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The Manamouki
by Mike Resnick
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Copyright (c)1990 by Mike Resnick
Hugo Award Winner

Fictionwise Contemporary
Science Fiction

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       MANY EONS AGO, the children of Gikuyu, who was himself the first Kikuyu, lived on the slopes of the holy mountain Kirinyaga, which men now call Mount Kenya.
       There were many serpents on the mountain, but the sons and grandsons of Gikuyu found them repulsive, and they soon killed all but one.
       Then one day the last serpent entered their village and killed and ate a young child.  The children of Gikuyu sought out their mundumugu -- their witch doctor -- and asked him to destroy the menace.
       The mundumugu rolled the bones and sacrificed a goat, and finally he created a poison that would kill the serpent.  He slit open the belly of another goat, and placed the poison inside it, and left it beneath a tree, and the very next day the serpent swallowed the goat and died.
       "Now," said the mundumugu, "you must cut the serpent into one hundred pieces and scatter them on the holy mountain, so that no demon can breathe life back into its body."
       The children of Gikuyu did as they were instructed, and scattered the hundred pieces of the serpent across the slopes of Kirinyaga.  But during the night, each piece came to life and became a new serpent, and soon the Kikuyu were afraid to leave their bomas.
       The mundumugu ascended the mountain, and when he neared the highest peak, he addressed Ngai.
       "We are beseiged by serpents," he said.  "If you do not slay them, then the Kikuyu shall surely die as a people."
       "I made the serpent, just as I made the Kikuyu and all other things," answered Ngai, who sat on His golden throne atop Kirinyaga.  "And anything that I made, be it a man or a serpent or a tree or even an idea, is not repellant in My eyes.  I will save you this one time, because you are young and ignorant, but you must never forget that you cannot destroy that which you find repulsive -- for if you try to destroy it, it will always return one hundred times greater than before."
       This is one of the reasons why the Kikuyu chose to till the soil rather than hunt the beasts of the jungle like the Wakamba, or make war on their neighbors like the Maasai, for they had no wish to see that which they destroyed return to plague them.  It is a lesson taught by every mundumugu to his people, even after we left Kenya and emigrated to the terraformed world of Kirinyaga.
       In the entire history of our tribe, only one mundumugu ever forgot the lesson that Ngai taught atop the holy mountain on that distant day.
       And that mundumugu was myself.
         * * * *
When I awoke, I found hyena dung within the thorn enclosure of my boma.  That alone should have warned me that the day carried a curse, for there is no worse omen.  Also the breeze, hot and dry and filled with dust, came from the west, and all good winds come from the east.
       It was the day that our first immigrants were due to arrive.  We had argued long and hard against allowing any newcomers to settle on Kirinyaga, for we were dedicated to the old ways of our people, and we wanted no outside influences corrupting the society that we had created.  But our charter clearly stated that any Kikuyu who pledged to obey our laws and made the necessary payments to the Eutopian Council could emigrate from Kenya, and after postponing the inevitable for as long as we could, we finally agreed to accept Thomas Nkobe and his wife.
       Of all the candidates for immigration, Nkobe had seemed the best.  He had been born in Kenya, had grown up in the shadow of the holy mountain, and after going abroad for his schooling, had returned and run the large farm his family had purchased from one of the last European residents.  Most important of all, he was a direct descendant of Jomo Kenyatta, the great Burning Spear of Kenya who had led us to independence.
       I trudged out across the hot, arid savannah to the tiny landing field at Haven to greet our new arrivals, accompanied only by Ndemi, my youthful assistant.  Twice buffalo blocked our path, and once Ndemi had to hurl some stones to frighten a hyena away, but eventually we reached our destination, only to discover that the Maintenance ship which was carrying Nkobe and his wife had not yet arrived.  I squatted down in the shade of an acacia tree, and a moment later Ndemi crouched down beside me.
       "They are late," he said, peering into the cloudless sky.  "Perhaps they will not come at all."
       "They will come," I said.  "The signs all point to it."
       "But they are bad signs, and Nkobe may be a good man."
       "There are many good men," I replied.  "Not all of them belong on Kirinyaga."
       "You are worried, Koriba?" asked Ndemi as a pair of crested cranes walked through the dry, brittle grass, and a vulture rode the thermals overhead.
       "I am concerned," I said.
       "Why?"
       "Because I do not know why he wants to live here."
