The sultani approached without haste. He stopped squarely before Kingozi's chair. The latter did not rise. The two men stared into each other's eyes for a full minute, without embarrassment, without contest, without defiance. Then the black man spoke.
"Jambo, bwana," he rumbled in a deep voice.
"Jambo, sultani" replied Kingozi calmly.
They shook hands.
With regal deliberation the visitor arranged his robes and sat down in the battered old canvas chair. A silence that lasted nearly five minutes ensued.
"I thank you, sultani, for the help your men have given. I thank you for the houses. I thank you for these gifts."
The sultani waved his hand magnificently.
"It is not the custom of white men to give gifts until their departure," continued Kingozi, "but this knife is yours to make friendship."
He handed over a knife, of Swedish manufacture, the blade of which disappeared into the handle in a most curious fashion. The sultani's eyes lit up with an almost childish delight, but his countenance showed no emotion. He passed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind his chair.
"This," said Kingozi, taking one of the steaming balauris from Cazi Moto, "is the white man's tembo."