Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

FARTHEST, BUT SHUT, IN 169
there are too many such—is like a head without eyes
in it, a face without a smile. You shiver in it even
when the air is warm, and you wonder why you do
so. Not so the negro. The first Luban who saw a
fire on the hearth deplored such a wicked waste of
fuel, and on seeing the flame running up the chimney,
actually proposed to run up after it. If all the heat
goes out at the top, why not take the overland route,
why not climb the roof, squat on the chimney, and
catch it coming out ?
In the days when I was the only white skin at
Bunkeya I got to size up my Mushidi rather closely.
Here the five hundred wives stream in on him with
well-cooked dainties, for do they not all vie with each
other to capture the Chiefs citadel, his stomach ? The
prose of this culinary combat, if converted into the poetry
of porridge, probably runs :
"The turnpike road to royal hearts, I find,
Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind."
Thus it Cometh to pass that, pampered with negro
luxury and softened by sloth, strength is forsaking
Mushidi's limbs as common sense his skull, and the old
tale is once again true that luxury is the conqueror
of conquerors. He never dreams what a great luxury
it is to dispense with luxury. Hungry as I often am
these days, Mushidi and I dine together on all manner
of messes, the only other invited guests being one or
two tiny negro tots who cannot aspire to be Mushidi's