       "Why shouldn't he?" asked Ndemi, picking up a dry twig and methodically breaking it into tiny pieces.  "Is it not Utopia?"
       "There are many different notions of Utopia," I replied.  "Kirinyaga is the Kikuyu's."
       "And Nkobe is a Kikuyu, so this is where he belongs," said Ndemi decisively.
       "I wonder."
       "Why?"
       "Because he is almost 40 years old.  Why did he wait so long to come here?"
       "Perhaps he could not afford to come sooner."
       I shook my head.  "He comes from a very wealthy family."
       "They have many cattle?" asked Ndemi.
       "Many," I said.
       "And goats?"
       I nodded.
       "Will he bring them with him?"
       "No.  He will come empty-handed, as we all did." I paused, frowning.  "Why would a man who owned a large farm and had many tractors and men to do his work turn his back on all that he possessed?  That is what troubles me."
       "You make it sound like the way he lived on Earth was better," said Ndemi, frowning.
       "Not better, just different."
       He paused for a moment.  "Koriba, what is a tractor?"
       "A machine that does the work of many men in the fields."
       "It sounds truly wonderful," offered Ndemi.
       "It makes deep wounds in the ground and stinks of gasoline," I said, making no effort to hide my contempt.
       We sat in silence for another moment.  Then the Maintenance ship came into view, its descent creating a huge cloud of dust and causing a great screeching and squawking by the birds and monkeys in the nearby trees.  "Well," I said, "we shall soon have our answer."
       I remained in the shade until the ship had touched down and Thomas Nkobe and his wife emerged from its interior.  He was a tall, well-built man dressed in casual Western clothes; she was slender and graceful, her hair elegantly braided, her khaki slacks and hunting jacket exquisitely tailored.
       "Hello!" said Nkobe in English as I approached him.  "I was afraid we might have to find our way to the village ourselves."
       "Jambo," I replied in Swahili.  "Welcome to Kirinyaga."
       "Jambo," he amended, switching to Swahili.  "Are you Koinnage?"
       "No," I answered.  "Koinnage is our paramount chief.  You will live in his village."
       "And you are?"
       "I am Koriba," I said.
       "He is the mundumugu," added Ndemi proudly.  "I am Ndemi." He paused.  "Someday I will be a mundumugu too."
       Nkobe smiled down at him.  "I'm sure you will." Suddenly he remembered his wife.  "And this is Wanda."
       She stepped forward, smiled, and extended her hand.  "A true mundumugu!" she said in heavily-accented Swahili.  "I'm thrilled to meet you!"
       "I hope you will enjoy your new life on Kirinyaga," I said, shaking her hand.
       "Oh, I'm certain I will," she replied enthusiastically, as the ship disgorged their baggage and promptly took off again.  She looked around at the dry savannah, and saw a trio of maribou storks and a jackal patiently waiting for a hyena to finish gorging itself on the wildebeest calf it had killed earlier in the morning.  "I love it already!" She paused, then added confidentially, "I'm really the one who got Tom to agree to come here."
       "Oh?"
       She nodded her head.  "I just couldn't stand what Kenya has become.  All those factories, all that pollution!  Ever since I learned about Kirinyaga, I've wanted to move here, to come back to Nature and live the way we were meant to live." She inhaled deeply.  "Smell that air, Tom!  It will add ten years to your life."
       "You don't have to sell me any more," he said with a smile.  "I'm here, aren't I?"
       I turned to Wanda Nkobe.  "You yourself are not Kikuyu, are you?"
       "I am now," she replied.  "Ever since I married Tom.  But to answer your question, no, I was born and raised in Oregon."
       "Oregon?" repeated Ndemi, brushing some flies away from his face with his hand.
       "That's in America," she explained.  She paused.  "By the way, why are we speaking Swahili rather than Kikuyu?"
       "Kikuyu is a dead language," I said.  "Most of our people no longer know it."
       "I had rather hoped it would still be spoken here," she said, obviously disappointed.  "I've been studying it for months."
       "If you had moved to Italy, you would not speak Latin," I replied.  "We still use a few Kikuyu words, just as the Italians use a few Latin words."
       She was silent for a moment, then shrugged.  "At least I'll have the opportunity to improve my Swahili."
       "I am surprised that you are willing to forego the amenities of America for Kirinyaga," I said, studying her closely.
