Nyumbani Tales

of an average ten-year-old, the mature proportions of his physique belied his diminutive size.  Even his voice sounded more like that of an adult now.
“Sorry,” Walukaga apologized.  “You do not look the same without your ... uh ... costume.”
Pomphis laughed heartily.
“Oh, the Sha’a insists that I wear that get-up in court because he thinks that’s what the Bambuti are supposed to look like,” Pomphis said. “He could be right or wrong; I was taken from the forest when I was too young to remember.
“Back to the business at hand, though.  The Sha’a has presented you with a problem that is insoluble, right?”
‘Right.”
“Well, I’ve always believed there is no such thing as an insoluble problem, and I am going to help you find the solution to this one.”
“How?”
“My, my,” Pomphis said, head cocked at an inquisitive angle.  “Succinct, aren’t we?  To answer your question, if the Sha’a is asking you to do the impossible, then you should ask no less of him.”
Walukaga stared in bewilderment.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“We’ll talk details later,” Pomphis responded.
The Bambuti looked around the blacksmith’s cluttered shop.
“Forgive my presumption,” Pomphis said, “But it looks as though your wives aren’t very particular about housekeeping.”
“I don’t have any wives,” said Walukaga.
“No wives?” Pomphis said with a stunned expression on his face.  “Why, with all the farmers and herdsmen in the outlands bringing their daughters to the city to look for wealthy husbands, there must be five women for every man in Mavindi.”
“Guess somebody’s got my five,” Walukaga muttered.
He was an introverted man who slipped from taciturnity to absolute silence in the presence of a woman ... especially one who coveted a share in the profits of his metal-working establishment.
“Hmm,” Pomphis said, shrewdly eyeing the blacksmith.  “That’s a problem to be dealt with later.  But now ...”
“Wait,” Walukaga interjected.  “Why are you offering me aid?  What is it you want from me?”
“I see you’re becoming more inquisitive,” Pomphis said as he pulled up a stool and sat down.  “That’s a quality I like.”
SENTIMENTAL BENEATH his gruff exterior, the blacksmith nodded in sympathy as Pomphis recounted how he had been captured as a child by Komeh slavers raiding at the edge of the great Ituri Kubwa forest.  The Komeh sold the young Bambuti to the Sha’a as a curiosity, for only rarely did a Bambuti survive when removed from the forest.  It was the idea of the Sha’a’s third-ranking wife to have Pomphis trained to be a mjimja.  No other East Coast monarch, from Kilawa to Kitwana, could boast of having a Bambuti in such a role.
“So, Walukaga, I am only a slave – and a ridiculous one at that,” Pomphis said.  “Had I been left in the Ituri Kubwa, I would have lived free among my people, hunting bongo and okapi.  Here in Mavindi, I exist as a mere toy, a living plaything to amuse others.  And so I live to amuse myself ... usually at my masters’ expense.
“This time, you, my burly friend, are helping me at my game.  Or have you not guessed that it was I who suggested to the Sha’a the most foolproof way of acquiring your services ...”
“You ...” Walukaga cried, jolted from his mood of empathetic understanding and catapulting from his stool.
Huge hands shot toward Pomphis’s throat.  But the mjimja executed a deft back-flip, and landed well out of the big man’s reach.
“Careful, Master Blacksmith,” Pomphis cautioned as he fastidiously smoothed his shati.  “You know the penalty for damaging the property of the Sha’a.”
Having little desire to be publicly impaled, Walukaga made no further move toward the Bambuti.  But the anger in the blacksmith’s eyes would have given pause even to the barbarian warriors of the hinterland.
“Be calm, Walukaga,” Pomphis said.  “The best part of the game isn’t getting you into this mess; it’s getting you out of it.  Now, listen closely ...”
Walukaga listened.  There was little else he could do.
“O MIGHTY SHA’A, HOW can you tell if a gorilla is in your bed?” Pomphis asked.
“I do not know,” the Sha’a replied. “How can you?
“You can smell the bananas on its breath.”
An equal measure of groans and guffaws greeted Pomphis’s jest.  The Sha’a simply shook his head and smiled.
“That was not one of the mjimja’s better witticisms,” a noble remarked to a silk merchant.
“True,” the merchant replied.  “But at least it’s better than the giraffe jokes he was telling last week.”
Sagely, the noble nodded, while absently stroking the ndevu on his chin.
On this day, the retinue of the Sha’a was gathered in the Audience Chamber of the sprawling palace.  Much more magnificent than the outdoor pavilion, the Audience Chamber featured a gigantic throne made from blocks of pink-veined marble inlaid with panels of ivory, silver and gold.  For the Kwan Yang ambassador, there was a seat of polished granite.
The huge expanse of tiled floor was sufficient to accommodate a small army of the Sha’a’s guardsmen.  To complete the chamber’s grandeur, a double row of elongated ebony sculptures led from its entrance to the foot of the Sha’a’s throne.
Pomphis was in the midst of explaining the outcome of a highly improbable mating between a gorilla and a gazelle when the trumpet of the Captain of the Door sounded a series of ear-splitting blasts signaled the arrival of an un-Summoned individual.
“Walukaga the blacksmith desires audience with the Sha’a,” the Captain of the Door bellowed.
“Then by all means, let him in,” said the Sha’a.  Glancing at Pomphis, he added: “It seems the blacksmith’s obstinacy is overrated.  After only three days, he comes to capitulate.”
“As the she-elephant said when propositioned by the mosquito – perhaps,” the Bambuti murmured.
Nervous perspiration beaded Walukaga’s brow as he walked down the aisle of statues and executed his obligatory bow at the foot of the throne.  His lips moved as she struggled to remember exactly what Pomphis had told him to say.
“So, Walukaga, have you completed my iron man ahead of schedule?” the Sha’a inquired with thinly veiled mockery.
“No, O Mighty Sha’a, I haven’t.”
“Indeed.  Then you wish to