"M'palla!" he hissed; and then after a second, in a restrained
fierce voice, "Na-ona? Do you see?"
If I did not see he pointed cautiously. His own eyes never left
the beast. Rarely he stayed put while I made the stalk. More
often he glided like a snake at my heels. If the bullet hit,
Memba Sasa always exhaled a grunt of satisfaction-"hah!"-in
which triumph and satisfaction mingled with a faint derision at
the unfortunate beast. In case of a trophy he squatted anxiously
at the animal's head while I took my measurements, assisting very
intelligently with the tape line. When I had finished, he always
looked up at me with wrinkled brow.
"Footie n'gapi?" he inquired. This means literally, "How many
feet?", footie being his euphemistic invention of a word for the
tape. I would tell him how many "footie" and how many "inchie"
the measurement proved to be. From the depths of his wonderful
memory he would dig up the measurements of another beast of the
same sort I had killed months back, but which he had remembered
accurately from a single hearing.
The shooting of a beast he always detailed to his few cronies in
camp: the other gunbearers, and one or two from his own tribe. He
always used the first person plural, "we" did so and so; and took
an inordinate pride in making out his bwana as being an
altogether superior person to any of the other gunbearer's
bwanas. Over a miss he always looked sad; but with a dignified
sadness as though we had met with undeserved misfortune sent by
malignant gods. If there were any possible alleviating
explanation, Memba Sasa made the most of it, provided our fiasco
was witnessed. If we were alone in our disgrace, he buried the
incident fathoms deep. He took an inordinate pride in our using
the minimum number of cartridges, and would explain to me in a
loud tone of voice that we had cartridges enough in the belt.
When we had not cartridges enough, he would sneak around after
dark to get some more. At times he would even surreptitiously
"lift" a few from B.'s gunbearer!
When in camp, with his "cazi" finished, Memba Sasa did fancy
work! The picture of this powerful half-savage, his fierce brows
bent over a tiny piece of linen, his strong fingers fussing with
little stitches, will always appeal to my sense of the
incongruous. Through a piece of linen he punched holes with a
porcupine quill. Then he "buttonhole" stitched the holes, and
embroidered patterns between them with fine white thread. The
result was an openwork pattern heavily encrusted with beautiful
fine embroidery. It was most astounding stuff, such as you would
expect from a French convent, perhaps, but never from an African
savage. He did a circular piece and a long narrow piece. They
took him three months to finish, and then he sewed them together
to form a skull cap. Billy, entranced with the lacelike delicacy
of the work, promptly captured it; whereupon Memba Sasa
philosophically started another.
By this time he had identified himself with my fortunes. We had
become a firm whose business it was to carry out the affairs of a
single personality-me. Memba Sasa, among other things, undertook
the dignity. When I walked through a crowd, Memba Sasa zealously
kicked everybody out of my royal path. When I started to issue a
command, Memba Sasa finished it and amplified it and put a
snapper on it. When I came into camp, Memba Sasa saw to it
personally that my tent went up promptly and properly, although
that was really not part of his "cazi" at all. And when somewhere
beyond my ken some miserable boy had committed a crime, I never
remained long in ignorance of that fact.
Perhaps I happened to be sitting in my folding chair idly smoking
a pipe and reading a book. Across the open places of the camp
would stride Memba Sasa, very erect, very rigid, moving in short
indignant jerks, his eye flashing fire. Behind him would sneak a
very hang-dog boy. Memba Sasa marched straight up to me, faced
right, and drew one side, his silence sparkling with honest
indignation.
"Just look at THAT!" his attitude seemed to say, "Could you
believe such human depravity possible? And against OUR authority?"
He always stood, quite rigid, waiting for me to speak.
"Well, Memba Sasa?" I would inquire, after I had enjoyed the show
a little.
In a few restrained words he put the case before me, always
briefly, always with a scornful dignity. This shenzi has done
so-and-so.
We will suppose the case fairly serious. I listened to the man's
story, if necessary called a few witnesses, delivered judgment.
All the while Memba Sasa stood at rigid attention, fairly
bristling virtue, like the good dog standing by at the punishment
of the bad dogs. And in his attitude was a subtle triumph, as one
would say: "You see! Fool with my bwana, will you! Just let
anybody try to get funny with US!" Judgment pronounced-we have
supposed the case serious, you remember-Memba Sasa himself
applied the lash. I think he really enjoyed that; but it was a
restrained joy. The whip descended deliberately, without
excitement.
The man's devotion in unusual circumstances was beyond praise.
Danger or excitement incite a sort of loyalty in any good man;
but humdrum, disagreeable difficulty is a different matter.
One day we marched over a country of thorn-scrub desert. Since
two days we had been cut loose from water, and had been depending
on a small amount carried in zinc drums. Now our only reasons for
faring were a conical hill, over the horizon, and the knowledge
of a river somewhere beyond.
