future?â
âI can. Sam has been very helpful to me, and has not caused any trouble thus far. You can leave the matter in my hands.â
âVery well, then. Thatâs the end of it. Ali, back to work.â
Before the head man retreated, he gave Sam a lingering, malicious look.
Hungerford waited until he was out of earshot.
âWhen I asked you to keep your man out of trouble, Mr Ketterman, I wasnât referring to his behaviour.â
âNo? Then what do you mean?â
âI mean that you should keep him away from my head man. From what Iâve observed, heâs not a man to be angered. More than one has come to a bloody end after tangling with Swahili Ali.â
Â
Ira dabbed the tincture on Samâs lacerated shoulder.
âSorry, my boy,â he said as Sam pulled back in surprise. âI should have warned you.â
âWhat is it?â Sam asked, looking at the yellow stain on his brown skin.
âItâs iodine. To prevent infection.â
As usual, Sam wanted to know all about iodine and infection.
When Ira had answered his questions, Sam asked one more: âHow do you know so much?â
Ira smiled as he peeled a strip of plaster from its roll. âI donât know. Some things are learned without ever knowing how one learns them.â He placed the plaster over the strip of gauze on Samâs shoulder. âSurely you are the same. For instance, yesterday we came upon a green mamba. I thought it was trying to get away from us, but you pulled me back just in time. How did you know it was about to strike?â
âI thought everyone knew: when the mamba slides to the side like that, it means it wants to bite.â
âI certainly didnât know.â
âHmm ⦠then I must have learned from someone; maybe it was my grandfather.â
âThen I have you or your grandfather to thank.â
Sam gently touched the plaster. âIodine. Where did you learn of iodine?â
âMaybe at university. I canât remember.â
âWhat is university?â
Ira told him about New York University and of his studies in engineering that eventually led him to work in the exciting new motor vehicle industry. He wondered why the interminable questions never became annoying, but Sam was a sponge, absorbing information in an effortless stream.
His recollections of NYU brought back memories of meeting his wife at an inter-varsity basketball game.
âYou are married?â Sam asked.
â Was married. A long time ago.â
The conversation drifted into a discussion on divorce.
His wife, Ruth, didnât want a divorce. She couldnât understand why Ira wasnât content with their lives. She reminded him that they had stuck together through the lean years, but now, just as their life was becoming more comfortable, he wanted out of their marriage.
It had been a very painful period for both of them. More so for Ruth as Ira couldnât explain that, in his mind, the marriage had been a fake.
Ira seldom spoke about those painful times with anyone, but he opened up to Sam. Soon he realised he had burdened the young man with too much of his misery, but there was only compassion in his new friendâs eyes. The empathy was touching and very unsettling for Ira. He was drawn almost irresistibly to reach for Sam; to hold him.
Ira had to flee the overwhelming emotion. He made an excuse and hurried from the tent towards the camp fire.
Â
Bill Hungerford sat at the fireside, a Maasai red shuka draped over the shoulders of his blue silk shirt, and a glass of Dewarâs White Label in his hand. He was alone at the fire, but standing just beyond the throw of firelight was his ancient Kamba gun bearer, Kazimoto, there to keep a watchful eye over Hungerford, as he had done for the past seventeen years.
Ira Ketterman came stumbling from the shadows.
âMr Ketterman. Good evening to you.â
âOh, Mr Hungerford. Good
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