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  For my son, Kushinga, who, among many other names, is also called David.

  Kärt barn har många namn.

  Rakkaalla lapsella on monta nimeä.

  Kjært barn har mange navn.

  For the whole earth is the tomb of famous men; not only are they commemorated by columns and inscriptions in their own country, but in foreign lands there dwells also an unwritten memorial of them, graven not on stone but in the hearts of men.

  Pericles on the Athenian dead, from Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  I trust in Providence still to help me. I know the four rivers Zambesi, Kafué, Luapula, and Lomamé, their fountains must exist in one region. . . . I pray the good Lord of all to favor me so as to allow me to discover the ancient fountains of Herodotus, and if there is anything in the underground excavations to confirm the precious old documents (τά βιβλία), the Scriptures of truth, may He permit me to bring it to light, and give me wisdom to make a proper use of it.

  David Livingstone, The Last Journals of David Livingstone

  This is how we carried out of Africa the poor broken body of Bwana Daudi, the Doctor, David Livingstone, so that he could be borne across the sea and buried in his own land. For more than one thousand and five hundred miles, from the interior to the western coast, we marched with his body; from Chitambo to Muanamuzungu, from Chisalamala to Kumbakumba, from Lambalamfipa to Tabora, until, two hundred and eighty-five days after we left Chitambo, we reached Bagamoyo, that place of sorrow, whose very name means to lay to rest the burden of your heart.

  We set him down in the hushed peace of the church. And all through that long night prayed and sang and keened the seven hundred manumitted slaves from the Village of the Free. After the tide came in the following day, they lined up on either side of the path that led to the dhow of his final crossing. And we watched until the white sail of that rickety wooden boat was a small dark triangle on the far horizon, and all that we could see of him was the sky meeting the shimmering sea.

  He gave up his life to the doomed, demented search for the last great secret of that heaven-descended spring, the world’s longest river; he gave his all to uncover the secret that had preoccupied men of learning for more than two thousand years: the source of the Nile.

  In the final two years of his life, both before and after he was relieved in Ujiji by the American, Bwana Stanley, he was as a man possessed. In every town and village and hamlet through which we passed, Bwana Daudi asked the same question. Had any person seen or heard of a place where four fountains rose, four great fountains that rose out of the ground, between two hills with conical tops? They were the fountains described in ancient times by a long-dead sage called Herodotus, he said, from the far-off land of Greece. To find these fountains, he believed, was to find the source of the Nile.

  When they asked to know what this Nile was, he said it was the world’s longest river, but more than a river, it was a miracle of Creation splendid beyond comprehension. “For it flows for every day of the year, for more than one thousand miles through the most arid of deserts, all without being replenished, for there are no tributaries that flow to fill it,” he said.

  Bwana Daudi was certain that these fountains linked to four great rivers that he knew already, those of Kafue, Lomame, Luapula, and Zambezi. Herodotus, he said, had written that water from these fountains flowed in two directions, with half going up to Egypt and the other half flowing southward. And thus it was that we followed the southward flow of the Luapula into the swamps of Bangweulu, but there, instead of finding the headwaters of the Nile, in the village of Chitambo, Bwana Daudi found his death.

  He is as divided in death as he was in life. His bones lie now in his own land, entombed in the magnificence of ancient stone. In the grave we dug for him under the shade of a mvula tree, his heart, and all the essential parts of him, are at one with the soil of his travels. The grave of his bones proclaims that he was brought over land and sea by our faithful hands. The wise men of his age say he blazed into the darkness of our natal land to leave behind him a track of light where the white men who followed him could go in perfect safety.

  This is all we sixty-nine have ever been in his world: the sixty-nine who carried his bones, the dark companions, his dark companions, the shadowy figures in the caravans in which he moved. We were only ever the pagazi on his journeys, the porters and bearers who carried his loads and built his huts and cooked his meals and washed his clothes and made his beds, the askari who fought his battles, his loyal and faithful retinue.

  On the long and perilous journey to bring him home, ten of our party lost their lives. There are no stones to mark the places where they rest, no epitaphs to announce their deaths. And when we who remain follow where they led, no pilgrims will come to show their children where we lie. But out of that great and troubling darkness came shining light. Our sacrifice burnished the glory of his life.

  This story has been told many times before, but always as the story of the Doctor. And sometimes, as appendages, as mere footnotes in his story, appear the names of Chuma and Susi. They were the first of his companions, the longest serving and the oldest, for the rest of us only joined them in the months just before Bwana Daudi’s death.

  In some incarnations, they are two friends. In yet others, they are two brothers. Always they are Bwana Daudi’s most faithful servants, just the two of them carrying his bones; a testament to the strength of the bonds of servitude, confirming the piety of Christian faith, his faith, his piety, his sainthood—for who but a saint could inspire such service?

  They are sometimes called Susi and Chuma, but more often, they are Chuma and Susi. Seldom do their full names appear: never are they James Chuma, whom Bwana Daudi rescued from the bondage of slavery, and Abdullah Susi, the Mohammedan shipbuilder from Shupanga who served a Christian master. They are remembered, if at all, as the lone bearers of Bwana Daudi’s bones, as those who were there before.