       "I was willing years ago," she answered.  "It was Tom who had to be convinced, not me." She paused.  "Besides, I gave up most of those so-called amenities when I left America and moved to Kenya."
       "Even Kenya has certain luxuries," I noted.  "We have no electricity here, no running water, no -- "
       "We camp out whenever we can," she said, and I placed a hand on Ndemi's shoulder before he could chide her for interrupting the mundumugu.  "I'm used to roughing it."
       "But you have always had a home to return to."
       She stared at me, an amused smile on her face.  "Are you trying to talk me out of moving here?"
       "No," I replied.  "But I wish to point out that nothing is immutable.  Any member of our society who is unhappy and wishes to leave need only inform Maintenance of the fact and a ship will arrive at Haven an hour later."
       "Not us," she said.  "We're in for the long haul."
       "The long haul?" I repeated.
       "She means that we're here to stay," explained Nkobe, putting an arm around his wife's shoulders.
       A hot breeze sent the dust swirling around us.
       "I think I should take you to the village," I said, shielding my eyes.  "You are doubtless tired and will wish to rest."
       "Not at all," said Wanda Nkobe.  "This is a brand-new world.  I want to look around." Her gaze fell upon Ndemi, who was staring at her intently.  "Is something wrong?" she asked.
       "You are very strong and sturdy," said Ndemi approvingly.  "That is good.  You will bear many children."
       "I certainly hope not," she said.  "If there's one thing Kenya has more than enough of, it's children."
       "This is not Kenya," said Ndemi.
       "I will find other ways to contribute to the society."
       Ndemi studied her for a moment.  "Well," he said at last, "I suppose you can carry firewood."
       "I'm glad I meet with your approval," she said.
       "But you will need a new name," continued Ndemi.  "Wanda is a European name."
       "It is just a name," I said.  "Changing it will not make her more of a Kikuyu."
       "I have no objection," she interjected.  "I'm starting a new life; I ought to have a new name."
       I shrugged.  "Which name will you take as your own?"
       She smiled at Ndemi.  "You choose one," she said.
       He furrowed his brow for a long moment, then looked up at her.  "My mother's sister, who died in childbirth last year, was named Mwange, and now there is no one in the village of that name."
       "Then Mwange it shall be," she said.  "Mwange wa Ndemi."
       "But I am not your father," said Ndemi.
       She smiled at him.  "You are the father of my new name."
       Ndemi puffed his chest up proudly.
       "Well, now that that's settled," said Nkobe, "what about our luggage?"
       "You will not need it," I said.
       "Yes we will," said Mwange.
       "You were told to bring nothing of Kenya with you."
       "I've brought some kikois that I made myself," she said.  "Surely that must be permissible, since I will be expected to weave my own fabrics and make my own clothes on Kirinyaga."
       I considered her explanation for a moment, then nodded my consent.  "I will send one of the village children for the bags."
       "It's not that heavy," said Nkobe.  "I can carry it myself."
       "Kikuyu men do not fetch and carry," said Ndemi.
       "What about Kikuyu women?" asked Mwange, obviously reluctant to leave the luggage behind.
       "They carry firewood and grain, not bags of clothing," responded Ndemi.  "Those," he said, pointing contemptuously toward the two leather bags, "are for children."
       "Then we might as well start walking," said Mwange.  "There are no children here."
       Ndemi beamed with pride and strutted forward.
       "Let Ndemi go first," I said.  "His eyes are young and clear.  He will be able to see any snakes or hyenas hiding in the tall grass."
       "Do you have poisonous snakes here?" asked Nkobe.
       "A few."
       "Why don't you kill them?"
       "Because this is not Kenya," I replied.
       I walked directly behind Ndemi, and Nkobe and Mwange followed us, remarking upon the scenery and the animals to each other.  After about half a mile we came to an impala ram standing directly in our path.
       "Isn't he beautiful?" whispered Mwange.  "Look at the horns on him!"
       "I wish I had my camera with me!" said Nkobe.
       "We do not permit cameras on Kirinyaga," I said.
       "I know," said Nkobe.  "But to be perfectly honest, I can't see how something as simple as a camera could be a corrupting influence to your society."
       "To have a camera, one needs film, and one must therefore have a factory that manufactures both cameras and films.  To develop the film, one needs chemicals, and then one must find a place to dump those chemicals that haven't been used.  To print the pictures, one needs photographic paper, and we have barely enough wood to burn in our fires." I paused.  "Kirinyaga supplies us with all of our desires.  That is why we came here."
