The African

By K. Oliver Severson

A century ago a Rhodes Scholar from The United States is befriended by a student from Africa. These two students form an unlikely friendship at Oxford university and become life-long friends.
Years later the American seeks out his black friend in colonial Africa and falls in love with the Dark Continent. A brief love affair produces a white child causing Andreas odyssey to take a turn into the next generation. The motherless white child is placed in the care of the black mans family.
Two boys one white one black are raised as brothers, despite the outrage of the white over-lords.
Violence, spiced with the slave trade, romance and pre WWII Africa are the backdrop for this compelling story of a world separated by the color of ones skin.
The heart-warming humanity and the harmony of the races are the focus of this Authors history; skillfully told in this historic setting. This adventure gives the reader a look into the past and how it influences present-day Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543421224

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Look Andreas, those rocks, aren’t they beautiful, Annie said, pointing out across the valley.

Yes, they are beautiful; I have been there. There’s a spring above the rocks that falls fifteen feet into a pool deep enough to swim in.

Lets go Andreas, I so need a bath.

We are on our way to Kigoma Annie; it’ll take two extra days if we get off the train here.

I don’t mind walking, and this train bores me, She said, exaggerating `bores’ with her English accent.

I grabbed our packs; stepping off the train we started walking. Annie was thrilled; it was exciting to watch her. I know the feeling when Africa starts leeching into your bones. She led the way humming softly, conveying her mood. Like body language, it was in her stride; how she moved. Stooping she’d pick wildflowers and thrust them under my nose smiling. Annie had found her place - it was Africa. And just maybe I could be part of it.

The pool was the same little patch of Eden I remembered. Water fell 15 feet from a ledge with the afternoon sun warming the rocks around it. The pool was 60 feet across and deep enough to swim in with sand drifting gradually down from the perimeter.

Oh, Andreas, how beautiful; it’s as though it was made especially for us. I am going to bathe, She said.

Y-yes of course, Annie, I-I’ll go over behind those rocks and be your lookout, I said, a little rattled by her spontaneity. Her eyes caught mine and held, I couldn’t read the look; it wasn’t surrender, she was not one to surrender, it was more trusting. I thought I read the meaning, but I couldn’t trust my judgment with my mind fantasizing so.

We don’t need a lookout, Andreas, She said, laying her hand on my arm. There’s no-one within miles. Her words vibrated through me like electricity, erasing any chance of misunderstanding.

"We had arrived at the day I had longed for, that I had dreamed of, and fantasized about; suddenly it was here. I remembered on the trek how I would drink in her lissome beauty, and ache with desire. On warm nights with the stars so close you could reach up and stir them around with your finger, I ached. On cool dark nights when we lay close I could feel her every somnolent move I ached. In her sleep when she would squirm, and writhe, and mutter softly, I ached.

There were nights when I would gaze into her sleeping face in the starlight, when her breathing told me she was not asleep, and I ached. Now the moment of truth has arrived, and I ache.

I felt so unrefined before her, and so aware of the dangers yet, even that beckoned me, for Annie Kinkaid would be mine. With eyes misty with desire, Annie allayed my fears with a single look.

It had been a test; it’s clear to me now, Annie had put me through a test to make certain that I was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. A rigorous test for me; I don’t know how I passed it, or when she had made her decision. It may have been gradual, but Annie was ready to give herself to me.

I took off my sweaty old felt hat and threw it on the sand; she removed her tattered wide brimmed straw hat that we had tied under her chin with the ribbon from her old dress. I removed my shirt; she unbuttoned her bodice. I threw my shirt onto the sand as she did her bodice. Annie’s eyes did not waver from mine as she removed her remaining clothes and stood before me as she was born.

And I - I was like a subject standing before his queen; enslaved by a beauty I had only dreamed of until Annie. Love went unspoken yet, it was truer, purer than the air that we breathed. With trembling fingers I touched her. She touched my cheek and moved into my arms. With her warm skin pressed against mine I stepped across the threshold of fantasy that I in my loneliness had envisioned so often. Hand in hand we walked into the cool water and were baptized into our destinies.

Later as we lay on the sand Annie traced her finger down my nose and over my lips touching me as if I were her treasure.

I love you Andreas, she cooed into my ear. I love who you are. I love your freedom. I love your honesty. You are the first man to treat me like a woman, like the child that I am, not an object or an article of clothing."

Her words revealed a love deeper than flesh, and it frightened me to be responsible for such deep emotion. I uttered the only words I was able to say, And I you, Annie, and I you.