  What if we had known then what we know now?

  When we bore his body out of Africa, we carried with us the maps of what the men of his world would come to call his last great discovery, the mighty river called the Lualaba. What if we had known then that our final act of loyalty to him would sow the seeds of our children’s betrayal, their fate and their children’s children’s also; that the Lualaba of his drawings was the mouth of the great Congo of our downfall, the navigable river down which would come the white man, Winchester rifle aloft and Maxim gun charged?

  In just eleven years, the England to which we gave back its glorious son would gather at a table with others and, in the casual act of drawing lines on a map, insert borders and boundaries where there had been none, tearing nations and families asunder. Down the Lualaba they came, down the great Congo, with steamships and guns, with rubber plantations and taxes and new names for all the burial places of our ancestors. And every one of the men, women, and children that we met on our journey, every friend and foe, slaver and enslaved, would, in a matter of years, be claimed as the newest subjects of Europe’s kings and queen.

  All that was to come, but first:

  This is more than the story of two men, Susi and Chuma; it is also the stor
y of the caravan leaders Chowpereh and Uledi Munyasere; of Amoda, son of Mahmud; and of Nathaniel Cumba, known as Mabruki. It is the story of the men from the Nassick Mission in India, manumitted slaves all, among them Carus Farrar and Farjallah Christie, who, as easily as though they were slicing a fish, opened up the Doctor in death, and of Jacob Wainwright, who inscribed the epitaph on the grave of his heart. It is the story of the women who traveled with us, Misozi and Ntaoéka, Khadijah and Laede, Binti Sumari and Kaniki.

  It is the story of Halima, the Doctor’s cook, who scolded long and hard until we said yes, yes, we would send him back whence he came, to his home across the water. It is the story of the boy Majwara, the youngest of the companions, who found the Doctor kneeling in death, and, with every beat of his drum, beat the life into our legs as we marched on that long and toilsome journey into the interior.

  It is the story of Bwana Daudi, of his final years of suffering and his relief by Bwana Stanley and the sights that broke his spirit and wounded his heart even as he marched on, unto his death. It is the story of all these and many more, the story of the Doctor’s and our own last journey: the march to his certain death, and on to Bagamoyo.

  I

  * * *

  CHEMCHEMI YA HERODOTUS

  1

  * * *

  Before embarking on this enterprise, Dr. Livingstone had not definitely made up his mind which course he should take, as his position was truly deplorable. His servants consisted of Susi, Chuma, Hamoydah, Gardner, and Halimah, the female cook and wife of Hamoydah.

  Henry Morton Stanley, How I Found Livingstone

  It is strange, is it not, how the things you know will happen do not ever happen the way you think they will happen when they do happen? On the morning that we found him, I was woken by a dream of cloves. The familiar, sweetly cloying smell came so sharply to my nose that I might have been back at the spice market in Zanzibar, a slim-limbed girl again, supposedly learning how to pick out the best for the Liwali’s kitchen, but really standing first on one leg, then the other, and my mother saying, but, Halima, you don’t listen, which was true enough because I was paying more attention to the sounds of the day—the call of the muezzin, the cries of the auctioneers at the slave market, the donkeys braying in protest, the packs of dogs snarling over the corpses of slaves outside the customs house, and the screeching laughter of children.

  I think of my mother often enough, but it is seldom that she comes to me in my dreams. She was the suria of the Liwali of Zanzibar, one of his favorite slaves, although she never bore him a child to become umm al-walad, and what a thing that would have been for her, to bear the Liwali’s child; for he was the Sultan’s representative back in the days when Said the Great, Seyyid Said bin Sultan that was, lived in Muscat, across the water in Oman, and not in Zanzibar.

  My mother says I was born before the Sultan moved the capital from Muscat. In those days, the Sultan had the Liwali to act for him in Zanzibar, and yes, there was the great lord of the Swahili in Zanzibar, the Mwinyi Mkuu, they called him, but the Sultan needed his own man, someone who was an Arab through and through, an Omani of the first rank.

  Though to look at the Liwali, well, you could see at once there was an African slave or two in his blood, and that’s no lie. He had his three official wives, the Liwali did, he had his three horme, they called them, and also his concubines, the ten sariri in his harem. That is plenty enough woman for any man, but it was not nearly as many concubines as Said the Great, for he had seventy-five wives and sariri, who gave him more than a hundred children.

  My mother was the only dark-skinned suria among the Liwali’s sariri concubines, for they were all Circassians and Turks and whatnot, and although they said a suria was the best kind of slave to be, and only the comely women were chosen to be sariri, for my mother, who was also a cook, being a suria only meant that she was doubly enslaved: at night, a slave in the Liwali’s harem, and in the day, a slave in his kitchen.

  The Liwali has been dead these many years. His house is now owned by Ludda Dhamji, a rich Indian merchant from Bombay. They say he is more powerful than the Liwali was, for he has lent Said Bhargash, the new sultan, ever so much money. Ludda Dhamji controls the customs house too, and takes a share of every slave sold at the slave market and every single one that goes to Persia and Arabia, to India and up and down the whole coast of the Indian Ocean. That is wealth indeed.

