My Kalulu, Prince, King and Slave: A Story of Central Africa - Henry M. Stanley

Selim knocked at the door of his mother’s apartments, who came to the door. Her son respectfully saluted his mother’s right hand, and led her into the room; but when she saw a stranger and a black man, she drew back, and said:

“Who is this, my son; and what dost thou mean by bringing a slave into a place where none but Arabs are admitted? And I have left my veil behind. Fie, boy!”

“Nay, dear mother, this is only a boy; and he is not a slave, he is my brother,” answered Selim, smiling, as he beckoned Kalulu to advance, who looked somewhat awed at the transcendent beauty of Selim’s mother.

“Thy brother! How, hast thou two mothers? My lord, Amer, never told me he had other wives than those who live in this house. What folly is this, Selim, my son? Who is this boy?”

“Dost thou not know, mother? Canst thou not guess? Behold my brother, my Kalulu!”

“Kalulu!” echoed his mother, and immediately she recovered her smiles, and walking up to him, she poured into Kalulu’s ears all a fond mother could say to one whom she considered as her dear son’s saviour and deliverer, and she ended with saying:

“This house is at thy service. Command anything thou dost wish, and thou shalt be obeyed. I also, who am Selim’s mother—who for so long mourned him as dead—know how to be grateful. Simba, Moto, and little Niani, who shared his troubles with him, have already been rewarded with houses and gardens, and Selim is continually sounding their praises to me. But to thee, knowing as I do that thou hast suffered much, I shall be as a mother; and thou shalt be My Kalulu.”

The End.