Whatever one’s theory, nearly the entire village of Kigeru eagerly anticipated the coming of the man with the Singing Drum. The exception was N’gonjo, who had retired to his kibanda on Lion Hill not long after Wambui’s disappearance, and would speak to no one.
At last, the day came when the stranger strode king-like through the palisade that guarded Kigeru. The gathered populace marveled at his unusual, rose-colored garment, and was awed by the drum that he carried. It was a tall drum – about the height of a woman – and it was slender and cylindrical in shape. Carved from lustrous ebony-wood, its sides were decorated with carvings of fish, eels and strange water-creatures known only through tales whispered softly around dim night-fires.
Without ceremony, the stranger commenced to beat out a harsh, insistent rhythm upon the top of his drum. And the drum began to sing.
Its song was plaintive and captivating, and perhaps that was why the Kigerans did not recognize the drum’s high, feminine voice. Previously, they had only heard that voice sing songs that were happy and joyous, lifting one’s spirits up beyond the sky. Now, the voice only saddened them even more than they already were because of the loss of Wambui.
One Kigeran, however, did recognize the voice. He was N’komo, a youthful warrior. Silently, N’komo slipped away from the crowd and ran as fast as he could to Lion Hill. Though the youth feared N’gonjo – who was a misanthrope as were most mgangas of his quality – N’komo’s secret love for Wambui was stronger than that fear.
Suppressing a shudder, N’komo stepped gingerly past the pair of lions that were the mganga’s pets and guards, as well as the source of the name for N’gonjo’s dwelling- place. The lions were dangerous only to anyone who sought to harm their master, and they could sense N’komo had no such intention. Then the youth peered into the dark opening of N’gonjo’s lonely kibanda. It was broad daylight outside, but the inside of the kibanda was as black as a starless sky. N’komo could see nothing.
Summoning up his courage, the youth called out: “Are you there, O N’gonjo?”
“Yes,” a hollow, sepulchral voice replied.
“Know you that the man with the Singing Drum is in Kigeru?”
“I do.”
“Know you that the voice inside the Singing Drum belongs to Wambui?”
There was a long moment of silence. Then N’gonjo emerged from the darkness of his kibanda. He was an old, white-haired man, but his carriage was still erect and his sharp black eyes still reflected keen intelligence, and a sense of nobility.
“I have been a fool,” he said to the young warrior in a rare admission of fallibility. “So involved was I in my own grief that I have not thought of the obvious. Wait here.”
With that admonition, he returned to the darkness. When he came back, his hand held a small clay jar filled with greenish liquid.
“They will probably fill the stranger with palm-wine after he finishes his performance,” the mganga said. “Put this liquid into his wine-cup. It has enough akili-root in it to put an elephant to sleep.”
“Why don’t I just spear him?” N’komo growled.
“Now don’t you be a fool!” snapped N’gonjo. “Trust me. Do you really think I wouldn’t do what is best for my own niece?”
Uncowed, the youth looked squarely into the mganga’s piercing eyes.
“No,” N’komo said. “You wouldn’t. I will do as you say, O N’gonjo.”
And he turned and toped down the path to the village.
N’gonjo stood motionless for a long time afterward. His eyes were cold and hard.
LATER, WITHIN THE kibanda of the headman of Kigeru, the man with the Singing Drum was enjoying himself immensely. He had eaten a tremendous repast, and the ivory figurines he had accepted as gifts were of great value. His only complaint was the peculiar taste of the palm wine he had been guzzling. Also, he didn’t like the way one of the young Kigeran warriors was staring at him.
Suddenly, everything went black before the stranger’s eyes. And he pitched face-forward onto the dusty floor of the kibanda. As the villagers looked on in gape-mouthed astonishment, N’gonjo suddenly appeared at the entrance.
“N’komo!” the mganga cried. “Open the drum!”
N’komo dashed over to the Singing Drum, which was lying in a corner. With his panga – a long, heavy knife – the youth pried off the top of the drum and peered inside. Then his face took on a stricken look. Reaching into the drum, he tenderly pulled out the limp body of Wambui.
Though she looked terribly emaciated, the barely conscious Wambui was alive. With her parents, N’gonjo, N’komo and the rest of the village surrounding her, Wambui tearfully gasped out the terrible tale of finding the mysterious lake-shell, the appearance of the stranger, and subsequent events.
The stranger had ensorcelled Wambui, placed her inside the drum he had fashioned, and forced her to sing whenever he demanded. The people in the villages he had visited had given him much food and drink, but the stranger shared only a little of it with Wambui – just enough to keep her alive. She said no more, falling into a swoon of starvation and exhaustion.
Several girls Wambui’s age cast their gazes groundward. After what Wambui had said, they knew their backs would be sore from the lashing of many sticks because of their failure to mention Wambui’s finding of the shell.
As Wambui’s parents carried her out of the headman’s kibanda, attention turned to the robed figure slumped on the floor.
“Now do we spear him?” N’komo asked fiercely. The headman and the others in the kibanda agreed with the youth’s suggestion.
“No, you fools!” N’gonjo expostulated. “Haven’t you yet realized what this creature is?”
The mganga reached down and lifted the robe of the stranger. At once, the Kigerans gasped in astonishment and revulsion. For the body of the stranger was covered not with dark skin, but with repellant, fish-like scales.
“A Zin!” the headman choked. And all the others – except
