Nyumbani Tales

bed.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy, hurrying footsteps snapped Majnun out of his sated reverie.  With gasps and muffled shrieks of consternation, the three daughters of the ambassador attempted to crawl out of the bed.  But in their haste, they succeeded only in entangling themselves to such an extent that a ludicrous scene was presented to the blazing torches of the men who burst into the Prince’s chamber.
In the flickering torchlight, their ebony faces took on an orangey sheen and their eyes glared like those of demons in a fire pit.  One of the faces belonged to Mzikala.  Its expression was not calculated to inspire fraternal affection.  Another, which bore a look of utter shock, belonged to the ambassador of Mpemba.  Behind them were the grim faces of the leather-clad spearmen who served as the ambassador’s personal guard.
As the ambassador’s expression commenced to transform from shock to outrage, his daughters frantically attempted to conceal their nudity behind handfuls of silken cloth.  Slender, dark-skinned, narrow-faced, the Mpemba women were difficult to tell apart.  Even the tears now rolling down their high cheekbones seemed to flow in identical patterns.
As for Majnun, he sat quietly, disregarding the guardsmen’s spears.  On his almost-delicate face, a sardonic expression lingered.  Then the tableau was broken by the ambassador, who had at last recovered his ability to speak.
“You damned degenerate!” he thundered.  “Do you not know that each of my daughters is of the Chosen of Ajike, sworn to virginity until they receive a sign from the Goddess?”
“B-but Father,” one of the sisters blubbered.  “Prince Majnun said that he had the sign.  He showed it to us, and it was like nothing we’d ever seen before ...”
“Enough!” roared the ambassador.  “I will deal with you when we return to Mpemba.  And we are leaving tonight!”
He turned to the guards.
“Prepare our ship for immediate departure,” he ordered.
Then he returned his attention to Majnun.
“I should order my spearmen to impale you for this,” he grated.
“My good sir,” Mzikala interrupted smoothly.  “Reprehensible as my brother’s conduct may be, such an action would be certain to provoke warfare between our two countries.”
“You are, as usual, correct,” the ambassador agreed grudgingly.  “But when I return to Mpemba and inform King Mansuruwe of what has happened here this night, trade between my country and Kitwana shall soon amount to nothing!”
Within moments, the sacred sisters had gathered up their strewn clothing and departed, casting tearful glances back at prince Majnun.  As for the latter, he simply sat unclad amid his rumpled sheets, listening to the receding footsteps of the Mpembans and the dire mutterings of their ambassador.
Prince Mzikala lingered momentarily.
“Doubtlessly, our father will be wishing to speak with you very shortly,” he said, malevolence masking his dusky features.
“Doubtlessly,” repeated Majnun.  “Then, you hope, he will do to me what he did to our brother Kimanu.  Kimanu was exiled from Kitwana when he was discovered practicing sorcery.  It was said that your gold supply diminished on the day Kimanu was found out.  Did it diminish again tonight?”
At Majnun’s thinly veiled accusation, Mzikala half-drew his sword from its golden scabbard.  Then he turned and stalked away, followed by Majnun’s mocking laughter.
KING AL-IMAMU OF KITWANA sat motionless as a statue upon his throne of onyx and gold.  Due to the lateness of the hour, he was clad simply, in a red-and-white robe, rather than his ornate garments of state.  Still, every line of his proud bearing and his regal black face bespoke power and authority.  Though the rest of his features were carefully composed, his dark eyes radiated the kind of anger that had more than once caused strong soldiers to quail in undisguised terror.
Prince Majnun, however, did not quail.  He was clad in loose-fitting white trousers and a tightly wrapped, jewelled turban.  From the waist up, he wore nothing other than a jewelled pendant hanging from a thick gold chain.  Every muscle in his lean body stood out in low relief, in contrast to his smooth, almost girlish face.
Mzikala, in contrast, was attired as if he were attending a state ceremony, even though he, Majnun and Al-Imamu were the only occupants of the throne room.  The princes remained silent, waiting for the king to speak.  When he did, his words came so suddenly that someone unfamiliar with his ways would have been startled.
“You,” he said to Majnun, “have had but one desire for the past few rains.  That desire is freedom from the responsibilities and duties of the rank of Prince.  You want to provoke me into exiling you as I did Kimanu, he-who-was-once-my-son.  In his case, such a course was proper and necessary, for the practice of sorcery is forbidden to those of royal blood.
“But you ... you have so much more ability than any of the others.  Indeed, more than the entire sorry lot put together.”
Al-Imamu stopped then, realizing that his normally even voice had begun to rise.  Majnun affected not to notice the glare of hatred Mzikala shot at him in the wake of their father’s latter observation.
“You indulge in outrageous escapades, such as the one tonight, because you know it is forbidden to pronounce death upon a Royal One,” the grave-faced king continued.  “The only Royal Punishment, from time immemorial, has been exile.  Yet despite what you have done this time – which could very well endanger the economy of Kitwana – I do not intend to exile you.”
“What, then, is your pleasure, my-father-the-king?” Majnun asked with typical effrontery.
Al-Imamu’s reply was cryptic.
“Strange things have been occurring in the province of Kantaro,” he said.  “It is said that the nunda, the eater-of-men, prowls the grasslands once again.”
“But no nundas have been seen in Kitwana since the days of your grandfather’s boyhood,” Mzikala protested.
“Yet the stories exist, told by reliable herdsmen,” the king retorted.
He turned back to Majnun.
“You, Majnun, are to go to Kantaro and determine whether or not there is truth to these tales.  Kantaro has some of the kingdom’s best farmland, and it would be bad for Kitwana if their crops