“Why are you sad, brother?” he asked.
“I am not sad.”
“Everyone knows you are sad. You must be cheerful. Look at your fiancée. She is the Queen of the Ngoma.”
“Don’t put your hand on my drum. You deaden it.”
“You are drumming very well, brother.”
“The hell I am. I can’t drum at all. I’m just not doing any harm. What are you sad about?”
“The Bwana Game has spoken to me very roughly and he sends me away. After all our magnificent work he says I do nothing here and he sends me to a place where I may easily be killed.”
“You may be killed anywhere.”
“Yes. But here I am useful to you and I die happy.”
The dance was getting wilder now. I liked to see Debba dance and I didn’t. It was as simple as that and, I thought, it must have happened to all followers of this type of ballet. I knew she was showing off to me because she danced down at the end by the petrol drum bongo.
“She is a very beautiful young girl,” the Informer said. “And the Queen of the Ngoma.”
I went on playing until the end of the dance and then got up and found Nguili, who had his green robe on, and asked him to see the girls had Coca-Cola.
“Come on to the tent,” I said to the Informer. “You are sick aren’t you?”
“Brother, I have a fever truly. You can take the temperature and see.”
“I’ll get you some Atabrine.”
Mary was still taking pictures and the girls were standing stiff and straight with their breasts standing out against the scarves that looked like tablecloths. Mthuka was grouping some of the girls together and I knew he was trying to get a good picture of Debba. I watched them and saw how shy and downcast Debba’s eyes were standing before Miss Mary and how straight she stood. She had none of the impudence she had with me and she stood at attention like a soldier.
The Informer had a tongue as white as though it were sprouting chalk and when I depressed his tongue with a spoon handle I could see he had a bad yellow patch and a yellow and whitish patch in the back of his throat. I put the thermometer under his tongue and he had a temperature of a hundred and one and three tenths.
“You’re sick, Informer Old Timer,” I said. “I’ll give you some penicillin and some penicillin lozenges and send you home in the hunting car.”
“I said I was sick, brother. But nobody cares. Can I have one drink, brother?”
“It’s never hurt me with penicillin. It might do your throat good.”
“I am sure it would, brother. Do you think Bwana Game will let me stay here and serve under you now that you can certify that I am sick?”
“You won’t be any ball of fire while you’re sick. Maybe I ought to send you in to the hospital in Kajiado.”
“No, please, brother. You can cure me here and I will be available for all emergencies and I can be your eyes and your ears and your right hand in battle.”
God help us all, I thought, but he is having these ideas with no liquor in him and no bang and none of the stuff and with a septic sore throat and possibly quinsy. It is pretty good morale even if it is just from the mouth.
I was making a half tumbler of half and half Rose’s Lime Juice and whisky that would ease the throat and afterwards I would give him the penicillin and the lozenges and drive him home myself.
The mixture made his throat feel better and with the liquor his morale blossomed.
“Brother, I am a Masai. I have no fear of death. I despise death. I was ruined by the Bwanas and by a Somali woman. She took everything; my property, my children and my honor.”
“You told me.”
“Yes, but now since you bought me the spear I am starting again in life. You have sent for the medicine that brings youth?”
“It is coming. But it can only bring back youth if youth is there.”
“It is there. I promise, brother. I feel it flooding into me now.”
“That’s the stuff.”
“Perhaps. But I can feel youth too.”
“I’ll give you the medicine now and then I’ll drive you home.”
“No. Please, brother. I came with the Widow and she must go home with me. It is too early for her to go yet. I lost her for three days at the last Ngoma. I will wait and go with her when the truck leaves.”
“You ought to be in bed.”
“It is better that I wait for the Widow. Brother, you do not know the danger that an Ngoma is for a woman.”
I had a sort of an idea of this danger and I did not want the Informer to talk with his throat so bad but he asked, “Could I have just one last drink before the medicine?”
“All right. I think it’s OK, medically.”
This time I put sugar with the Rose’s Lime Juice and made a good big drink. If he was going to wait for the Widow it might be a long time and soon the sun would go down and it would be cold.
“We will do great deeds together, brother,” the Informer said.
“I don’t know. Don’t you think we ought to do a few great deeds separately to sharpen up?”
“Name a great deed and I will do it.”
“I’ll think up a great deed as soon as your throat is well. I have many small deeds I must do myself now.”
“Can I help in a small deed, brother?”
“Not in these. These I must do alone.”
“Brother, if we do great deeds together will you take me to Mecca with you?”
“I may not be going to Mecca this year.”
“But next year?”
“If it be the wish of Allah.”
“Brother, do you remember Bwana Blixen?”
“Too well.”
“Brother, many say it is not true that Bwana Blix is dead. They say that he has disappeared until the death of his creditors and that then he will come again to earth like the Baby Jesus. In the theory of the Baby Jesus. Not that he will appear as the actual Baby Jesus. Can there be truth in this?”
“I think there can be no truth in this. The Bwana Blix is truly dead. Friends of mine have seen him dead in the snow with his head broken.”
“Too many great men are dead. Few of us remain. Tell me, brother, of your faith that I have heard spoken of. Who is this great Lord who heads your faith?”
“We call him Gitchi Manitou the Mighty. That is not his true name.”
“I see. Has he too been to Mecca?”
“He goes to Mecca as you or I might go to the bazaar or enter a duka.”
“Do you represent him directly as I have heard?”
“In so far as I am worthy.”
“But you hold his authority?”
“It is not for you to ask that.”
“Pardon me, brother, in my ignorance. But does he speak through you?”
“He speaks through me if he chooses.”
“Can men who are not…”
“Do not ask.”
“Can…”
“I will administer the penicillin and you can go,” I said. “It is not fitting to speak of religion in a mess tent.”
The Informer did not have the confidence in the oral penicillin that I hoped for from a potential doer of great deeds but it may have been disappointment at not being able to show his bravery under the big needle. He liked the pleasant taste though and took two tablespoonsful with enjoyment. I joined him in a couple of tablespoons just in case he might be poisoned and also because one never knew what might happen at an Ngoma.
“It tastes so good that do you think it can be powerful, brother?”
“The Great Manitou uses it himself,” I said.
“Allah’s will be done,” the Informer said. “When do I take the rest of the flask?”
“In the morning when you wake up. If you are awake in the night suck on these tablets.”