What-ever becomes of our love I will hold you to no vows, she said

I was so deep in my thoughts, my dreams, that I was slow to respond, I. . .

"Don’t speak Andreas, words are not important, I love you. Weeks ago you spoke words that burned so deep into me that I believe I can recite them word for word. Now I must tell you mine. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in Dar es Salaam. When I came back and we talked, is when I made my decision to run away. It was foolish yet I calculated my every move. You saw me seldom, but I knew where you were every minute. You left in the dark before sunrise. I was terrified to see you go because you were my obsession.

I don’t know why I did it, but I followed you. I was completely unprepared, and so ashamed following you out onto the veldt and throwing myself at you like that. But I had found a treasure and couldn’t let it walk out of my life. Putting on the act of anger was easy because I was angry with myself. And I needed time, I wanted you to see who I was, not just what I looked like, so I allowed our spat about the thorns to remain."

Her words went into me like music absorbed through the pores of my skin. I’m sorry, Annie, my mind was wandering, we will marry. When we reach Usumbura I’ll find a missionary, I’ll …

She propped herself up on her elbows with the sound of tittering almost hidden in her throat. I have tricked you into a proposal Andreas; I didn’t mean it to be that way. I adore you, you are the most perfect man I have ever known, but we need not marry in a church. If we are to marry it will be here and now. To me it will be as binding as if recorded at Winchester Cathedral.

Standing, she pulled me to my feet and we walked into the water. We made love, it was new, it was perfect, we made promises, we recited vows, and we made love. We stayed in our little patch of Eden for a week.

From that time at the spring my life expanded into realms of love I never dreamed existed. On dark African mornings we would stand in each other’s arms watching the sun roar up out of the Indian Ocean with the perfume laden air tousling our unkempt hair while we listened to the hypnotic sounds of the earth awakening around us. In the evenings we would watch it vanish like silent thunder into the vermilion mists of the continent with the haunting sounds of the African night floating to us in the darkness, hackling our neck hair, walking across our skin like spiders as we gazed into that awesome spine tingling unknown hidden in the night, rustling, moving just beyond our vision. My Annie would nestle close, her eyes like crystal orbs, staring, enthralled. We were so much a part of it. Each day was an adventure, each sunrise new, each sunset unforgettable.

Our love richened, fermenting in us like rare vintage wine, intoxicating us, awakening us. One day we would sip it, savor it; rolling it across our tongues, tasting the wonder of it. And the next day we would devour it in great hungry gulps. And the days flew away like leaves in a whirlwind.

Three months later with love behind us we lay in the torpid lassitude that lingered; Annie cupped my face in her hands. I’m going to be a mother Andreas. How radiant she was yet, hesitant, uncertain, cooing the words as soft as a woodwind into my ear. Seeing my elation, she beamed. God, we were happy. While Walking she would burst into song as though her happiness was beyond containment, then jump up and peck me on the cheek while combing her fingers through my hair. Annie had found her man, as I had found my woman. She opened up in me a capacity for love that I did not know I possessed.

The ensuing months were dream times; we explored country I had not seen because Annie wanted to see it. She must see with her own eyes, as much of Africa as the hours in the day would allow. During that time I did some of my best work, took some of the most enduring photos, and wrote my finest essays. Annie took one of the best pictures I have seen. Two lions, with tongues touching, their eyes closed in a sort of ecstasy of life. We laughed, we cried. I, and my Annie lived it, felt the pulse of it; we were swept up in the surging energy of it. It was so good for time was not imperative. We lived and acted on the spur of the moment, desultory, spontaneous. There was never an Eden as pure as Africa was to us then. Even the animals accepted our joy, allowing us to go in peace.

We had some harrowing experiences, like the time about seven months into Annie’s pregnancy. We had just eaten and were walking across a broad treeless valley. I was adjusting the pack on my back, and had slung my rifle over my shoulder beside it when Annie touched me from behind and asked if I felt a shuddering in the air. I hadn’t felt it until I stood still, by then it was pronounced, dust rose up on the horizon. It scared the hell out of me. I knew what it was, wildebeest, and we were caught in the open.

Frantically I scanned the valley; I saw a fallen tree about a hundred yards away. I grabbed Annie’s hand and we ran for it with me yelling at the top of my lungs to run as fast as she could. Under the weight of the pack and the equipment I was carrying I stumbled and fell. Keep running I screamed as I scrambled to my feet, looking back I saw the herd rise up into view out of a gully, they were coming so fast that I didn’t think we could make it. Annie dove under the fallen tree with me right after her just as the herd swept by. I heard her moan as the ground erupted into rolling thunder. Crawling to Annie I pulled her farther under the log. Are you alright? I screamed over the roar of the thundering hooves.

