“The Wagogo are not at all good.”
“They are not at all good.”
“I greatly feared the Wagogo, who kill the Wanyamwezi.”
“Exactly so!”
“But now I don’t fear them. I call them ——s and ——s, and I would fight the whole tribe, white man O!”
“Truly so, O my brother!”
And thus for two mortal hours, till my ennui turned into marvel. Twanigana however was, perhaps, in point of intellect somewhat below the usual standard of African young men. Older and more experienced was Muzungu Mbaya, and I often listened with no small amusement to the attempts made by the Baloch to impress upon this truly African mind a respect for their revelation. Gul Mohammed was the missionary of the party: like Moslems generally, however, his thoughts had been taught to run in one groove, and if disturbed by startling objections, they were all abroad. Similarly I have observed in the European old lady, that on such subjects all the world must think with her, and I have been suspected of drawing the long-bow when describing the worship of gods with four arms, and goddesses with two heads.
Muzungu Mbaya, as the old hunks calls himself, might be sitting deeply meditative, at the end of the march, before the fire, warming his inner legs, smoking his face, and ever and anon casting pleasant glances at a small black earthen pipkin, whence arose the savoury steam of meat and vegetables. A concatenation of ideas induces Gul Mohammed to break into his favourite theme.
“And thou, Muzungu Mbaya, thou also must die!”
“Ugh! ugh!” replies the Muzungu personally offended, “don’t speak in that way! Thou must die too.”