“Nyamaki has not returned?” queried Tyingoza, who, seated, in his accustomed place under the window of the store, had been taking snuff and chatting about things in general.
“Not that I have heard of,” I answered. “I was at his place but a day or two back. Will he return, Tyingoza?”
“And the young one—he who sits in Nyamaki’s place—does he think he will return?”
What was the object of this answer turned into another question? What was in Tyingoza’s mind? However I replied:
“He is inclined to think not. He thinks his relation has wandered away somewhere—perhaps into the river, and will never be heard of again.”
“Ah! Into the river! Well, that might be, Iqalaqala. Into the river! The ways of you white people are strange, impela!”
Tyingoza, you see, was enigmatical, but then he often was, especially if he thought I was trying to get behind his mind—as he put it. Clearly he was not going to commit himself to any definite opinion regarding the disappearing Hensley.
“Ukozi is in these parts,” I went on.
“Ukozi? Ha! I have not seen him. Did he visit you here?”
“Not here,” I answered, with intent to be as enigmatical as himself.