I did not go up with Keiti to see him halal so it was a question of his own conscience and I knew his conscience was not as rigid as Charo’s. But I did not want to lose the buck for the Mohammedans any more than I had wanted to shoot the meat up so I walked forward slowly over the springy grass and when I came up he had cut the impala’s throat and was smiling.
“Piga mzuri,” he said.
“Why not?” I said. “Uchawi.”
“Hapana uchawi. Piga mzuri sana.”
THERE WERE PEOPLE all under the trees and out behind the lines, the women with their lovely brown heads and faces in their bright cloth top covers and beautiful wide bead collars and bracelets. The big drum had been brought down from the Shamba and the Game Scouts had three other drums. It was early yet but the Ngoma was starting to take shape. We rode past the people and the preparations and stopped in the shade and the women got out and children came running to see the animals unloaded. I handed the rifle to Ngui to clean and walked over to the mess tent. The wind was blowing quite hard from the Mountain now and the mess tent was cool and pleasant.
“You took all our cold beer,” Miss Mary said. She looked much better and more rested.
“I brought one bottle back. It’s coming in the bag. How are you, honey?”
“G.C. and I are much better. We didn’t find your bullet. Only G.C.’s. My lion looks so noble and beautiful when he is white and naked. He’s dignified again as when he was alive. Did you have fun at Laitokitok?”
“Yes. We did all the errands.”
“Make him welcome, Miss Mary,” G.C. said. “Show him around and see that he’s comfortable. You’ve seen an Ngoma before haven’t you my good man?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “And we have them in my own country too. We are all very fond of them.”
“Is that what they call baseball in America? I always thought that was a form of rounders.”
“At home, sir, our Ngomas are a sort of Harvest Festival with folk dancing. It’s rather like your cricket, I believe.”
“Quite,” said G.C. “But this Ngoma is something new. It’s going to be danced entirely by natives.”
“What fun, sir,” I said. “May I accompany Miss Mary as you call this charming young lady to the Ngoma?”
“I’ve been spoken for,” Miss Mary said. “I’m going to the Ngoma with Mr. Chungo of the Game Scouts Department.”
“The hell you are Miss Mary,” G.C. said.
“Is Mr. Chungo that very well built young man with the mustache and shorts on who was fixing ostrich plumes onto his head, sir?”
“He looked a very good sort, sir. Is he one of your colleagues in the Game Scouts Department? I must say, sir, you have a magnificent body of men.”
“I am in love with Mr. Chungo and he is my hero,” Miss Mary said. “He told me that you were a liar and had never hit the lion at all. He said all the boys know you are a liar and Ngui and some of the others only pretend to be friends of yours because you give them presents all the time and have no discipline. He said look how Ngui had broken your best knife that you paid so much money for in Paris that day when you came home drunk.”
“Yes. Yes,” I said. “I do remember seeing old Chungo in Paris. Yes. Yes. I remember. Yes. Yes.”
“No. No,” G.C. said absentmindedly. “No. No. Not Mr. Chungo. He’s not a member.”
“Yes. Yes,” I said. “I’m afraid he is, sir.”
“Mr. Chungo told me another interesting thing too. He told me that you had been using Kamba arrow poisoning on your solids and that Ngui makes it for you and that all this risasi moja business of one shot kills is the effect of the arrow poisoning. He offered to show me how fast the arrow poisoning would run up a stream of blood dripping from his own leg.”
“Dear, dear. Do you think she had best go to the Ngoma with your colleague Mr. Chungo, sir? It may all be absolutely tickety-boo but she still is a Memsahib, sir. She still comes under the White Man’s Burden Act.”
“She’ll go to the Ngoma with me,” G.C. said. “Make us a drink, Miss Mary; or no, I will.”
“I can make drinks still,” Miss Mary said. “Don’t you both look so sinister. I made it all up about Mr. Chungo. Someone has to make jokes here sometimes beside Papa and his pagans and you and Papa and your night wildness and wickedness. What time did you all get up this morning?”
“Not too early. Is it still the same day?”
“The days run into each other and into each other and into each other,” Miss Mary said. “That’s in my poem about Africa.”