‘How many what?’ I said.
‘Germani, bwana, Germani! How many did you get with that fine machine-gun you had out on the road?’
I looked at him and smiled. I refused to blame him for what he had done. He was a wild Mwanumwezi tribesman who had been moulded by us Europeans into the shape of a domestic servant, and now he had broken the mould.
‘Have you told anyone else what you have done?’
‘Not yet, bwana, I came to you first.’
‘Now listen carefully,’ I said. ‘You must tell nobody about this, not your father, not your wives, not your best friend and not Piggy the cook. Do you understand me?’
‘But I must tell them!’ he cried. ‘You cannot take that pleasure away from me, bwana!’
‘You must not tell them, Mdisho,’ I said.
‘But why not?’ he cried. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ I lied.
‘Then why must I not tell my people?’ he asked again.
I tried to explain to him how the authorities would react if they found him out. It simply wasn’t done to go round chopping heads off civilians, even in wartime. It could mean prison, I told him, or even worse than that.
He couldn’t believe me. He was absolutely shattered.
‘I myself am tremendously proud of you,’ I said, trying to make him feel better. ‘To me you are a great hero.’
‘But only to you, bwana?’
‘No, Mdisho. I think you would be a hero to most of the British people here if they knew what you had done. But that doesn’t help. It is the police who would go after you.’
‘The police!’ he cried in horror. If there was one thing in Dar es Salaam that every local was terrified of, it was the police. The police constables were all blacks, acting under a couple of white officers at the top, and they were not famous for being gentle with prisoners.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the police.’ I felt pretty sure they would charge Mdisho with murder if they caught him.
‘If it is the police, then I will keep quiet, bwana,’ he said, and all of a sudden he looked so downcast and disillusioned and defeated that I couldn’t bear it. I got up from the chair and crossed the room and took the scabbard of the sword down from the wall. ‘I shall be leaving you very soon,’ I said. ‘I have decided to join the war as a flier of aeroplanes.’ The only word for aeroplane in the Swahili language is ndegi, which means bird, and it always sounded good and descriptive in a sentence. ‘I am going to fly birds,’ I said. ‘I shall fly English birds against the birds of the Germani.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mdisho cried, brightening again suddenly at the mention of war. ‘I will come with you, bwana.’
‘Sadly, that will be impossible,’ I said. ‘In the beginning I shall be nothing but a very humble bird-soldier of the lowest rank, like your most junior askaris here, and I shall be living in barracks. There would be no question of me being allowed to have somebody to help me. I shall have to do everything for myself, including the washing and ironing of my shirts.’
‘That would be absolutely impossible, bwana,’ Mdisho said. He was genuinely shocked.
‘I shall manage quite well,’ I told him.
‘But do you know how to iron a shirt, bwana?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You must teach me that secret before I go.’
‘Will it be very dangerous, bwana, where you are going, and do those Germani birds have many guns?’
‘It might be dangerous,’ I said, ‘but the first six months will be nothing but fun. It takes six months for them to teach you how to fly a bird.’
‘Where will you go?’ he asked.
‘First to Nairobi,’ I answered. ‘They will start us on very small birds in Nairobi, and then we will go somewhere else to fly the big ones. We shall be travelling a great deal with very little luggage. That is why I shall have to leave this sword behind. It would be impossible to carry a great big thing like this with me wherever I go. So I am giving it to you.’
‘To me!’ he cried. ‘Oh no, bwana, you mustn’t do that! You will need it where you are going!’