Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  “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. And if Walukaga chose not to comply, he could be a dangerous foe, indeed.

  But the blacksmith showed neither rebellion nor resignation when they saw him, though his face and posture betrayed the weariness of a long night’s work. Wordlessly, he accepted the hornbill feather from the Summoner. Then he gestured toward a litter bearing a large object covered with a white cloth.

  “Could some of you help me carry this to the palace?” Walukaga grunted.

  Three bemused soldiers grasped handles of the litter, while Walukaga took the fourth. As they lifted the litter, the soldiers found the thing beneath the cloth somewhat heavy, though the weight didn’t appear to bother the blacksmith. Soon the soldiers were sweating and puffing with exertion as they carried their burden through the streets of Mavindi.

  A curious crowd soon began to follow the procession. They wondered what Walukaga was up to. Had the blacksmith surrendered to madness, believing that he really could make a living iron man? Or had he cleverly constructed something especially exquisite for the Sha’a, hoping to exchange it for his life? Half of Mavindi was wondering what was under the cloth by the time Walukaga and his escort reached the palace.

  Before long, Walukaga and his litter were in the Audience Chamber. A larger- than-usual number of courtiers and spectators were gathered in the chamber, for they longed to witness a repetition of the singular events of the day before. So focused was everyone’s attention on Walukaga that few paid much attention to the new costume the mjimja was wearing. Unlike his usual skimpy attire, on this day he wore a construction of dried grass that covered him from head to foot, with the exception of a pair of round eyeholes.

  The Sha’a’s gaze shifted from Walukaga to the litter, then back to Walukaga.

  “So, blacksmith,” the monarch said. “Have you brought me a man of iron who can walk, talk, and fight; a man with knowledge in his head and feeling in his heart?”

  “I have, O Mighty Sha’a,” Walukaga replied.

  With that, he reached down and pulled the cloth away from the object on the litter. Gasps of surprise swept through the crowd at the sight thus revealed. For on the litter lay a man-like shape fashioned similarly to the jointed toys Walukaga made for children. And it was beginning to sit up, of its own volition ...

  Even the eyes of the Sha’a widened in astonishment as the iron construct lurched shakily to its feet. Due to the haste with which it was built, the six-foot iron man was not exactly pleasing to the eye. Its body was barrel-shaped and its limbs cylindrical. Its head looked very much like an inverted bucket. Holes in the metal approximated human features, and similar punctures on its torso outlined the musculature of a powerfully built man.

  Beautiful, Walukaga’s creation was not. Nevertheless, it clanked and rattled its way to the foot of the throne, and bowed.

  “I am N’tu Chuma, the Iron Man, at your service, O Mighty Sha’a,” the simulacrum said in a hollow, tinny tone.

  Pandemonium swept through the chamber.

  “Sorcery!” cried some.

  “Djinn!” whispered others.

  “A trick,�
�� sneered the cynical.

  “If I didn’t see him standing over there in that grass costume, I would swear Pomphis had a hand in this,” Mchipcho whispered to the Sha’a.

  Before the Sha’a could reply, N’tu Chuma began to strut back and forth before the throne, singing to the accompaniment of clanking feet:

  “I walk ... like a human walks,

  “I talk ... like a human talks,

  “I know ... what a human knows,

  “I feel ... and the feeling shows.

  “I’m made ... to Walukaga’s plan,

  “O Mighty Sha’a ... I’m your kind of man!”

  Over a growing gale of laughter, the mortified Sha’a shouted:

  “Silence! Silence, all of you, before I have your tongues skewered!”

  Immediately, all sounds ceased. Even N’tu Chuma stopped singing.

  “I see, Walukaga, that this wonderful iron man of yours can, indeed, walk and talk,” the Sha’a snarled. “Though by what sorcery you’ve managed to accomplish this, I do not know. But there is one more test. Can your iron man fight?”

  N’tu Chuma spoke before Walukaga could reply.

  “F-f-fight?” the iron man quavered. “Oh, no ... I forgot...”

  The wily Sha’a seized his advantage, and gave orders to two of his guards.

