment; then, without removing his pipe from his teeth, he remarked: "Jambo!" The old man, smiling, extended his hand. Kingozi, nursing the bowl of his pipe, continued to stare up at him. "Are you the sultani?" he demanded abruptly. The old man waved his hand in courtly fashion.
The old man swept forward with considerable dignity; the younger, one hand held high in the most affected fashion, teetered gracefully along as mincingly as any dandy. The visitor came superbly up to where Kingozi sat, and uttered a greeting in Swahili. He proved to possess a grand, deep, thunderous voice. "Jambo!" he rolled.
When the head of our safari reached the spot Sulimani left the ranks and, his load still aloft danced solemnly in front of Cuninghame, chanting something in a loud tone of voice. Then with a final deep "Jambo!" to his old master he rejoined the safari.
I had begun reading, and had all but forgotten his presence. "Jambo!" I repeated. The same dignified, unhasting pause. "Jambo!" quoth I, and went on reading. The sun was dropping, but the old man seemed in no hurry. "Jambo!" said I. This would seem to strike the superlative, and I expected now that he would state his business, but the old man had one more shot in his locker.
He was without arms or baggage of any sort, an alien in a strange and savage country. "Jambo," said I, as though his existence were not in the least surprising, and went on reading. This showed him that I was indeed a great master. After a suitable interval I looked up. I had, until that moment, been quite unaware of his existence.
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