       "Kirinyaga supplied you with all of your needs," said Mwange.  "That is not quite the same thing."
       Suddenly Ndemi stopped walking and turned to her.
       "This is your first day here, so you are to be forgiven your ignorance," he explained.  "But no manamouki may argue with the mundumugu."
       "Manamouki?" she repeated.  "What is a manamouki?"
       "You are," said Ndemi.
       "I've heard that word before," said Nkobe.  "I think it means wife."
       "You are wrong," I said.  "A manamouki is a female."
       "You mean a woman?" asked Mwange.
       I shook my head.  "Any female property," I said.  "A woman, a cow, a sow, a bitch, a ewe."
       "And Ndemi thinks I'm some kind of property?"
       "You are Nkobe's manamouki," said Ndemi.
       She considered it for a moment, then shrugged with amusement.  "What the hell," she said in English.  "If Wanda was only a name, manamouki is only a word.  I can live with it."
       "I hope so," I replied in Swahili, "for you will have to."
       She turned to me.  "I know we are the first immigrants to come to Kirinyaga, and that you must have your doubts about us -- but this is the life I've always wanted.  I'm going to be the best damned manamouki you ever saw."
       "I hope so," I said, but I noticed that the wind still blew from the west.
         * * * *
I introduced Nkobe and Mwange to their neighbors, showed them their shamba where they would grow their food, pointed out their six cattle and ten goats and recommended that they lock them in their boma at night to protect them from the hyenas, told them how to reach the river to procure water, and left them at the entrance to their hut.  Mwange seemed enthused about everything, and was soon engaged in animated conversation with the women who came by to look at her strange outfit.
       "She is very nice," commented Ndemi as I walked through the fields, blessing the scarecrows.  "Perhaps the omens you read were wrong."
       "Perhaps," I said.
       He stared at me.  "But you do not think so."
       "No."
       "Well, I like her," he said.
       "That is your right."
       "Do you dislike her, then?"
       I paused as I considered my answer.
       "No," I said at last.  "I fear her."
       "But she is just a manamouki!" he protested.  "She can do no harm."
       "Under the proper circumstances, anything can do harm."
       "I do not believe it," said Ndemi.
       "Do you doubt your mundumugu's word?" I asked.
       "No," he said uncomfortably.  "If you say something, then it must be true.  But I cannot understand how."
       I smiled wryly.  "That is because you are not yet a mundumugu."
       He stopped and pointed to a spot some 300 yards away, where a group of impala does were grazing.
       "Can even they do harm?" he asked.
       "Yes."
       "But how?" he asked, frowning.  "When danger appears, they do not confront it, but run away from it.  Ngai has not blessed them with horns, so they cannot defend themselves.  They are not large enough to destroy our crops.  They cannot even kick an enemy, as can the zebra.  I do not understand."
       "I shall tell you the tale of the Ugly Buffalo, and then you will understand," I said.
       Ndemi smiled happily, for he loved stories above all things, and I led him to the shade of a thorn tree, where we both squatted down, facing each other.
       "One day a cow buffalo was wandering through the savannah," I began.  "The hyenas had recently taken her first calf, and she was very sad.  Then she came upon a newborn impala, whose mother had been killed by hyenas that very morning.
       "'I would like to take you home with me,' said the buffalo, 'for I am very lonely, and have much love in my heart.  But you are not a buffalo.'
       "'I, too, am very lonely,' said the impala.  'And if you leave me here, alone and unprotected, I surely will not survive the night.'
       "'There is a problem,' said the buffalo.  'You are an impala, and we are buffalo.  You do not belong with us.'
       "'I will become the best buffalo of all,' promised the impala.  'I will eat what you eat, drink what you drink, go where you go.'
       "'How can you become a buffalo?  You cannot even grow horns.'
       "'Then I will wear the branches of a tree upon my head.'
       "'You do not wallow in the mud to protect your skin from parasites,' noted the buffalo.
       "'Take me home with you and I will cover myself with more mud than any other buffalo,' said the impala.
       "For every objection the buffalo raised, the impala had an answer, and finally the buffalo agreed to take the impala back with her.  Most of the members of the herd thought that the impala was the ugliest buffalo they had ever seen," -- Ndemi chuckled at that -- "but because the impala tried so hard to act like a buffalo, they allowed her to remain.