I’m okay, She coughed, with her lips against my ear. I just had the breath knocked out of me.

There was so much dirt and dust, flying that I could barely see; yet I caught the flash of movement. Instinctively I swatted down a cobra that had struck at Annie, I grabbed it and broke its neck with my teeth. Wouldn’t you know there would be a cobra under that damn tree with us? Later we realized it was a Godsend; it was food.

We were pinned down for five days under that dead tree while the herd thundered around us. On the fourth day we ate the snake.

Worse, was trying to breathe. The dust was so thick that we choked on every breath. I covered Annie’s mouth and nose with my wet bandanna; I breathed through layers of my shirt.

When the herd had passed we were plunged into a vacuum devoid of sound. I looked at Annie; all I could see were eyes; she looked like a giant dirt clod caked with every kind of dirt, filth, and waste matter imaginable. It was our lowest point, sitting there in the dirt with the remains of the cobra scattered around us. Eating the snake was hard for Annie to get through; she ate only enough to sustain her.

Struggling to our feet we took inventory. We had lost everything but my rifle, and the pack with the spade and bedrolls attached. The camera with all the film was gone. We set out for the water hole we had been heading for. Bathing for hours, we snorted dirt out of our noses, hocked it up out of our throats and dug it out of our ears, finally we felt almost clean.

I snagged a guinea hen; it was a banquet. We built a little shelter, and Annie’s belly continued to grow. I measured her with a cord daily. My God, Annie, you’re getting completely out of hand! I exclaimed. She giggled and kissed me. Life was easy there, we stayed longer than we should have I suppose, but time had a way of escaping us.

I began to worry; little things I saw Annie do frightened me. She wouldn’t tell me so, but I think she had hurt herself diving under that log. Pregnant women don’t go diving under logs. At somewhere beyond eight months pregnant, she had twinges; I worried.

I’m alright, Andreas; don’t be such a worry-wart, She scolded, but her words did not ease my fears. I wanted to be in Kumbalo’s kijiji when the baby came, I wanted Kucha their. Before daylight the following morning we broke camp, packed up the few things we had left and headed for Kumbalo’s kijiji.

Leaving was a sad time; the spring was a place where we had lived awhile.

I must have a peregrine heart, for after the sadness of leaving the spring had passed, I was happy to be on the move again, Annie felt the same. In the months we had been together the wandering bug had bitten her too. She sang songs as we plodded along, she was happy to be on the way to Kumbalo’s village. I had told her so much about Kumbalo, and Kucha, she considered them old friends, she couldn’t wait to meet them.

The going was slower now, Annie must be more careful not being as nimble as she had been. I sensed problems of course; I was ready to sense anything! She never complained, but there was something about her; fleeting, ephemeral, as if we were living a time that we would never live again; never go back.

Let’s rest awhile, Andreas, She said. Going to her knees she sat back on her feet. I stopped, swung the pack off my back and sat down beside her. I wish this could last forever, Andreas, how perfect life is out here, Annie said with a windy sigh.

I don’t know why, but her words gave me a twinge of conscience. I was feeling a little guilty about wandering around out on the veldt, never having a place to call our own.

I have given you so little, my Annie, I said, and the minute the words were said, I knew I had put my foot in it again. She recoiled back as she thought out her answer.

Right again Andreas, she said, flippantly, you have given me so little. You have only given me my lifelong dream; you have only given me Africa. You have only given me a life, and freedom, you have only given me a baby.

She kissed me with intensity that arced across my lips like fire.

She was so vital; groping for something that she could not quite reach; something just beyond the periphery of her mind’s eye.

I pressed her fingers to my lips. Come my Annie, it’s 25 miles to Kumbalo’s kijiji.

I helped her to her feet, unable to mask my concern.

Worry, worry, worry, I feel fine, Andreas. But you’re right; if we’re going to reach Kumbalo’s before the baby arrives we’d better start moving. Falling in step behind me we walked a few miles in silence. When I no longer heard her footfalls I looked back; she was on her knees holding her belly. Fear bolted through me; not fear of assisting with the birth, but a deeper fear for Annie. I saw it in her eyes that frightened animal look I could no quite interpret, rushing back I knelt beside her. What happened Annie? How do you feel?

