The face the headpiece surrounded was umber in hue, with dark eyes holding a steady, regal gaze and full lips turned downward in a frown of impatience. A man of advanced rains, the Sha’a disliked petty annoyances – such as Walukaga’s obduracy. He intended to settle this matter once and for all.
This purposeful attitude had communicated itself to the rest of the court. Nobles high in the ranks of the Sha’a’s council stood solemnly according to rank on both sides of the obsidian throne. Their kanzas were of every shade other than the royal blue, and unlike the Sha’a’s, the ndevus beneath their headgear reached only a short distance past their chins. Close to the throne stood six stalwart young men. These were the Sha’a’s designated heirs.
Seated on woven raffia mats at the Sha’a’s feet were his seven senior wives, and fifteen of his daughters. Jeweled ornaments winked like stars in their high-piled bushes of black hair, and a sheen of perfumed oil glistened on their bare brown shoulders. Silken gowns patterned with geometric designs cascaded from breast to ankles circled by coils of gold.
Other than the Sha’a himself, only the yellow-skinned ambassador from Kwan Yang sat in a chair. Kwan Yang was a country beyond the Bahari Mashiriki – the Eastern Ocean – with which Azania pursued a profitable trade. Thus, its envoy was given a privilege denied even to the Sha’a’s sons.
Dispersed at strategic intervals throughout the assemblage were spearmen of the Imperial Guard, accoutered in conical helmets, chain-mail armor, and capes made of leopard hide.
Clad in the white turban, shati and suruali of the common classes of Mavindi, Walukaga looked and felt out of place amid the magnificence of the Sha’a’s pavilion. The company of the wealthy and highborn was not for the likes of him. Sullenly, the blacksmith looked at the ground between his bare toes as he waited for the Sha’a to speak.
But before the monarch could another member of the court made his presence known. Of all the people thronged under the pavilion, this new arrival was the most arresting in appearance.
It was Pomphis, the mjimja or court jester. Other than a skirt and leglets fashioned of yellow grass, and a straw hat shaped like a flattened cone, the Bambuti was naked, revealing a stocky, well-proportioned physique. His skin was a bit lighter than that of most Azanians, and his impish face was distinguished by a broad, bulbous nose.
Pomphis made his entrance in an uncourtly manner. He repeatedly took five shuffling steps forward, then thrust out his grass-covered rump on the sixth. Before the mjimja progressed more than halfway to the throne of the Sha’a, nearly everyone under the pavilion was laughing uproariously.
Only the Sha’a and the blacksmith were not amused. Neither man was in any mood for merriment.
“Stop that, Pomphis!” the Sha’a shouted in annoyance. “This is no time for your antics.”
“As you wish, O Mighty Sha’a,” the mjimja said in a squeaky falsetto tone.
And at the end of a flawless series of forward somersaults, Pomphis seated himself cross-legged at the monarch’s feet.
“Now, Walukaga,” the Sha’a said after decorum had been restored. “I wish to make a wager with you. It will involve a major test of your skill. Are you willing to match your skill as a blacksmith against any conceivable odds?”
For all his impressive array of work-hardened muscles, Walukaga was a diffident man. But when his skill at his art was questioned, the blacksmith had the confidence of a lion.
“I am willing, O Mighty Sha’a,” he said.
“Excellent!” the Sha’a said enthusiastically, a smile forming above his ndevu. “Then you will have no objection to the following test: I want you to make for me a man of iron. And I am not talking about a mere figurine. I want you to make me a man who can walk, talk and fight. I want a man who has knowledge in his head and feeling in his heart. Make such a man, and I will never again ask you to come and work in the palace. But if, within five days, you have not succeeded in this task, your services will be mine, exclusively.”
The monarch’s gaze bore directly into that of Walukaga.
“Do you agree to this wager?”
Walukaga’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung disconsolately. He knew now that the Sha’a had easily outwitted him. The blacksmith was bested the moment he accepted the Sha’a’s challenge. Even so, a core of stolid stubbornness caused him to return the Sha’a’s penetrating stare.
“In five days, as Mulungu wills, O Mighty Sha’a,” the blacksmith said.
After Walukaga bowed respectfully, the Sha’a gave him permission to depart. Ordinarily, the Sha’a’s devious triumph would have served a cue for a witticism from the mjimja. For once, however, Pomphis remained silent. He gazed thoughtfully at the powerful figure stalking out of the shade of the pavilion.
FOR TWO DAYS, WALUKAGA’S forge lay cold and silent. He had sent word to his apprentice that he need not come back to work. Indeed, it would be better if the younger man planned on learning his trade from someone else. The few people who sought out Walukaga came away with sad faces. For they despaired that Walukaga would do anything but sit on a stool and stare at his motionless bellows until the Royal Summoner visited him again.
Then came a visitor who would not be turned away.
Entering the doorway without announcing himself, Pomphis walked directly toward the brooding blacksmith.
“Yambo, Master Blacksmith,” the Bambuti said. “I’m here to help you solve your problem.”
“Go away, toto,” Walukaga muttered, using the Azanian word for child. “I am not making toys anymore.”
“Toto, indeed!” the Bambuti huffed. “I am no child. Do you not recognize me, you big buffalo?”
Walukaga looked more closely at his visitor and saw that it was, indeed, the mjimja. But Pomphis was now clad in the garments of an ordinary Azanian. Though the Bambuti was about the height