  “Nyeusi! Give the iron man your sword. Mkaja! Engage our metal friend in combat. Let us see what kind of fighter Walukaga has given us.”

  Hastily, the guardsmen did what the Sha’a commanded. Nyeusi’s sword has pressed into the iron hand of N’tu Chuma, while Mkaja unsheathed his blade and moved toward the iron man. As Mkaja advanced, N’tu Chuma tried to hide behind Walukaga. But two other guardsmen pulled the blacksmith aside, and N’tu Chuma was alone against Mkaja, who hesitated.

  “Attack, Mkaja, or you will be food for the jackals before sunset!” the Sha’a shouted.

  Spurred into action by that dire threat, the guardsman swung at N’tu Chuma’s blade. Clumsily, N’tu Chuma parried the blow.

  “Wait!” the iron man pleaded. “Can we not talk about this?”

  Mkaja was in no mood for conversation. As the courtiers gaped, he pressed his offensive. Another swing sent N’tu Chuma’s sword flying. Making noises that were anything but warlike, the iron man retreated as the guardsman’s sword dented the metal of its arms and torso. Then N’tu Chuma’s feet tripped over the edge of the dais upon which the Sha’a’s throne rested, and the iron man crashed ignominiously to the floor.

  The jarring impact caused N’tu Chuma to fall apart ... revealing a hollow construct with built-up legs and built-in wires and pulleys to guide its movements. From the barrel-shaped torso crawled a diminutive, bleary-eyed individual who turned out to be none other than ...

  “Pomphis!” exclaimed the Sha’a, in unison with most of the other people in the chamber.

  “But if this is Pomphis, then who is that?” asked Mchipcho, pointing toward the grass-enveloped form everyone thought to be the Bambuti. As if in answer to the courtier’s question, the imposter pulled the costume over his head and stood revealed as Kariume, the eleventh son of the Sha’a, who was about the same height as Pomphis.

  “What possessed you to do such a foolish thing as this, Kariume?” the Sha’a demanded.

  “Pomphis said it would be fun,” the boy mumbled.

  “Pomphis! Pomphis! Pomphis! How I weary of that name,” the Sha’a said, hand massaging his brow.

  He glared balefully at the disheveled Bambuti.

  “I see it all now,” the monarch said. “This has been your work from the beginning, hasn’t it? I should have been suspicious since you first suggested the best way to secure the services of this blacksmith. But I never dreamed you would allow your mischief to go this far.

  “Well you both shall learn what happens to those who mock their Sha’a. Both of you will be impaled – on the same stake!”

  “You pardon, Most Honorable Sha’a,” a new voice interjected over a murmur from the courtiers.

  The new speaker was the Kwan Yang ambassador. Only rarely did the envoy talk, but when he did, even the Sha’a listened.

  “It would seem, Most Honorable Sha’a, that you are reacting excessively to the embarrassment of being out-matched in wits by a blacksmith and a court jester,” the ambassador said mildly. “Were I to speak of such a reaction to my own Thrice-Heavenly Emperor, that most estimable personage might be inclined to give serious consideration to the halting of the long-standing trade that exchanges our silk and spices for your ivory and gold ...”

  Carefully, the Sha’a considered the ambassador’s veiled threat. Loss of the Kwan Yang trade would irreparably damage Azania’s pre-eminent position among the East Coast kingdoms. And, of course, his personal power would be diminished. Two wretched lives were hardly worth the risk of such consequences.

  “So be it,” the Sha’a said, swallowing his regal pride. “They will live. But you, blacksmith ... I never want to see you or your works in the palace again. And you, Pomphis ... you will never again interfere in my business with your silly schemes. You know I could always sell you back to the Komeh. Now, go! I cannot stand the sight of either of you!”

  The blacksmith and the Bambuti departed gladly as the courtiers quietly voiced their approval. Some of them were glad they would not be losing the services of the best blacksmith in the kingdom, while others would have missed the amusement Pomphis provided.

  Adjusting his ndevu, the Sha’a glared at the two men as they made their exit. And he vowed never again to consider any suggestions from his third-ranking wife.

