“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 voice 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
