“I don’t know about that, Saduko. I never promised you that I would make war upon Bangu–with or without the king’s leave.”
“No, you never promised, but Zikali the Dwarf, the Wise Little One, said that you would–and does Zikali lie? Ask yourself, who will remember a certain saying of his about a buffalo with a cleft horn, a pool and a dry river-bed. Farewell, O my father Macumazahn; I walk with the dawn, and I leave Mameena in your keeping.”
“You mean that you leave me in Mameena’s keeping,” I began, but already he was crawling through the hole in the hut.
Well, Mameena kept me very comfortably. She was always in evidence, yet not too much so.
Heedless of her malice and abuse, she headed off the “Worn-out-old-Cow,” whom she knew I detested, from my presence. She saw personally to my bandages, as well as to the cooking of my food, over which matter she had several quarrels with the bastard, Scowl, who did not like her, for on him she never wasted any of her sweet looks. Also, as I grew stronger, she sat with me a good deal, talking, since, by common consent, Mameena the fair was exempted from all the field, and even the ordinary household labours that fall to the lot of Kafir women. Her place was to be the ornament and, I may add, the advertisement of her father’s kraal. Others might do the work, and she saw that they did it.
We discussed all sorts of things, from the Christian and other religions and European policy down, for her thirst for knowledge seemed to be insatiable. But what really interested her was the state of affairs in Zululand, with which she knew I was well acquainted, as a person who had played a part in its history and who was received and trusted at the Great House, and as a white man who understood the designs and plans of the Boers and of the Governor of Natal.
Now, if the old king, Panda, should chance to die, she would ask me, which of his sons did I think would succeed him–Umbelazi or Cetewayo, or another? Or, if he did not chance to die, which of them would he name his heir?
I replied that I was not a prophet, and that she had better ask Zikali the Wise.
“That is a very good idea,” she said, “only I have no one to take me to him, since my father would not allow me to go with Saduko, his ward.” Then she clapped her hands and added: “Oh, Macumazahn, will you take me? My father would trust me with you.”
“Yes, I dare say,” I answered; “but the question is, could I trust myself with you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Oh, I understand. Then, after all, I am more to you than a black stone to play with?”
I think it was that unlucky joke of mine which first set Mameena thinking, “like a white ant in its tunnel,” as Saduko said. At least, after it her manner towards me changed; she became very deferential; she listened to my words as though they were all wisdom; I caught her looking at me with her soft eyes as though I were quite an admirable object. She began to talk to me of her difficulties, her troubles and her ambitions. She asked me for my advice as to Saduko. On this point I replied to her that, if she loved him, and her father would allow it, presumably she had better marry him.
“I like him well enough, Macumazahn, although he wearies me at times; but love– Oh, tell me, what is love?” Then she clasped her slim hands and gazed at me like a fawn.
“Upon my word, young woman,” I replied, “that is a matter upon which I should have thought you more competent to instruct me.”
“Oh, Macumazahn,” she said almost in a whisper, and letting her head droop like a fading lily, “you have never given me the chance, have you?” And she laughed a little, looking extremely attractive.
“Good gracious!”–or, rather, its Zulu equivalent–I answered, for I began to feel nervous. “What do you mean, Mameena? How could I–” There I stopped.