“I want to take 'Winchi,'” said he. “Winchi” is his name for my Winchester 405.
“Why?” we asked.
“If I can take Winchi, I will find the men,” said he.
This was entirely voluntary on his part. He, as well as we, had had a hard day, and he had made a double journey for part of it. We gave him Winchi and he departed. Sometime after midnight he returned with the missing men.
Perhaps a dozen times all told he volunteered for these special services; once in particular, after a fourteen-hour day, he set off at nine o'clock at night in a soaking rainstorm, wandered until two o'clock, and returned unsuccessful, to rouse me and report gravely that he could not find them. For these services he neither received nor expected special reward. And catch him doing anything outside his strict “cazi” except for US.
We were always very ceremonious and dignified in our relations on such occasions. Memba Sasa would suddenly appear, deposit the rifle in its place, and stand at attention.
“Well, Memba Sasa?” I would inquire.
“I have found the men; they are in camp.”
Then I would give him his reward. It was either the word “assanti,” or the two words “assanti sana,” according to the difficulty and importance of the task accomplished. They mean simply “thank you” and “thank you very much.”
Once or twice, after a particularly long and difficult month or so, when Memba Sasa has been almost literally my alter ego, I have called him up for special praise. “I am very pleased with you, Memba Sasa,” said I. “You have done your cazi well. You are a good man.”