       "Then one day a number of young buffalo were grazing some distance from the herd, and they came to a deep mud wallow that blocked their way.
       "'We must return to the herd,' said one of the young buffalo.
       "'Why?' asked the impala.  "There is fresh grass on the other side of the wallow."
       "'Because we have been warned that a deep wallow such as this can suck us down beneath the surface and kill us.'
       "'I do not believe it,' said the impala, and, bolder than her companions, she walked out to the center of the mud wallow.
       "'You see?' she said.  'I have not been sucked beneath the surface.  It is perfectly safe.'
       "Soon three of the young buffalo ventured out across the mud wallow, and each in turn was sucked beneath the surface and drowned.
       "'It is the ugly buffalo's fault,' said the king of the herd.  'Is was she who told them to cross the mud wallow.'
       "'But she meant no harm,' said her foster mother.  'And what she told them was true: the wallow was safe for her.  All she wants is to live with the herd and be a buffalo; please do not punish her."
       "The king was blessed with more generosity than wisdom, and so he forgave the ugly buffalo.
       "Then, a week later, the ugly buffalo, who could leap as high as a tall bush, jumped up in the air and saw a pack of hyenas lurking in the grass.  She waited until they were almost close enough to catch her, and then cried out a warning.  All the buffalo began running, but the hyenas were able to catch the ugly buffalo's foster mother, and they pulled her down and killed her.
       "Most of the other buffalo were grateful to the ugly buffalo for warning them, but during the intervening week there had been a new king, and this one was wiser than the previous one.
       "'It is the ugly buffalo's fault,' he said.
       "'How can it be her fault?' asked one of the older buffalo.  'It was she who warned us of the hyenas.'
       "'But she only warned you when it was too late,' said the king.  'Had she warned you when she first saw the hyenas, her mother would still be among us.  But she forgot that we cannot run as fast as she can, and so her mother is dead.'
       "And the new king, though his heart was sad, decreed that the ugly buffalo must leave the herd, for there is a great difference between being a buffalo and wanting to be a buffalo."
       I leaned back against the tree, my story completed.
       "Did the ugly buffalo survive?" asked Ndemi.
       I shrugged and brushed a crawling insect from my forearm.  "That is another story."
       "She meant no harm."
       "But she caused harm nonetheless."
       Ndemi traced patterns in the dirt with his finger as he considered my answer, then looked up at me.  "But if she had not been with the herd, the hyenas would have killed her mother anyway."
       "Perhaps."
       "Then it was not her fault."
       "If I fall asleep against this tree, and you see a black mamba slithering through the grass toward me, and you make no attempt to wake me, and the mamba kills me, would you be to blame for my death?" I asked.
       "Yes."
       "Even though it would certainly have killed me had you not been here?"
       Ndemi frowned.  "It is a difficult problem."
       "Yes, it is."
       "The mud wallow was much easier," he said.  "That was surely the ugly buffalo's fault, for without her urging, the other buffalo would never have entered it."
       "That is true," I said.
       Ndemi remained motionless for a few moments, still wrestling with the nuances of the story.
       "You are saying that there are many different ways to cause harm," he announced.
       "Yes."
       "And that it takes wisdom to understand who is to blame, for the foolish king did not recognize harm of the ugly buffalo's action, while the wise king knew that she was to blame for her inaction."
       I nodded my head.
       "I see," said Ndemi.
       "And what has this to do with the manamouki?" I asked.
       He paused again.  "If harm comes to the village, you must use your wisdom to decide whether Mwange, who wants nothing more than to be a Kikuyu, is responsible for it."
       "That is correct," I said, getting to my feet.
       "But I still do not know what harm she can do."
       "Neither do I," I answered.
       "Will you know it when you see it?" he asked.  "Or will it seem like a good deed, such as warning the herd that hyenas are near?"
       I made no reply.
       "Why are you silent, Koriba?" asked Ndemi at last.
       I sighed heavily.  "Because there are some questions that even a mundumugu cannot answer."
         * * * *
Ndemi was waiting for me, as usual, when I emerged from my hut five mornings later.
       "Jambo, Koriba," he said.
       I grunted a greeting and walked over to the fire that he had built, sitting cross-legged next to it until it removed the chill from my aging bones.
