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Updated: June 11, 2025
But this I have noticed: that when a Wakamba is dead, he remains dead; but when a white man is dead ten more come to take his place." After an hour's elaboration of this theme Kingozi judged the moment propitious to return to the original subject. M'tela offered the opportunity. "This Duyche whom you have conquered you killed him?" "He escaped." "A-a-a-a." "He is still alive and in your land.
If you would go back, you would not be captured and held by Winkleman when you reach M'tela!" But such expostulations she knew to be vain, even as she uttered them. At about nine o'clock of the third day Cazi Moto reported a file of warriors, many warriors "like the leaves of grass!" armed with spears and shields, wearing black ostrich plumes, debouching from the grove a mile across the way.
I have him here in the tent, well guarded." "How shall we kill him, papa?" inquired M'tela. "That has not yet been decided," replied Kingozi carelessly. "He must, of course, be taken to the great King of all Inglishee." M'tela looked disappointed.
Winkleman, a twinkle in his wide eyes, but with his countenance composed to gravity, stepped forward, salaamed, and placed his forehead beneath Kingozi's hand in token of submission. Thus proper relations were established. Winkleman seated himself humbly on the sod, and kept silence, while high converse went forward. At length M'tela departed.
He wore a piece of cotton cloth dyed black, so draped as to leave one arm and shoulder bare, a polished bone armlet, and a tarboush that must have been traded through many hands. "The sultani, bwana," murmured the ever-alert Cazi Moto. M'tela wandered to where Kingozi sat. The white man did not move, but appeared to stare absently straight before him.
They squatted on their heels below the white man in his chair, and looked up at him with bright, devoted eyes. "Listen," he said. "The matter is this: the Inglishee are at war with the Duyche. Over from the Congo comes a Duyche known as Bwana Nyele. It is his business to reach this shenzi king, M'tela, and persuade M'tela to fight on the side of the Duyche.
"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.
Some of these people you see here were his people; and of his goods I have everything." "But it may be," suggested M'tela with a slight cooling of cordiality, "that many more Duyche will follow this one." "They cannot prevail against my magic. Talk with Simba, with my men, and know what virtue is in my magic.
"No women likes to be treated so. And if you had your eyes, so I would hate you again!" "I don't know why you want to prevent me from reaching M'tela, nor why you want to reach him first, nor why in its wisdom your government sent you at all. I'd like to know, just as a matter of curiosity. But it doesn't really matter, because it does not affect the essential situation in the least."
The latter ceremony he had evaded under one plea or another; and the infliction he had managed to conceal by the simple expedient of remaining in his canvas chair. Later would be time enough to acknowledge so great a weakness; later when the subtle and specialized diplomacy he so assiduously applied would have had time to do its work. For M'tela was initially friendly.
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