  TWO DAYS AFTER THE events in the Audience Chamber, Walukaga was happily at work, completing Keino Kamau’s order of fifteen hoe-blades. He had not yet called his apprentice back to work, for he longed to be alone with the pleasure of honest toil.

  Then, above the hiss of hot metal, he heard the greeting of a familiar voice: “Good day, Master Blacksmith.”

  “Oh, no,” Walukaga moaned as he turned to see Pomphis standing in the doorway. “O Great Mulungu, what have I done to deserve your hatred? Why do you continue to send me this curse that walks on two legs? Tell me what I must do to be rid of it! I will do anything you ask, O Mulungu, if you just tell me!”

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” huffed Pomphis. “I won’t be staying long. But wait till you see what I’ve brought you.”

  “What?” Walukaga asked warily.

  “Cone in,” Pomphis said, motioning outside the door.

  In walked five young, beautiful, smiling and scantily clad women from the hinterlands.

  “Who are these people?” Walukaga demanded.

  “Why, they’re your five women, Master Blacksmith,” a grinning Pomphis said. “Enjoy!”

  The sound of squeals and giggles from the women and howls of protest from Walukaga followed Pomphis as he strolled away from the blacksmith’s shop.

  “That may be the last time I do a favor for anyone over five feet tall,” the Bambuti mused.

  POMPHIS AND THE POOR MAN

  I GUESS IT’S FITTING, in an ironic way, that the shortest story in this volume is another one about Pomphis. Like “The Blacksmith and the Bambuti,” this tale takes place in the time before Pomphis met Imaro. Still in his role as the mjimja of the Sha’a of Azania, Pomphis does a star turn in this adaptation of an East African folktale. The story first appeared under the title “The Pygmy and the Poor Man” in Anthos, a magazine that celebrated arts and literature in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. And, yes, Pomphis is still known by the unfortunate name he acquired in Azania ...

  A ragged, nondescript figure sat beneath the fiery orange blooms of a mkolole tree outside the city of Mavindi. Except for a scrawny goat tethered to the bole of the mkolole, the man was alone. He paid no attention to the spectacular flowers of the tree or the bleating of the goat, for he was assiduously engaged in the act of weeping. Thus, he did not hear the footsteps that approached him.

  “What is troubling you, my good man?” a friendly v
oice inquired.

  Startled to discover that he was no longer alone, he ragged man raised his black, tear-stained face. His eyes widened. Before him, dressed in spotless white, stood a Bambuti – a pygmy from the forests of the Ituri Kubwa. The man knew there was but one Bambuti in all Mavindi – Pomphis, the mjimja, or jester, to the Sha’a, the ruler of Azania. The man stuttered, half in deference, half in disbelief.

  “Don’t hesitate,” Pomphis prompted. “I’d really like to know what it is that could cause such sadness in the midst of beauty.”

  The story was quickly told. The ragged man, whose name was Kakanja, indeed was poor – so poor that his only possessions were the clothes on his back and a single goat, whose milk was the source of his living. One day, Kakanja had found himself near the sprawling estate of Ogwambi Nuru, the wealthiest man in Mavindi next to the Sha’a himself. Having only a bagful of nzao seeds to eat, Kakanja had contrived to sit near the window of Ogwambi Nuru’s kitchen. He savored the smell of the sumptuous supper Ogwambi Nuru’s wives were cooking even as he munched on the tasteless nzaos.

  Much to Kakanja’s misfortune, however, Ogwambi Nuru had happened upon him sitting outside the kitchen, and demanded an explanation for the poor man’s presence. Kakanja had told him the truth.

  Now, it was well-known that if Ogwambi Nuru was not the richest man in Mavindi, he was the stingiest. And, to Kakanja’s dismay, the rich man had him hauled into court. The charge: stealing the smell of Ogwambi Nuru’s food. To Kakanja’s further dismay, the judge – a friend and debtor of Ogwambi Nuru’s – found him guilty and make restitution in the form of his sole asset: the goat.

  “And now, I must deliver my goat to Ogwambi Nuru,” Kakanja said. “And without my goat, I’ll have to sell myself into slavery ...”