       "What is today's lesson?" he asked at last.
       "Today I will teach you how to ask Ngai for a fruitful harvest," I answered.
       "But we did that last week."
       "And we will do it next week, and many more weeks as well," I answered.
       "When will I learn how to make ointments to cure the sick, or how to turn an enemy into an insect so that I may step on him?"
       "When you are older," I said.
       "I am already old."
       "And more mature."
       "How will you know when I am more mature?" he persisted.
       "I will know because you will have gone an entire month without asking about ointments or magic, for patience is one of the most important virtues a mundumugu can possess." I got to my feet.  "Now take my gourds to the river and fill them with water," I said, indicating two empty water gourds.
       "Yes, Koriba," he said dejectedly.
        While I was waiting for him, I went into my hut, activated my computer, and instructed Maintenance to make a minor orbital adjustment that would bring rain and cooler air to the western plains.
       This done, I slung my pouch around my neck and went back out into my boma to see if Ndemi had returned, but instead of my youthful apprentice, I found Wambu, Koinnage's senior wife, waiting for me, bristling with barely-controlled fury.
       "Jambo, Wambu," I said.
       "Jambo, Koriba," she replied.
       "You wish to speak to me?"
       She nodded.  "It is about the Kenyan woman."
       "Oh?"
       "Yes," said Wambu.  "You must make her leave!"
       "What has Mwange done?" I asked.
       "I am the senior wife of the paramount chief, am I not?" demanded Wambu.
       "That is true."
       "She does not treat me with the respect that is my due."
       "In what way?" I asked.
       "In all ways!"
       "For example?"
       "Her khanga is much more beautiful than mine.  The colors are brighter, the designs more intricate, the fabric softer."
       "She wove her khanga on her own loom, in the old way," I said.
       "What difference does that make?" snapped Wambu.
       I frowned.  "Do you wish me to make her give you the khanga?" I asked, trying to understand her rage.
       "No!"
       "Then I do not understand," I said.
       "You are no different than Koinnage!" she said, obviously frustrated that I could not comprehend her complaint.  "You may be a mundumugu, but you are still a man!"
       "Perhaps if you told me more," I suggested.
       "Kibo was as silly as a child," she said, referring to Koinnage's youngest wife, "but I was training her to be a good wife.  Now she wants to be like the Kenyan woman."
       "But the Kenyan woman," I said, using her terminology, "wants to be like you."
       "She cannot be like me!" Wambu practically shouted at me.  "I am Koinnage's senior wife!"
       "I mean that she wants to be a member of the village."
       "Impossible!" scoffed Wambu.  "She speaks of many strange things."
       "Such as?"
       "It does not matter!  You must make her leave!"
       "For wearing a pretty khanga and making a good impression on Kibo?" I said.
       "Bah!" she snapped.  "You are just like Koinnage!  You pretend not to understand, but you know she must go!"
       "I truly do not understand," I said.
       "You are my mundumugu, not hers.  I will pay you two fat goats to place a thahu on her."
       "I will not place a curse on Mwange for the reasons you gave me," I said firmly.
       She glared at me for a long moment, then spat on the ground, turned on her heel and walked back down the winding path to the village, muttering furiously to herself, practically knocking Ndemi down as he returned with my water gourds.
       I spent the next two hours instructing Ndemi in the harvest prayer, then told him to go into the village and bring Mwange back.  An hour later Mwange, resplendant in her khanga, climbed up my hill, accompanied by Ndemi, and entered my boma.
       "Jambo," I greeted her.
       "Jambo, Koriba," she replied.  "Ndemi says me that you wish to speak to me."
       I nodded.  "That is true."
       "The other women seemed to think I should be frightened."
       "I cannot imagine why," I said.
       "Perhaps it is because you can call down the lightning, and change hyenas into insects and kill your enemies from miles away," suggested Ndemi helpfully.
       "Perhaps," I said.
       "Why have you sent for me?" asked Mwange.
       I paused for a moment, trying to think of how best to approach the subject.  "There is a problem with your clothing," I said at last.
       "But I am wearing a khanga that I wove on my own loom," she said, obviously puzzled.
       "I know," I responded.  "But the quality of the fabric and the subtlety of the colors, have caused a certain..." I searched for the proper word.
       "Resentment?" she suggested.