I’m alright, it was only a twinge, She said.

A twinge Annie, just a twinge!

Alright, it was a contraction so we’ll carry the baby to kumbalo’s village in our arms instead of in my belly. I’ll not be the first woman to have a baby out on the veldt, and I’ll not be the last. Another contraction hit her; she squealed and squeezed my hand.

Don’t be afraid, Annie, you are a healthy woman and I am perfectly capable of assisting.

Afraid Andreas, I don’t want to name names but there’s only one person afraid here, She said, taking a stab at levity.

I found a suitable place, and removed her bush pants. Her water broke as I scraped out an indentation in the hard earth. Laying out her bedroll I helped her onto it. While resting her head on my pack another contraction came. I coached her with her breathing, and hugged her when she bore down.

Four hours later, Annie gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. She was fine; I was a wreck. I guess I was the biggest baby of all. I cut the cord, tied it, washed the baby with canteen water and laid him across Annie’s breast. The full impact didn’t hit me as I worked, but when the wonder and perfection of it did, cherish and adoration swept over me. With one hand on the baby, I combed my trembling fingers through Annie’s hair. Old steady Andy, right! Cool as a cucumber, solid as a rock, always in control; I could not stop shaking. I shook like a leaf; while she hummed a lullaby to the baby suckling at her breast.

Oh my Andreas, Annie said, pulling my head down so she could kiss me. Chance brought me to Africa where I met my destiny, I adore you.

We are a family now, Annie; we are a family; how I love you; both of you.

She rested her head against my chest and my heart began to slow, everything was perfect; we relaxed. Suddenly Annie stiffened; contorting violently she clutched at her belly gagging out guttural animal sounds that sent waves of terror through me. What is it, Annie? What has happened? I screamed, turning her face to me. Her pale bloodless lips moved but no sound came. In her eyes I saw the terrible echo of my premonitions, and an excruciating agony ruptured inside me. Annie’s blood was filling the indentation that I had dug.

K-kiss me Andreas, she whispered desperately.

I kissed her and felt her last rattling sigh against my lips as her life ebbed away. Annie! No! No no, please Annie, don’t: don’t do this; don’t die. I checked for a heartbeat, it was but a tiny flutter; I put my ear to her lips, nothing. I shook her.

In those few moments I plunged from Bliss to despair. I could not believe that I had lost my Annie, that the life we shared was gone so soon.

Oh how I love you Annie, I sobbed… And we have not yet plumbed the depths of our love! I adore you Annie, b-but did I tell you how much. There is so much more we must do together… and, and; I-I cannot do it without you. Please my Annie, don’t. . . Annie, Annie? I wept, shaking her gently as to awaken her from sleep.

Only the sound of my voice fell on my ear as I mewled out my pathetic pleading. My Annie did not come back. Annie did not come back …"

An artery had ruptured inside her. She bled to death in minutes, and was gone. I was alive, I was breathing, but I did not want it. I loathed the air that filled my lungs. I loathed life, for when my Annie died, something inside me died with her. I caressed her pale alabaster face against my chest, how long I held her there in my arms I do not know. A sound came; tiny, constant, insistent, nudging at my brain, urging me to some caricature of life. It was the baby; he had suckled the breast dry, and was fussing. My shattered senses returned. I looked upon the beautiful face of my beloved Annie; eyes not quite closed, lips parted as to speak. But it was only a mask.

The baby lay screaming upon her breast. Rendered dysfunctional I gently lifted her; removing her shirt I wrapped the baby in it; I placed him on the other breast and he quieted. But I; I could but stare in horror at the tragedy that had befallen us. My mind could not face it; it refused to function, I could not contend.

The baby squirmed as it slept on Annie’s breast jarring me back to another horror. More than others I knew Africa, I must hurry, I must dig a grave. I must carry the baby to Kumbalo and Kucha. I must hurry; I must hurry, were the insistent words that pecked at my tormented brain as I chopped futilely at the dry unyielding earth.

High on the wind a sound came, ominous, spine tingling, giggling: befouling the air like a corruption. The first to catch the scent of Annie’s blood were hyenas. The meaning oozed like evil into my brain. I hacked futilely at the stony earth, but it was too late. The eerie laughing yelps drew nearer; jackals came, and vultures loomed in the sky. I searched my pack for cartridges; they had spilled when I had fallen. There were but five shells in the rifle. Straddling Annie’s body with the infant still at her breast, I stood in defiance of the very nature of Africa.

