Next morning early, I remembered the joy of his nephew Ahmah-de-Bellah, when I first treated him to coffee; and determined to welcome the chief, as soon as he came forth from his ablutions to prayers, with a cup distilled from the fragrant berry. I could not have hit upon a luxury more gratifying to the old gentleman. Thirty years before had he drank it in Timbuctoo, where it is used, he said, by the Moses-people (meaning the Hebrews), with milk and honey; and its delicious aroma brought the well-remembered taste to his lips ere they touched the sable fluid.
Long before Mami-de-Yong’s arrival, his fame as a learned “book-man” and extensive traveller preceded him, so that when he mentioned his travel to Timbuctoo, I begged him to give me some account of that “capital of capitals,” as the Africans call it. The royal messenger promised to comply as soon as he finished the morning lessons of the caravan’s children. His quarters were filled with a dozen or more of young Fullahs and Mandingoes squatted around a fire, while the prince sat apart in a corner with inkstand, writing reeds, and a pile of old manuscripts. Ali-Ninpha, our backsliding Mahometan, stood by, pretending devoted attention to Mami’s precepts and the Prophet’s versus. The sinner was a scrupulous follower in the presence of the faithful; but when their backs were turned, I know few who relished a porker more lusciously, or avoided water with more scrupulous care. Yet why should I scoff at poor Ali? Joseph and I had done our best to civilize him!
Mami-de-Yong apologized for the completion of his daily task in my presence, and went on with his instruction, while the pupils wrote down notes, on wooden slabs, with reeds and a fluid made of powder dissolved in water.
I am sorry to say that these Ethiopian Mahometans are but poor scholars. Their entire instruction amounts to little more than the Koran, and when they happen to write or receive a letter, its interpretation is a matter over which many an hour is toilsomely spent. Mami-de-Yong, however, was superior to most of his countrymen; and, in fact, I must record him in my narrative as the most erudite Negro I ever encountered.
HIS TRIP TO TIMBUCTOO.
True to his promise, the envoy came to my piazza, as soon as school was over, and squatting sociably on our mats and sheepskins, with a plentiful supply of pipes and tobacco, we formed as pleasant a little party as was assembled that day on the banks of the Rio Pongo. Ali-Ninpha acted as interpreter, having prepared himself for the long-winded task by a preliminary dram from my private locker, out of sight of the noble Mahometan.
Invoking the Lord’s name,—as is usual among Mussulmen,—Mami-de-Yong took a long whiff at his pipe, and, receiving from his servant a small bag of fine sand, spread it smoothly on the floor, leaving the mass about a quarter of an inch in thickness. This was his black-board, designed to serve for the delineation of his journey. On the westernmost margin of his sand, he dotted a point with his finger for the starting at Timbo. As he proceeded with his track over Africa towards the grand capital, he marked the outlines of the principal territories, and spotted the remarkable towns through which he passed. By a thick or thin line, he denoted the large rivers and small streams that intercepted his path, while he heaved up the sand into heaps to represent a mountain, or smoothed it into perfect levels to imitate the broad prairies and savannas of the interior. When he came to a dense forest, his snuff-box was called in requisition, and a pinch or two judiciously sprinkled, stood for the monarchs of the wood.
Like all Oriental story-tellers, Mami proved rather prolix. His tale was nearly as long as his travel. He insisted on describing his reception at every village. At each river he had his story of difficulty and danger in constructing rafts or building bridges. He counted the minutes he lost in awaiting the diminution of floods. Anon, he would catalogue the various fish with which a famous river teemed; and, when he got fairly into the woods, there was no end of adventures and hairbreadth escapes from alligators, elephants, anacondas, vipers, and the fatal tape snake, whose bite is certain death. In the mountains he encountered wolves, wild asses, hyænas, zebras, and eagles.
In fact, the whole morning glided away with a geographical, zoological, and statistical overture to his tour; so that, when the hour of prayer and ablution arrived, Mami-de-Yong had not yet reached Timbuctoo! The double rite of cleanliness and faith required him to pause in his narrative; and, apologizing for the interruption, he left a slave to guard the map while he retired to perform his religious services.
When the noble Fullah got back, I had a nice lunch prepared on a napkin in the neighborhood of his diagram, so that he could munch his biscuits and sugar without halting on his path. Before he began, however, I took the liberty to offer a hint about the precious value of time in this brief life of ours, whilst I asked a question or two about the “capital of capitals,” to indicate my eagerness to enter the walls of Timbuctoo. Mami-de-Yong, who was a man of tact as well as humor, smiled at my insinuation, and apologizing like a Christian for the natural tediousness of all old travellers, skipped a degree or two of the wilderness, and at once stuck his buffalo-horn snuff-box into the eastern margin of the sand, to indicate that he was at his journey’s end.