       "Precisely," I answered, grateful that she so quickly comprehended the situation.  "I think it would be best if you were to weave some less colorful garments."
       I half-expected her to protest, but she surprised me by agreeing immediately.
       "Certainly," she said.  "I have no wish to offend my neighbors.  May I ask who objected to my khanga?"
       "Why?"
       "I'd like to make her a present of it."
       "It was Wambu," I said.
       "I should have realized the effect my clothing would have.  I am truly sorry, Koriba."
       "Anyone may make a mistake," I said.  "As long as it is corrected, no lasting harm will be done."
       "I hope you're right," she said sincerely.
       "He is the mundumugu," said Ndemi.  "He is always right."
       "I don't want the women to be resentful of me," continued Mwange.  "Perhaps I could find some way to show my good intentions." She paused.  "What if I were to offer to teach them to speak Kikuyu?"
       "No manamouki may be a teacher," I explained.  "Only the chiefs and the mundumugu may instruct our people."
       "That's not very efficient," she said.  "It may very well be that someone besides yourself and the chiefs has something to offer."
       "It is possible," I agreed.  "Now let me ask you a question."
       "What is it?"
       "Did you come to Kirinyaga to be efficient?"
       She sighed.  "No," she admitted.  She paused for a moment.  "Is there anything else?"
       "No."
       "Then I think I'd better go back and begin weaving my new fabric."
       I nodded my approval, and she walked back down the long, winding path to the village.
       "When I become mundumugu," said Ndemi, watching her retreating figure, "I will not allow any manamoukis to argue with me."
       "A mundumugu must also show understanding," I said.  "Mwange is new here, and has much to learn."
       "About Kirinyaga?"
       I shook my head.  "About manamoukis."
         * * * *
Life proceeded smoothly and uneventfully for almost six weeks, until just after the short rains.  Then one morning, just as I was preparing to go down into the village to bless the scarecrows, three of the women came up the path to my boma.
       There was Sabo, the widow of old Kadamu, and Bori, the second wife of Sabana, and Wambu.
       "We must speak with you, mundumugu," said Wambu.
       I sat down, cross-legged, in front of my hut, and waited for them to seat themselves opposite me.
       "You may speak," I said.
       "It is about the Kenyan woman," said Wambu.
       "Oh?" I said.  "I thought the problem was solved."
       "It is not."
       "Did she not present you with her khanga as a gift?" I asked.
       "Yes."
       "You are not wearing it," I noted.
       "It does not fit," said Wambu.
       "It is only a piece of cloth," I said.  "How can it not fit?"
       "It does not fit," she repeated adamantly.
       I shrugged.  "What is this new problem?"
       "She flaunts the traditions of the Kikuyu," said Wambu.
       I turned to the other women.  "Is this true?" I asked.
       Sabo nodded.  "She is a married woman, and she has not shaved her head."
       "And she keeps flowers in her hut," added Bori.
       "It is not the custom for Kenyan women to shave their heads," I replied.  "I will instruct her to do so.  As for the flowers, they are not in violation of our laws."
       "But why does she keep them?" persisted Bori.
       "Perhaps she thinks they are pleasing to the eye," I suggested.
       "But now my daughter wants to grow flowers, and she answers with disrespect when I tell it her is more important to grow food to eat."
       "And now the Kenyan woman has made a throne for her husband, Nkobe," put in Sabo.
       "A throne?" I repeated.
       "She put a back and arms on his sitting stool," said Sabo.  "What man besides a chief sits upon a throne?  Does she think Nkobe will replace Koinnage?"
       "Never!" snarled Wambu.
       "And she has made another throne for herself," continued Sabo.  "Even Wambu does not sit atop a throne."
       "These are not thrones, but chairs," I said.
       "Why can she not use stools, like all the other members of the village?" demanded Sabu.
       "I think she is a witch," said Wambu.
       "Why do you say that?" I asked.
       "Just look at her," said Wambu.  "She has seen the long rains come and go 35 times, and yet her back is not bent, and her skin is not wrinkled, and she has all her teeth."
       "Her vegetables grow better than ours," added Sabo, "and yet she spends less time planting and tending to them than we do." She paused.  "I think she must be a witch."
       "And although she carries with her the worst of all thahus, that of barrenness, she acts as if she is not cursed at all," said Bori.
       "And her new garments are still more beautiful than ours," muttered Sabo sullenly.
