the course of our lives on this earth is the most painful in a human being’s existence. Many of us go through the swamplands and deserts of life swathed in a glossy kaross of self-delusion. We deceive ourselves into believing that we are wise, strong and invincible, and that in all the world there is no one like oneself. We believe this until the day when we have to stand and look down upon the false images of ourselves lying shattered at our feet. And on that day we discover that we are the exact opposite of what we thought we were.
Thus it was with the Princess Marimba on the day her lord and husband died – that day when Time itself was still in its infancy, so many hundreds of generations ago.
She had been firm in her belief that she was wise and strong enough to withstand the savage onslaughts of cruel fate. But she never realised that every human being born of a woman carries in him, or her, the seeds of his or her undoing. Even as she lapsed into unconsciousness Marimba knew with a sick feeling in the valleys of her mind that she would marry again and that she would suffer bereavement once again.
Kahawa, the son of Marimba, was very angry; his young eyes were red from weeping and he could not sleep. He was angry with his dead stepfather for having exposed his dear mother to the dangers of the forest in spite of her warnings and protests. He was also angry with his stepfather for having been foolish enough to let a lion, and an old lame one at that, eat him. The tall, stone-headed, stupid son of a club-footed hyaena should have known better than to let himself get killed and so make the incomparable Marimba and the whole of the Wakambi tribe unhappy. Serve the stupid wretch right! Did he not know that his wife was an immortal and that her words and her warnings had to be obeyed and heeded? ‘Good riddance!’ thought the boy coldly. ‘Now my mother can concentrate on ruling the tribe instead of spending the greater part of the day in that silly fool’s arms!’
It was well known that Kahawa had intensely disliked his stepfather while he lived, and he disliked him even more now that he was dead. He could not understand his mother’s grief. Why, that idle good-for-nothing was much better off dead, so why waste tears over him?
Kahawa let out a snort of anger and turned over on his left side on his bed of skins and dry grass in the cave. He stared angrily at the pale silver moon through the mouth of the cave. He heard the distant low wailing of the women of the settlement who were gathered in the Great Hut to mourn with their Chieftainess the death of her husband. He also heard the low groans of the two thousand warriors who were gathered, fully armed with clubs and bone-tipped harpoons, outside the Great Hut to pay tribute to the dead Royal Consort.
All these sounds disgusted Kahawa, and he was still snorting his anger at the moon like a young buffalo bull when the open entrance of the cave was briefly darkened by a fat silhouette. His best friend, Mpushu the Cunning, entered and sat down near the entrance, regarding the son of his beloved Chieftainess with the usual expression of admiration on his fat, sweaty and fish-like face.
‘I see you, Oh Mpushu,’ said Kahawa.
Mpushu’s ivory-white teeth gleamed in the moonlight against the ebony of his oily face. ‘and I see you too, Oh Eagle of Marimba.’
‘You are well known for an early sleeper, Oh Mpushu, so pray tell me, what brings you out at this time of the night?’
Mpushu’s face seemed to grow oilier. His big round eyes seemed about to fly out of their sockets and he swallowed noisily once or twice. And then he just sat staring at Kahawa – his big mouth opening and shutting. He was obviously lost in the forests of fear.
‘Has the Hyaena of Darkness eaten your tongue, Oh Mpushu? asked Kahawa. ‘Why is it that you do not talk, Oh my friend?’
‘This unworthy one is afraid to arouse the anger of the Royal One,’ said Mpushu softly. ‘This lowly Mpushu is afraid to be burned by the sun that is the wrath of Kahawa.’
‘Mpushu,’ Kahawa said gently, ‘to me you are like a brother and I have always found reason to be thankful for your advice. Speak your mind and tell me what troubles you so.’
‘Eagle of Marimba,’ said Mpushu after a short silence, ‘Mpushu never worries about himself but for the prince who honours him with his friendship. And while this unworthy lay on his side in his hut early this night he heard men whispering outside.’
‘The ears of Mpushu are sharper than the bone needles the women use for sewing skin blankets together and his brain is more cunning than that of the jackal in the forest. Tell me, Oh Mpushu, what were the men whispering about?’
‘The miserable sons of tree-dwelling monkeys were speaking ill of my prince Kahawa,’ growled Mpushu. ‘It was that night-walking charlatan Somojo and that fat fool Kiambo. They were saying it was a thing of deep disgrace that the Eagle of Marimba was not showing his sorrow for his dead stepfather by standing outside the Great Hut in armed vigil as the rest of the Wakambi men are doing. Kiambo even went as far as to say that Kahawa seems pleased that his royal stepfather has gone to the land of Forever-Night.’
‘The miserable fat hyaena is quite right!’ cried Kahawa savagely. ‘I am glad that my stepfather is dead, and tomorrow I intend to go into the council hut and tell these back-biting jackals so to their faces! I loathed the man while he lived and I hate him still though he is dead.’
Mpushu wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand and the expression on his cunning face became even more fish-like as he said: ‘Eagle of Marimba, there are times when a man must swallow his pride and push his personal likes and dislikes into the depths of the darkest forests of his mind and do things which he would never have dreamt of doing. And for you, my prince, such a time has come.’
‘If you think that I must pretend – and like a hypocrite mourn a man I hated, Oh Mpushu, then you can go back to sleep, because that I shall never do. I have never pretended in all my life and I shall not start now.’
Eagle of ‘Marimba,’ insisted Mpushu calmly, ‘when you are a chief, or the son of one, there are things you have to do simply for appearance’s sake, simply for the benefit of the stupid fools you rule, even if such things go against your feelings and your pride and conscience. A chieftain must hold the love and respect and the esteem of his subjects, always, otherwise he is lost. A chief or a prince must avoid being the laughing stock of his people, or evoke their scorn, because once that happens he is a chief no more. And your obvious pleasure at the death of your stepfather is fast making you the laughing stock of the Wakambi, Oh Royal Kahawa.’
‘What are they laughing at me for?’ demanded Kahawa hotly.
‘As they went away I heard Kiambo and Somojo agreeing that you are a petty-minded fool who carries hatred to ridiculous levels, to beyond the grave . . .’
‘What!’ cried Kahawa furiously, leaping to his feet and reaching for his spear. ‘The foul beasts dare insult me, the son of Marimba! Their muddy sour apology for blood shall redden my spear!’
‘Killing those two will only make matters worse, Oh my prince,’ said Mpushu calmly. ‘Violence and force are sure signs of failure on the part of the ruler, Eagle of Marimba. Killing his own people can only increase a ruler’s unpopularity.’
‘Well?’ cried Kahawa fiercely, ‘what do you then suggest I should do? Do you want me to go out there and kiss the buttocks of the men who have insulted me?’
‘No,