  I was roused from my dream, and all thoughts of my former life, by the sound of running feet and loud voices. I could tell at once that something was wrong. Ntaoéka and Laede had not yet made the fires, no surprise that, for it was between the morn and night.

  For all that, I could make out their forms easily enough; the moon was still bright. The watch was up, but so were others who need not have been. The porters and expedition leaders were in a flurry of movement. Even the most useless of the pagazi, like that thief Chirango, who normally needed Majwara’s drum to beat some spirit into his lazy legs, moved as quickly as the others, going from one group to the next, and then from that group to the one after that.

  Susi ran to the boy Majwara, Asmani ran to Uledi Munyasere, Saféné ran to Chowpereh. It was all confusion, like chickens before a rainstorm. Under the big mvula tree, the Nassick boys were conferring in a huddle.

  There were seven of them, all freedmen who had been captured by slavers as boys and rescued by giant jahazi sent by the queen from the land of Bwana Daudi. Ships, they called them, dhows that are as high as houses and almost as big as the Liwali’s palace, Susi said. They had been taken in these jahazi ships to India, where they were taught to speak out of their own tongues, and instead learned all sorts of other muzungu tongues to speak. They were also given trades to learn and books to read, and paper to write on and clothes that made them look like wazungu.

  In their midst was the tall figure of Jacob Wainwright, fully dressed even at this hour. It can rain the hail of a thousand storms, and the sun can bake with the cruelty of Tippoo Tip’s slave raids, and still Jacob will wear his suit.

  It was given to him by the man he was named for, he says, and if you ask me, if the good man could only see how Jacob sweats in it every hour of every day, he might well have rethought his gift. I could see no sign of the other Wainwright, Jacob’s brother John. Well, I say his brother, but Jacob himself claims that John is no brother of his, and it is no wonder that he will not claim such a brother. The man is lazier than a herd of sleeping hippos. He even lost our two best milking cows. You would think he had never tended a cow before. What they teach them at that school in India besides reading and talking English, I really don’t know.

  I had an inkling of what it might be that had raised the camp at such an hour. I made my way to the mvula tree and touched the shoulder of Matthew Wellington.

  “Is it so?” I said.

  He nodded but did not speak. I let out a cry that startled a nearby owl into flutter. Susi detached himself from the cluster of the most senior pagazi and came toward me. I flung myself into his arms. Susi has never needed an excuse to be near me, that he has not, not from the first time he saw me. If there is something I understand, it is the look that a man gives a woman when he wants her, and if I had a gold nugget for every one of those looks that Susi has given me, I would be the daughter of that rich Indian Ludda Dhamji, that I would.

  Just as I was letting myself go in his arms, my man Amoda came up, and Susi hastily let me go, but not before I had felt the stiffness of him. With the Doctor lying just yards away, dead as anything! Filthy goat.

  Before Amoda could remonstrate with me, Susi had pulled him to the side. My instinct was to find another woman. Heading to the hut where Ntaoéka had slept the night before, I let out a cry that split the heavens, thinking she would join me. No answer came. She had probably made a bed somewhere with that Mabruki, to whom she had so foolishly attached herself. Even in the perturbation of my spirits, I could not help remembering that just a week ago, she had been saying he was no man at all, that he
was nothing but a donkey, and a lazy one at that.

  “Well,” I had said to her then, “you could have had your pick when Bwana Daudi told you to choose. You could have had Gardner, you could have had Chuma, but you chose to be with Mabruki.”

  Back when we were in Unyanyembe, and she had glued herself to our party without ever being invited, Bwana Daudi had said she was to choose one of his free men to be her husband. Right he was, because a good-looking thing like her had caused us no end of trouble from being untethered.

  Within a week of being hired as washerwoman in Unyanyembe, she was making eyes at Amoda. There are many things you can say about that man of mine, but it is true that he has no trouble attracting women. He is almost as fine a specimen of a man as Susi, well grown and tall. But though he does not have Susi’s hearty, merry laugh that you want to hear again and again, he has a way with him that would win any woman’s heart. When I first saw him, back in Tabora when I was with my Arab merchant, he fairly drove me distracted. He was all I could think of until I had him. Of course, once I had him he soon showed himself for who he was, and I have the bruises to prove it, don’t I. And I often wish that it had been Susi that I saw first instead.

  But for as long as I was Halima, the daughter of Zafrene, the Liwali’s favorite suria, I was not going to let Ntaoéka get away with simpering and smiling in my man’s direction, even if that man was as hard a man to love as my Amoda. I had no problem using my fists on her, I most certainly did not. For that, I roused the anger of Bwana Daudi, who said it was all my fault. But after she started to make eyes at Susi, to the great anger of his woman Misozi, he came to see things my way.

  We had met Misozi in Ujiji, in the weeks before Bwana Stanley found us. She was especially helpful to me then, and no wonder; she had her eye on Susi. Her own man had gone on a trading mission to Tabora and not come back, she said. She would rather travel with us and be Susi’s road woman than continue to wait for her own man in Ujiji. She has a most trying nature, Misozi, with the brains of a baby goat, but it was good to have another woman about, all the same.