The medical chest had been brought from the dining tent and I dressed the boy’s wounds. They were in the neck, the chest and the upper arm and back and were all suppurating badly. I cleaned them out, poured peroxide into them for the magic bubbling effect and to kill any grubs, cleaned them again, especially the neck wound, painted the edges with Mercurochrome, which gave a much admired and serious color effect, and then sifted them full of sulfa and put a gauze dressing and plaster across each wound.
Through the Informer, who was acting as interpreter, I told the elders that as far as I was concerned it was better for the young men to exercise at the use of their spears than to drink Golden Jeep sherry in Laitokitok. But that I was not the law and the father must take his son and present him to the police in that village. He should also have the wounds checked there and should be given penicillin.
After receiving this message the two elders spoke together and then to me and I grunted knowingly throughout their speech with that peculiar rising inflection grunt that means you are giving the matter your deepest attention.
“They say, sir, that they wish you to give a judgment on the case and they will abide by your judgment. They say all that they say is true and that you have already spoken with the other Mzees.”
“Tell them that they must present the warrior to the police. It is possible that the police will do nothing since no complaint has been made. They must go to the Police Boma and the wound must be checked and the boy receive penicillin. It must be done.”
I shook hands with the two elders and with the young warrior. He was a good-looking boy, thin and very straight but he was tired and his wounds hurt him although he had never flinched when they were cleaned out.
The Informer followed me to the front of our sleeping tent where I washed up carefully with blue soap. “Listen,” I said to him. “I want you to tell the police exactly what I said and what the Mzee said to me. If you try anything fancy you know what will happen.”
“How can my brother think I would not be faithful and do my duty? How can my brother doubt me? Will my brother loan me ten shillings? I will pay it back the first of the month.”
“Ten shillings will never get you out of the trouble you are in.”
“I know it. But it is ten shillings.”
“Here is ten.”
“Do you not want to send any presents to the Shamba?”
“I will do that myself.”
“You are quite right, brother. You are always right and doubly generous.”
“Bullshit to you. Go along now and wait with the Masai to go in the truck. I hope you find the Widow and don’t get drunk.”
I went in the tent and Mary was waiting. She was reading the last
“Was he badly hurt?”
“No. But the wounds were infected. One pretty badly.”
“I don’t wonder after being in the Manyatta that day. The flies were really something awful.”
“They say the fly blows keep a wound clean,” I said. “But the maggots always give me the creeps. I think while they keep it clean they enlarge the wound greatly. This kid has one in the neck that can’t stand much enlarging.”
“The other boy was hurt worse though, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. But he had prompt treatment.”
“You’re getting quite a lot of practice as an amateur doctor. Do you think you can cure yourself?”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever you get sometimes. I don’t mean just physical things.”
“Like what?”
“I couldn’t help hearing you and that Informer talking about the Shamba. I wasn’t overhearing. But you were right outside the tent and because he is a little deaf you talk a little loud.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say anything bad?”
“No. Just about presents. Do you send her many presents?”
“No. Mafuta always for the family and sugar and things they need. Medicines and soap. I buy her good chocolate.”
“The same as you buy me.”
“I don’t know. Probably. There’s only about three kinds and they are all good.”
“Don’t you give her any big presents?”
“No. The dress.”
“It’s a pretty dress.”
“Do we have to do this, honey?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll stop it. But it interests me.”
“If you say so I’ll never see her.”
“I don’t want that,” she said. “I think it’s wonderful that you have a girl that can’t read nor write so you can’t get letters from her. I think it’s wonderful that she doesn’t know that you are a writer or even that there are such things as writers. But you don’t love her do you?”
“I like her because she has such a lovely impudence.”
“I have too,” Miss Mary said. “Maybe you like her because she’s like me. It could be possible.”
“I like you more and I love you.”
“What does she think of me?”
“She respects you very much and she is very much afraid of you.”
“Why?”
“I asked her. She said because you have a gun.”
“So I have,” said Miss Mary. “What does she give you for presents?”
“Mealies, mostly. Ceremonial beer. You know everything is based on exchanges of beer.”
“What do you have in common, really?”
“Africa, I guess, and a sort of not too simple trust and something else. It’s hard to say it.”