The whole thing was so comical, especially with Memba Sasa
standing by virtuous and scornful, that I had hard work to keep
from laughing. Fortunately the rhinoceros behaved himself.
The proud moment of Fundi's life was when safari entered Nairobi
at the end of the first expedition. He had gone forth with a load
on his head, rags on his back, and his only glory was the
self-assumed one of the name he had taken-Fundi, the Expert. He
returned carrying a rifle, rigged from top to toe in new garments
and fancy accoutrements, followed by a toro, or small boy, he had
bought from some of the savage tribes to carry his blanket and
cooking pot for him. To the friends who darted out to the line of
march, he was gracious, but he held his head high, and had no
time for mere persiflage.
I did not take Fundi on my second expedition, for I had no real
use for a second gunbearer. Several times subsequently I saw him
on the streets of Nairobi. Always he came up to greet me, and ask
solicitously if I would not give him a job. This I was unable to
do. When we paid off, I had made an addition to his porter's
wages, and had written him a chit. This said that the boy had the
makings of a gunbearer with further training. It would have been
unfair to possible white employers to have said more. Fundi was,
when I left the country, precisely in the position of any young
man who tries to rise in the world. He would not again take a
load as porter, and he was not yet skilled enough or known enough
to pick up more than stray jobs as gunbearer. Before him was
struggle and hard times, with a certainty of a highly considered
profession if he won through. Behind him was steady work without
outlets for ambition. It was distinctly up to him to prove
whether he had done well to reach for ambition, or whether he
would have done better in contentment with his old lot. And that
is in essence a good deal like our own world isn't it?
XVII. NATIVES
Up to this time, save for a few Masai at the very beginning of
our trip, we had seen no natives at all. Only lately, the night
of the lion dance, one of the Wanderobo-the forest hunters-had
drifted in to tell us of buffalo and to get some meat. He was a
simple soul, small and capable, of a beautiful red-brown, with
his hair done up in a tight, short queue. He wore three skewers
about six inches long thrust through each of his ears, three
strings of blue beads on his neck, a bracelet tight around his
upper arm, a bangle around his ankle, a pair of rawhide sandals,
and about a half yard of cotton cloth which he hung from one
shoulder.
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