I shouldered my 32/30 Winchester as a hyenas approached. I was frozen by the horror of what was to come as scenes of the inevitable clawed into my brain. From this I knew there was no escape. I could avoid the truth no more than I could alter the nature of Africa. Yet my naive civilized mind rebelled; I shot a hyena. The stark report jarred me back to a semblance of sanity. Realizing my error I picked up the screaming baby with my free arm just as a hyena dashed in challenging my right to his food. I swung my rifle at it, it dodged away. In a muddled stupor I stepped away from Annie; instantly the hyenas pounced upon her. `Hungry are the teeth of Africa.’ I watched as those ravenous teeth tore at my Annie, the horror of it staggered my senses. Reeling back I stared until I could stand no more. Tearing my eyes from that ghastly scene, I turned and began a lurching run with the screaming baby clutched tightly to my breast.

The raging fury that erupted behind me tore at my soul like demons of the damned. This is my Africa! My paradise! My mind screamed, but I was running in jehanum (hell) I need not look back, my mind saw it all.

I don’t know how long I ran, the rifle became a burden, I threw it away. I was still running when hours later the sun dipped below the horizon. I ran into the night, the only sounds were my footfalls against the hard earth, and the incessant wail of the hungry baby in my arms. But in my soul echoed the demonic shrieks of agony conjured up by my tormented brain. I stumbled and nearly fell. I heard a voice, I slowed and listened. "Come to me Andreas its beautiful here. The words urged me to follow a different course. I walked through the night. Dawn came, and like walking in a white-hot crucible the sun seared down like molten steel. I lurched into a dismal run; like heavy oil the hours seeped morbidly away.

With the sun burning my back my body became unresponsive, my legs defied my command, I wavered; I had nothing left. I staggered, went to my knees; I could not save my baby. I fell. Strong arms caught me and held me up, other arms took the baby from my grasp. I was carried to Kumbalo’s kijiji. (village)

CHAPTER 2

Like a silent sentinel, Umjibwe stood high in the rocky crags two miles from Kumbalo’s kijiji. There was no danger, yet he watched, for the previous day, Kucha, the young queen mother had given birth to a new prince. Absorbed deep in the recesses of his mind he gazed out across the radiating earth, the African sun so hot that it caused his vision to writhe and dance in the bloated air. Mimi msumeno muendo. (I saw movement) Shading his eyes he scanned the horizon. Kitu muendo. (Something moved) A stumbling, lurching figure materialized like a dancing illusion wading toward him in the watery mirage. It is our friend from the white man’s school; he carries something.

With a signal given, three runners ran to assist Andreas, one took the tiny bundle, the other two lifted him and carried him to Umjibwe’s Kibanda. The other carried the tiny bundle to the Kucha Mzazi (sunrise mother) who was nursing her new prince. She took the hungry screaming baby; placed it on her available breast and the infant quieted.

Umjibwe gazed at the young man lying there, he placed his ancient hand on Andreas’s chest expressing the respect he held for him. His mind drifted back drifted 50 years to the only other white man he had so respected.

It took two days for Andreas to recover from his grueling run. With gentle urging from Kumbalo, Andreas related the events of the year past.

K-Kumbalo, my good friend, we have lost one of the perfect ones, Andreas said, his trembling voice revealing his terrible state. If you could have known her, Kumbalo; she was my Kucha. (Sunrise)

Pausing, Andreas resigned him-self to begin. "I-It was a-a year ago, I was over in Dar es Salaam out on the East Coast . …

Kumbalo listened to his friend’s epic tale of love and woe feeling the agony of it in the very marrow of his bones. Drawing an arc in the dirt he signified dawn, and sunset. The baby was born the day before you came running to us?

Yes.

At what hour was he born? Kumbalo asked, indicating the arc he had traced in the dirt.

He was born about four hours after sunrise, three days ago.

That is precisely the time my new prince was born Andreas, that is a good sign, we have twins! Kumbalo said happily, trying to lift Andreas’s spirits; but he sensed no life in him. Covering him he went to Kucha.

The little one has no mama, he said.

I thought that to be when the mtoto was brought to me; mothers do not abandon their babies at birth. How did it come to be? Kucha asked, as she stroked the pale gossamer hair of the infant suckling at her breast.

