Changa’s scowl answered Belay’s question. “Mustafa barges in my office this morning demanding to see me. Being the Muslim that I am, I allowed him an audience despite his rudeness. He sat where you sit now and stated that Yasmine was missing and Narigisi was to blame.”
Changa’s face and he shifted in his seat. Narigisi was Belay’s eldest son, as different from his father as oil and water. He was a vain and selfish man with the spirit of Shaitan.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Belay said. “You think Mustafa is right. I think so, too, but I could not say so in front of him. I told him I would look into the matter and you know what he did? He jumped to his feet and slammed his fist on my desk! He demanded that I either return his daughter or pay him twice the lobola offered by her suitors.”
Changa’s mind focused on Yasmine, a familiar, uncomfortable feeling rising in his chest.
“I have seen Narigisi courting Yasmine,” he said. “She did not seem pleased with his attention.”
Belay stood. “We will visit him immediately and get to the bottom of this.”
Changa stood as well. “If we go to see Naragisi we’ll need men.”
Belay rubbed his forehead again. “Yes, that’s true. Will you see to it?”
“Of course, bwana.”
Changa returned to the dhow burdened with concern. Men gathered about him as soon as he boarded.
“Bashiri, Zakwani and Tayari, get your weapons,” he announced. “We are to escort Bwana Belay to his son’s house.”
The chosen men hurried below deck with huge grins on their faces. Escort duty was extra pay. Going with Changa meant they had a good chance of returning. Changa noticed Yusef sulking across the ship, still smarting from his recent defeat.
“Yusef,” he called out. “Get your gear. You’re coming, too.”
The big man smiled like a child. “Of course, Changa, of course!”
The men met Belay at the warehouse. Belay climbed on his wagon and they set out for the mainland. After a brief stop in the country town to gather supplies they set out for the bush. Naragisi’s difference from his father went beyond personalities. Unlike most Swahili Naragisi despised the stone town, preferring life in the hinterlands. They reached his estate by daybreak the next day, the massive two-story house rising over the otherwise flat landscape. An expansive shamba filled with hundreds of Zebu cattle surrounded his elaborate home, the estate protected by Samburu warriors. Instead of the normal thorn bush palisade Naragisi had constructed a stone wall six feet high. Four stone gates allowed entrance, one at each point of the compass, each protected by a Samburu village. Changa and the others met no opposition until they reached the gate. Four Samburu guarded the gate, tall lean men with iron tipped spears and swords that flared out like fans at the tip. A red cloak fell from one shoulder, covering their bodies to the knees. A black beaded belt gathered the cloak about their waists and held the wooden scabbards for their swords and daggers. Each warrior held a broad leaf shield of cowhide, the pattern of Naragisi painted on each one.
The guards shifted as Changa approached them.
“Habare,” Changa said.
“Umzuri,” the guards replied.
“Bwana Belay wishes to see his son.”
“That is not possible,” the warrior replied. “Bwana Naragisi is not to be disturbed.”
Suspicion emerged in Changa’s thoughts, confirmed by the look in Belay’s eyes.
“Must I remind you where your master’s wealth originates?” Belay said.
The Samburu guards shifted their stances. “Our master’s wealth resides within his walls,” the warrior sneered. “Golden metal has no value here.”
Changa’s sword sprang from its sheath before the guards could react, its tip pressed into the warrior’s chin.
“Is your master’s wealth worth your life?”
The warrior opened the gate and stepped aside. The Mombassans crossed the wide expanse to the door of Naragisi’s home. A servant girl dressed in a colorful kanga and beaded braids met them at the entrance.
“Welcome, baba,” she said respectfully. “Your son is grateful you have come to visit him. Please follow me to the veranda.”
The girl led them to a huge courtyard, the stone floor covered by an enormous and expensive Persian rug. An elaborate table was set before them. Belay sat at the table; Changa, Yusef and the others remained standing behind him.
Naragisi entered accompanied by a dozen Samburu warriors. He dressed simply, white pants and long shirt with a caramel vest. A small turban hugged his head held together by an amber broach. He smiled at his father as he cut a glance at Changa.
“Baba, welcome!” he said. “I am so glad you came to visit me so unexpectedly.”
“I have no time for your deception, Naragisi,” Belay retorted. “Mustafa the goat herder came to my warehouse today, claiming you had something to do with Yasmine’s disappearance. Do you?”
Naragisi sat at the table, taking time to prepare a cup of chai.
“He is Yasmine’s father, is he not?”
Belay’s small hands clenched. “Yes, he is.”
“Hmm.” Naragisi sipped his tea. “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean yes and no?”
“Yes, father, I am responsible for Yasmine’s disappearance, but not in the way you suspect.”
Changa’s hand went to his sword and Naragisi’s guards responded by stepping forward, their spears lowered.
Belay raised his hand. “I didn’t come here for violence. I came here for answers.”
“It’s no secret I wanted Yasmine,” Naragisi admitted. “I waited for her to arrive at the market every day and gave her gifts and kind words. It was more than any woman of her station deserved no matter how beautiful she is. She should have been grateful.”
Naragisi paused to sip his tea again. A frown marred his face.
“I finally explained to her my intentions and she laughed. She laughed at me! I wanted to strike her down and I would have if I didn’t cherish her beauty so much. I decided to show her what being my wife meant. I arranged to have her brought here.”
“You had her kidnapped,” Changa said.
“No one gave you permission to speak, mtwana,” Naragisi
