Kingozi dropped his chin in his hand, a movement that pushed out his beard in a terrifying manner. One after another of the eleven men felt the weight of his stare. At last he spoke.
"I have heard tales of you," said he, "but I who speak know nothing about you. You are askaris, soldiers with guns, and next to gun bearers are the greatest men in the safari. Some have told me that you are not askaris, that you are common porters--and not good ones--who carry guns. I do not know. That we shall see. This is what must be done now, and done quickly: the loads of your memsahib must be brought here, and camp made properly, according to the custom. Perhaps your men are no longer tired: perhaps you will get the shenzis. That is not my affair. You understand?"
The answer came in an eager chorus. He ran his eye over them again.
"You," he indicated, "stand forward. Of what tribe are you?"
"Monumwezi, bwana."
"Your name?"
The man uttered a mouthful of gutturals.
"Again."
He repeated.
"That is not a good name for me. From now on you are--Jack."