Andreas has told me a most startling tale of love and woe, beautiful really, in a tragic way. I’ll tell you his story because I don’t think he can tell it again. Kumbalo said. He then related the love story that he had been told, but he could not tell it as poignant or as passionate as Andreas had told it. I worry when I look into our friend’s eyes Kucha; there is nothing there, tupu. (vacant) It is as if his spirit has fled leaving only emptiness.

"It is a tragic thing, Angu Mume, (my husband) I know how you feel toward him. To suffer such a loss will take much time to heal. We must do all we can for him.

"Yes Kucha, we’ll talk to him tomorrow, he is sleeping in the kibanda near Umjibwe, it is late, and we must sleep.

Awakened in the night by the two hungry infants, Kucha paced the floor with a baby at each breast. Hours before dawn, a single candle guttered weakly in the cool morning air; she heard a sound, a house girl entered.

Malkia Mzazi, Umjibwe wishes to speak with Kumbalo. I did not want to disturb him but when I saw your light I came. It is important; it is about our friend Andreas.

Kucha awakened Kumbalo, saying Umjibwe awaited him.

Staring into the darkness, Kumbalo scolded himself for his insensitivity to Andreas’s disconsolate state. He is heartbroken; there is no telling what he has done, I should have had him watched. Kumbalo thought, as he splashed cool water onto his face.

Umjibwe, ake mbili saa’s kabla mapambazuko, nini ni ake le kuamsha wewe? (It is two hours before dawn, what is it that has aroused you?)

Etu rafiki Andreas ni kuenda. (Our friend Andreas is gone) Mimi haja faraja. Mimi akili kibanda tupu. (I went to relieve myself and sensed his hut empty) Ake moja saa tangu yeye kuacha kijiji yeye tupu futi. (It has been an hour since he left the village bare-foot) Umjibwe said.

Kumbalo remained silent, as murky premonition whispered ominously through his mind. Kufuata yeye, Umjibwe, (follow him) kueta yeye mgongo. (Bring him back) Kumbalo said, his words ringing hollow. Kumbalo walked Ghost-like to the kibanda where Andreas had slept. He found little to mark his presence, only a scrap of paper lay on the cot; he read the scrawl. `I came like water and like wind I go. Kumbalo read the note to Kucha.

What does it mean Angu mume? She asked.

"Andreas has said goodbye. It’s a line from a verse in the `Rubaiyat,’ a Persian poem written by Omar Khayyam many years ago.

****

Andreas opened his eyes, it was deep morning; he felt little pain. Rest had healed the ache of his grueling run. He had slept in his clothes. Scrawling a note; he used words from a poem he and Kumbalo had studied. Groping in the dark he found his boots and felt hat and stole from the kibanda as silent as a jackal. The dogs knew him and remained silent. Away from the Kijiji he began to run. Andreas disappeared onto the African Veldt.

****

Umjibwe, in his long familiar strides went in search of Andreas; his mind raking over ancient memories. He was not one to reveal his feelings, yet he had placed his hand on Andreas’s chest as he slept and it had awakened memories of another white man who he once had such respect for. Pierre De Brazza, a man who had explored the Congo fifty years before.

Umjibwe had been named head porter to lead the young explorer and his men across the Congo. Umjibwe was young, and strong, but wary, he knew not the nature of these white men. He had witnessed the bigotry and greed that white men possessed, and saw first hand the atrocities they committed to satisfy that greed. Comparing the black side and the white side, he witnessed the outrage the whites committed against the blacks; he also saw the betrayal for gold of the black kings and chieftains against their own people.

All around him the Africa he knew and loved was changing, reeling under the yoke of colonialism by the Imperialist Nations of Europe scrambling for a piece of the great African pie.

Unable to alter the course of history, Umjibwe accepted the position of head guide for an expedition that he was sure would bring papers from the north claiming ownership to another vast portion of Africa.

Umjibwe learned that this man, De Brazza, was of a higher order, for men of heart cannot be hidden by the color of their skin. Both were slow to except what they saw in the other. Looking into Umjibwe’s eyes De Brazza saw intelligence sans subterfuge.

During the years they explored the Congo River and basin, Umjibwe came to know De Brazza like no other. He poled him across rivers, carried him on his shoulders across swamps and using native plants and herbs he knew to be medicinal, he nursed him when he was sick with Malaria. This strange young man spoke Swahili, and taught Umjibwe the rudiments of French and English forming a bond of understanding between them.

Umjibwe remembered back … They were deep in the Congo, driven to the limits of their strength. The French were delirious with fatigue. Umjibwe and his carriers were struggling through heavy jungle when he heard the sound of a lash upon bare skin. He turned, and the hippo-skin chicotte fell across his own back. Move you lazy black freaks! One of De Brazza’s men bellowed while raising the whip to strike again. Not being a man who took whippings, Umjibwe tore the chicotte from him.

