“Oof!” grunts Muzungu Mbaya, “it is good of you to tell us all this Upumbafu (nonsense) which your mother told you. So there are plantations in the skies?”
“Assuredly,” replies Gul Mohammed, who expounds at length the Moslem idea of paradise to the African’s running commentary of “Nenda we!” (be off!), “Mama-e!” (O my mother!) and “Tumbanina,” which may not be translated.
Muzungu Mbaya, who for the last minute has been immersed in thought, now suddenly raises his head; and, with somewhat of a goguenard air, inquires:
“Well then, my brother, thou knowest all things! answer me, is thy Mulungu black like myself, white like this Muzungu, or whity-brown as thou art?”
Gul Mohammed is fairly floored: he ejaculates sundry la haul! to collect his wits for the reply,—
“Verily the Mulungu hath no colour.”
“To-o-oh! Tuh!” exclaims the Muzunga, contorting his wrinkled countenance, and spitting with disgust upon the ground. He was now justified in believing that he had been made a laughing-stock. The mountain of meat had, to a certain extent, won over his better judgment: the fair vision now fled, and left him to the hard realities of the half-pound. He turns a deaf ear to every other word; and, devoting all his assiduity to the article before him, he unconsciously obeys the advice which many an Eastern philosopher has inculcated to his disciples—
“Hold fast the hour, though fools say nay,
The spheres revolve, they bring thee sorrow;
The wise enjoys his joy to-day,
The fool shall joy his joy to-morrow.”
The transit of Ugogo occupied three weeks, from the 14th of November to the 5th of December. In Kanyenye we were joined by a large down-caravan of Wanyamwezi, carrying ivories; the musket-shots which announced the conclusion of certain brotherly ties between the sons of Ramji and the porters, sounded in my ears like minute-guns announcing the decease of our hopes of a return to the coast viâ Kilwa. At Kanyenye, also, we met the stout Msawahili Abdullah bin Nasib, alias Kisesa, who was once more marching into Unyamwezi: he informed me that the slaughter of Salim bin Nasir, the Bu-Saidi, and the destruction of the Rubeho settlements, after the murder of a porter, had closed our former line through Usagara. He also supplied me with valuable tea and sugar, and my companion with a quantity of valueless, or perhaps misunderstood, information, which I did not deem worth sifting. On the 6th of December, arrived at our old ground in the Ugogi Dhun, we were greeted by a freshly-arrived caravan, commanded by Jumah bin Mbwana and his two brothers, half-caste Hindi or Indian Moslems, from Mombasah.
The Hindis, after receiving and returning news with much solemnity, presently drew forth a packet of letters and papers, which as usual promised trouble. This time, however, the post was to produce the second manner of annoyance—official “wigging,”—the first being intelligence of private misfortune. Imprimis, came a note from Captain Rigby, the newly-appointed successor to Lieut.-Col. Hamerton at Zanzibar, and that name was not nice in the nostrils of men. Secondly, the following pleasant announcement. I give the whole letter: