Nyumbani Tales

admit your failure, and agree to work only for me?”
“No, O Mighty Sha’a, I don’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Uh ... well ... in order to make your living man of iron, I ... uh ... need special materials.  I must have a certain kind of fuel ... and ... uh ... special water ... to bring such a man to life.”
“Just what do you need, Walukaga?” the Sha’a asked.  “Whatever it is, I am certain I can provide it.  After all, I am the Sha’a.”
No one noticed Pomphis’s suppressed snort of laughter as Walukaga gulped, dug his finger into the neck of his shati, and went on.
“O Mighty Sha’a, to heat the iron I must have one thousand loads of ... uh ... dried hearts of the aardvark.  For aardvarks are ... tenacious beasts and ... er, uh ... only tenacious fuel can bring life to cold iron.  And ... uh ... also ... to keep the fire from burning to fiercely, I need one hundred pots of ... rhinoceros tears.  Only such tears could ... uh ... slake such a fire.
“You see, O Mighty Sha’a, ordinary charcoal from wood and ... uh ... ordinary water from wells ... are of no use in making the man you desire.”
Silence, not the Sha’a, reigned in the Audience Chamber.  Not only were Walukaga’s incredible; this was also the longest utterance anyone had ever heard from the blacksmith.  Behind a convenient pillar, Pomphis reveled in glee, for events were unfolding exactly as he had planned.
Finally, the Sha’a was able to speak – or, at least, sputter.
“These requests ... are absurd,” the monarch said.  “They are ridiculous!  Preposterous!  There aren’t enough aardvarks in all of Nyumbani to fill a thousand load-baskets with their hearts!  And rhinoceros tears ... why, a whole pride of lions would not be sufficient to make a rhinoceros cry.  Are you attempting to mock me by making such impossible requests?”
“No more than you mocked me, O Mighty Sha’a, by asking me to perform the ‘impossible request’ of making a man or iron with knowledge in his head and feeling in his heart,” Walukaga retorted hotly.
Behind his pillar, Pomphis cringed in consternation.  He hadn’t told Walukaga to say that!  He was supposed to say something more diplomatic, such as: “Can a humble blacksmith like me hope to succeed where the Mighty Sha’a admits he cannot?”  But Walukaga had forgotten those words, and spoken out of stubborn, self-righteous resentment.
Pomphis knew what was coming next.  The Sha’a’s mouth had almost disappeared beneath his ndevu, as did those of some of his retinue.  Others reacted with discreet chuckles.  Some of the bolder courtiers went so far as to laugh aloud.
“I think he has you, Sha’a,” said Mchipcho, the most senior of the gathered nobles.
“Has me?” the Sha’a thundered.
As the blue-robed monarch rose from his throne, he towered like a huge bird of prey, and his seamed face was twisted in regal wrath.  The members of the court quailed in the face of his heavy breathing and flexing hands.  Even the stolid Walukaga took a step backward.
“Has me?” the monarch repeated incredulously.  “By Mulungu, we shall see who ‘has’ whom!  Listen well, blacksmith.  By this time tomorrow, I want my iron man here.  Fail to deliver, and you die.”
Walukaga’s stomach dropped to his feet, for the Sha’a had just given him a death sentence.  There was no question of disobedience, or even escape.  Disobedience of a Sha’a’s edict was unthinkable.  Like a man suddenly bereft of the will to live, the blacksmith turned and trudged out of the Audience Chamber.  More precipitously, the others followed.
Within moments, the Audience Chamber was cleared, with only the Kwan Yang ambassador departing with any degree of dignity.  Only two people remained:  the Sha’a, brooding indignantly; and Pomphis, thinking desperately.
AS THE NIGHT ECHOED with the clang of hammer against metal, only one person in all of Mavindi dared to go near the shop of Walukaga ... and that one went stealthily.  The walls of the squat building reverberated with the violence of the blows the blacksmith smashed against a bar of red-hot iron as the intruder slipped through the entrance.  It was not by accident that the shape of the bar Walukaga was beating bore a rough resemblance to a certain, diminutive member of the Sha’a’s court ...
“Well, you certainly planted your foot in the elephant dung today, Master Blacksmith,” said the true object of Walukaga’s rage.
Slowly, the blacksmith turned his head.  His eyes locked with those of Pomphis.  Then they narrowed into gleaming slits of fury.  His lips curled back from his teeth, and the muscles beneath his leather apron tensed in anticipation.
With an inarticulate growl, Walukaga sprang toward the Bambuti.  He was determined that if he must die, at least the bringer of his misfortune would die with him – Sha’a’s property or no Sha’a’s property.
But Pomphis was as elusive as a frightened impala.  What followed was a dance of frenzied lunges by the blacksmith and desperate feints and dodges by the Bambuti.  Occasionally, Walukaga managed to seize part of Pomphis’s clothing.  But Pomphis was always able to tear himself free. By the time the blacksmith’s fruitless chase ended, Pomphis was nearly naked.
Part of Walukaga’s disinclination to continue his pursuit was the state of his head after he had slammed it against the edge of a table beneath which the mjimja had just dived.
“Are you some kind of djinn sent by the Mashataan to punish me for my transgressions?” Walukaga groaned as he held his head and leaned groggily against the table.
“I am the person who will save your skin if you listen to me this time,” Pomphis retorted.  “If you do as I suggest, you’ll come away with your life, and more.  Understood?”
Wearily, Walukaga nodded in agreement.
To himself, he wondered: Why me?
THE NEXT MORNING, THE Royal Summoner solemnly approached Walukaga’s shop.  With him came a dozen fully armed soldiers.  Although resistance against a Sha’a’s edict was forbidden, on rare occasions it did occur.