You arrogant black pig! The man bellowed. Pulling his pistol he leveled it between Umjibwe’s eyes.

Paul! You damn fool, put that pistol away, De Brazza ordered.

No! I am going to teach these arrogant fools a lesson and this one is going to pay! Paul sneered, drawing back the hammer.

De Brazza was too far away to intervene: pulling his pistol he aimed at Paul’s ear. Put the gun away or I will kill you where you stand! He bellowed.

Reluctantly Paul holstered his gun. I think you love these blacks more than you do your own kind, Paul sneered.

I love these blacks because they are men! De Brazza said. The only reason I don’t send you back to Paris in irons is because I can’t spare the man. But heed me well Paul, there’ll be no more bigotry from you or I will damn well spare the man.

The rest is history, De Brazza, armed with a treaty signed by King Mokoko, annexed a vast stretch of Equatorial Africa to France. It earned him the title; commissioner of colonial affairs. But there were those hostile to his methods that held high office in Paris and were jealous of his renowned feats of exploration. Due to greedy men seeing only profit, De Brazza was returned to Paris.

Nothing was heard from him for many years. In 1905 news came that he was returning. Umjibwe must go and greet him. He trekked back through the jungle and down the Congo River. The trek was a horror; Africa was in bondage. Villages were abandoned; no crops were in the fields for the natives had fled the Congo. The only ones he saw were in chains, forced to harvest rubber as slaves.

Spring 1905. De Brazza was carried on a litter into the village where Umjibwe waited. A deep sadness was in Umjibwe for he looked upon a dead man. France it seemed had returned him to Africa to be rid of him. His cheeks were sunken, his hair white, he looked twenty years beyond his age. De Brazza returned to right the wrongs he had learned of.

Kneeling beside him Umjibwe laid his huge hand on his breast in respect. Salamu Angu rafiki. (Greetings my friend) Etu Congo ni matanga. (Congo is in mourning) Mzungu kuwa kufanyiza makaburini a Africa. (White- men have made a graveyard of Africa.)

De Brazza nodded as he held Umjibwe’s hand, Yes my friend, there is much work to do.

Mimi kuenda sasa. (I go now) Umjibwe said, walking away. De Brazza knew no greater man than this; he ached watching him disappear into the jungle.

****

Umjibwe searched for Andreas, he did not return to the village for a week. Resigned to the worst, Kumbalo’s heart sank as he watched Umjibwe’s long strides approach. Umjibwe was in no hurry to tell Kumbalo what he had found. Looking closer Kumbalo saw the tattered, sweat stained felt hat he held in his hand, and it verified his fears. He entered his kibanda and held Kucha in his arms. He was not an emotional man, yet Kucha sensed his pain as they embraced.

It is a terrible tragedy I feel in you, Angu mume, is it Andreas? Kucha felt him nod. I kuona ingi huzuni. (I feel great sorrow) I know you loathe losing him. But I believe that there are times when the commitment between two lovers is so great that one cannot live without the other. We have had no other friend like him, but how fortunate we’ve been to have him as our friend for a time. He has made our lives bigger, and he has left his seed of happiness in our kibanda. But will we be able to keep the little one? She asked, believing that white men would soon come for him.

Andreas would have wanted no others to have him, Kucha. Kumbalo said. We will keep him, and raise him as our own.

Umjibwe leaned silently on his staff; unemotional, unmoved, for tears were not in him. His ancient eyes, burnt red by so many seasons in the African sun did not betray his heart as he held the tattered felt hat in his huge gnarled hand. He need not tell Kumbalo what was found; what there was to tell was already known. He felt a loss. He saw courage in Andreas possessed by few men.

****

In 1851, 83 years past, their great-grandfather, Atapamani Mombwezi, when still a young man had found a baby left to die out on the veldt. It was an unwanted birth, and the distraught young girl was forced to abandon it.

Atapamani could not leave the infant to be eaten by wild animals, so he brought it to his village. He had sworn to his father, he would care for it and raise it as his own. From that time his fellow tribesmen called him mama but, with considerable respect.

He named the infant, Umjibwe, and the baby became a great warrior, and hunter. There is a gift, an insight that is given to some and not others. We of the lesser chosen don’t understand it, we know not why the gift is given; we only know that those who have it are different, beyond us. And those who possess it don’t know they have it, for they know no other condition. Umjibwe lacked in some areas, speaking was one for he spoke seldom.

