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 ...”
“Do not weep,” said Pomphis. “I think I can help you.”
The poor man’s incredulity showed in his watery eyes.
“Listen, I do not like Ogwambi Nuru,” the Bambuti continued. “He doesn’t laugh at my jokes in the Sha’a’s throne room. And the Sha’a doesn’t like him, either. Now, listen to me ...”
UNANNOUNCED, POMPHIS entered the most private of the Sha’a’s personal chambers. The monarch of Azania lay on a pile of fur-covered cushions. His royal form was unclad, as were those of the ten women who shared the cushions with him. The Sha’a looked up, spotted his mjimja, and scowled.
“Pomphis!” he bellowed. “I left explicit orders not to be disturbed! I’ll ...”
“O Mighty Sha’a,” the Bambuti interjected. “How would you like to put a handful of fire-ants into the crotch of Ogwambi Nuru?”
Immediately, the Sha’a became more attentive.
THE COURT SQUARE WAS ablaze with excitement. Never in the memory of anyone in Mavindi had the Sha’a exercised his right to hear an appeal of a judge’s decision in a case of so lowly a subject as Kakanja. The poor man stood humbly, his goat at his side. Visibly fuming, the resplendently clad Ogwambi Nuru crouched in the bamboo-barred witness cage while Pomphis paced somberly and silently before him. The pygmy wore the monkey-tail regalia of a sheria – a lawyer, a station to which the Sha’a had appointed him for the day, much to the disgust of the other sherias.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” snapped Ogwambi Nuru.
Whirling, Pomphis thrust his head forward and said: “Do you agree that the smell of your food is not the same as its substance?”
“Well, uh, I don’t ...” the rich man stammered. “What is the point of your question?”
“I only want to confirm that you don’t see, hear, touch, or taste a smell,” Pomphis said. “You only smell it. Therefore, the smell of an object, which utilizes that sense only, is not the whole substance of said object. Agreed?”
“Well, er ... yes,” said Ogwambi Nuru.
“And furthermore, do you concur that you accused Kakanja of stealing only the smell of your food, not its substance?”
“Yes,” Ogwambi Nuru agreed. Then he caught himself, and turned to the Sha’a, who was acting as judge.
“What is the point of all this?” the rich man sputtered. “Are you going to allow this – jester – to make a mockery of...”
At that point, Pomphis nodded to Kakanja, who proceeded to plant a hard kick into the ribs of his goat. Immediately, the startled beast let out a bleat of pain.
“Did you hear that, Ogwambi Nuru?” cried Pomphis.
“Yes, but ...”
“Then you must accept the sound of the goat’s bleat as payment for the smell of your food!”
Amid the ensuing, stunned silence, the Sha’a intoned: “I think he has you, Ogwambi Nuru. Kakanja, you may keep your goat.”
Overjoyed, Kakanja flung his arms around the neck of his goat, which was by now thoroughly confused. The crowd in the court square burst into laughter and applause, for Ogwambi Nuru was not a popular man.
And, as the chagrined rich man clambered out of the witness cage, Pomphis said to him: “I trust you now realize that even though I am small in size, I do have influence in high places.”
THE NUNDA
TWO EAST AFRICAN FOLKTALES inspired this story. One was about a creature called the nunda, which is variously described as a great cat decidedly different from the lion or leopard; or a supernatural creature of the demonic kind. The other was about a shady character named Majnun. I ended up liking Majnun so much that I found a place for him in the Imaro novels.
“The Nunda” was first published in 1976, in a long-running small-press magazine called The Diversifier, which lived up to its name because imaginative fiction of all kinds could be found in its pages. You might say I provided some “diversity” of my own to The Diversifier. I did a bit of editing on “The Nunda so that it would conform to the Imaro novels.
Stretching languorously, Prince Majnun of Kitwana allowed his thoughts to wander as he as he reclined amid disarranged silken coverlets and lissome feminine limbs. There were indeed worse fates, he mused, than that of being the youngest son of Al-Imamu, King of Kitwana. It was true that his preference for women and wine over statecraft and ceremony sometimes drove Al-Imamu into fits of rage so fearsome that they were the talk of Mlongo, the Kitwanan capital. But the young prince’s courage in battle, coupled with his quick wits, had thus far kept him safe from the beatings of his father and the jealousy of his ambitious brothers.
Lately, though, Mzikala, the most obnoxious of his brothers, had been filling Al-Imamu’s ears with pernicious retellings of Majnun’s nocturnal exploits. Mzikala, the fawning jackal, Majnun reflected before he dismissed his brother from his mind.
Absently, his hand caressed the soft, bare flesh of the young woman lying beside him. She was one of the three daughters of the newly arrived ambassador from Mpemba, a rich northern kingdom. It did not matter which one’s flesh he was now fondling; all three were sprawled haphazardly on his huge, round