Through the years his prowess in hunting and bravery in battle attained mythical proportions. He taught others in the village as much of his skills as they could learn. As he matured he taught their great-grandfather; their grandfather; their father, and now them.

At 6’ 4" tall, Umjibwe was bent and gaunt at 83. His skin was as black as tar and hung flaccid over a skeletal face. He spoke seldom, but when he did it was commanding. The two boys stood silently before the old man, moved by the awesome respect they held for him. From the time they were able to understand, they had heard stories of his prowess and courage. In that misty time before they had arrived, Umjibwe had performed acts of bravery so absolute it caused his enemies to retreat and game to await his arrows.

S-salamu Umjibwe, Kubwa Askari Mwindaji, (Greetings’ Umjibwe, Great Hunter and Warrior) Obijuan said, as the two brothers stood before him.

Umjibwe held these fine young boys as extensions of him-self, and was moved. With his passing he knew his beloved Africa would be left in good hands with these two.

Ake ni a heri sisi kuwa na wao penye kijiji. (It is fortunate that we have them in our village, yet how strange the events that led to it. Umjibwe thought, his mind drifting back to that fateful day thirteen years past when they were born.

Blinking his eyes, Umjibwe looked at the two thirteen-year-old boys standing before him. What is the secret you wish to tell?

We are trying to save… Both boys said in unison, then stopped. You tell him, Obijuan, Andreas said.

We are trying to save a baboon that Mr. Weatherby wounded this morning, Obijuan said. Then he r-elated the incident to him.

Why do you wish to save the wounded animal? Umjibwe said.

Both boys were quiet fr a moment. We didn’t want, They again said in unison. You tell him, Andreas, Obijuan said.

He was helpless; we didn’t want to leave him to be eaten by leopards so we put him in a cave and made a poultice out of plants and leaves that you had taught us were medicinal, Andreas said. And we built a long fire like you taught us. Obijuan added.

Umjibwe revealed no clue to his thoughts as he considered the boys’ actions. His own life had been saved by a gesture such as this, and by the forefather of these boys.

To save a wounded animal from being eaten is kupambana maumbile. (Against nature) Take care when you return; if the long fire has succeeded there may be predators waiting, then you will become the prey.

Ahsante, Kubwa Mwindaji. (Thank you great hunter) We will go to the baboon in the morning and see if we have succeeded. We will be wary, Andreas said.

After the boys had gone, Umjibwe began preparing for a long walk. Not as he knew when he was young; then he could walk for many days and cover great distances without tiring. A long walk now was ten miles, and even that tested him. Yet he must go, for when he can no longer walk his time will be short.

Before dawn the boys struck out for the cave where they had left the wounded Baboon.

We must not forget Umjibwe’s warning,Obijuan said. Walking backward he made certain there would be no mistake. Warily the boys circled the low Cave - all clear. The fire was still burning; they entered and checked their patient. The big baboon’s eyes flashed open when Obijuan touched him. Startled, he stepped back. What a regal animal he is. Obijuan marveled. I’ll bet among his kind he’s a king; or maybe a warrior.

Yeah, a king. Andreas said. Let’s give him a king’s name, like Solomon; or maybe Joshua.

Yeah, but he’s a king so we’ll call him Solomon. Obijuan said, while cleaning and dressing the wound. Andreas put his water flask to Solomon’s lips and he drank.

He’s very weak Andreas, see how his eyes roll. But if we can keep a fire going I think he may live, Obijuan said. Working in the tiny cave they rebuilt a barrier of leaves and branches, more to keep smoke away from Solomon than to protect him from animals. They built a low barrier of stone to make the cave appear occupied, then urinated around the cave hoping it would deter lesser predators.

For three days the boys went to the cave without incident. They fed Solomon fruit and water each day, and reapplied fresh poultices to his wound. They were satisfied; he was gaining strength daily.

The fourth day they approached the cave quarrelling, it was silly; Andreas wanted to feed Solomon some fruit. He should know me as well as he knows you, Andreas said.

He knows you; you are with me all the time, Obijuan said. then stopped. I’m sorry, you have as much right to feed him as I do.

It was too late, the argument had distracted them, they had let down their guard. While bickering they had walked without caution toward the cave. Rounding the low cliff 100 feet from the cave they were frozen in their tracks by the roar of a lion. They were at bay.

Startled by the