       "That is true," agreed Bori.  "Now Sabana is displeased with me because his kikoi is not so bright and soft as Nkobe's."
       "And my daughters all want thrones instead of sitting stools," added Sabo.  "I tell them that we have scarely enough wood for the fire, and they say that this is more important.  She has turned their heads.  They no longer respect their elders."
       "The young women all listen to her, as if she were the wife of a chief instead of a barren manamouki," complained Wambu.  "You must send her away, Koriba."
       "Are you giving me an order, Wambu?" I asked softly, and the other two women immediately fell silent.
       "She is an evil witch, and she must go," insisted Wambu, her outrage overcoming her fear of disobeying her mundumugu.
       "She is not a witch," I said, "for if she were, then I, your mundumugu, would certainly know it.  She is just a manamouki who is trying to learn our ways, and who, as you note, carries the terrible thahu of barrenness with her."
       "If she is less than a witch, she is still more than a manamouki," said Sabo.
       "More in what way?" I asked.
       "Just more," she answered with a sullen expression.
       Which totally summed up the problem.
       "I will speak to her again," I said.
       "And you will make her shave her head?" demanded Wambu.
       "Yes."
       "And remove the flowers from her hut?"
       "I will discuss it."
       "Perhaps you can tell Nkobe to beat her from time to time," added Sabo.  "Then she would not act so much like a chief's wife."
       "I feel very sorry for him," said Bori.
       "For Nkobe?" I asked.
       Bori nodded.  "To be cursed with such a wife, and further, to have no children."
       "He is a good man," agreed Sabo.  "He deserves better than the Kenyan woman."
       "It is my understanding that he is perfectly happy with Mwange," I said.
       "That is all the more reason to pity him, for being so foolish," said Wambu.
       "Have you come here to talk about Mwange or Nkobe?" I asked.
       "We have said what we have come to say," replied Wambu, getting to her feet.  "You must do something, mundumugu."
       "I will look into the matter," I said.
       She walked down the path to the village, followed by Sabo.  Bori, her back bent from carrying firewood all her life, her stomach distended from producing three sons and five daughters, all but nine of her teeth missing, her legs permantly bowed from some childhood disease, Bori, who had seen but 34 long rains, stood before me for a moment.
       "She really is a witch, Koriba," she said.  "You have only to look at her to know it."
       Then she, too, left my hill and returned to the village.
         * * * *
Once again I summoned Mwange to my boma.
       She came up the path with the graceful stride of a young girl, lithe and lean and filled with energy.
       "How old are you, Mwange?" I asked as she approached me.
       "38," she replied.  "I usually tell people that I'm 35, though," she added with a smile.  She stood still for a moment.  "Is that why you asked me to come here?  To talk about my age?"
       "No," I said.  "Sit down, Mwange."
       She seated herself on the dirt by the ashes of my morning fire, and I squatted across from her.
       "How are you adjusting to your new life on Kirinyaga?" I asked at last.
       "Very well," she said enthusiastically.  "I've made many friends, and I find that I don't miss the amenities of Kenya at all."
       "Then you are happy here?"
       "Very."
       "Tell me about your friends."
       "Well, my closest friend is Kibo, Koinnage's youngest wife, and I have helped Sumi and Kalena with their gardens, and -- "
       "Have you no friends among the older women?" I interrupted.
       "Not really," she admitted.
       "Why should that be?" I asked.  "They are women of your own age."
       "We don't seem to have anything to talk about."
       "Do you find them unfriendly?" I asked.
       She considered the question.  "Ndemi's mother has always been very kind to me.  The others could be a little friendlier, I suppose, but I imagine that's just because most of them are senior wives and are very busy running their households."
       "Did it ever occur to you that there could be some other reason why they are not friendly?" I suggested.
       "What are you getting at?" she asked, suddenly alert.
       "There is a problem," I said.
       "Oh?"
       "Some of the older women resent your presence."
       "Because I'm an immigrant?" she asked.
       I shook my head.  "No."
       "Then why?" she persisted, genuinely puzzled.
       "It is because we have a very rigid social order here, and you have not yet fit in."
       "I thought I was fitting in very well," she said defensively.
       "You were mistaken."
       "Give me an example."
       I looked at her.  "You know that Kikuyu wives must shave their heads, and yet you have not done so."
       She sighed and touched her hair.  "I know," she replied.  "I've been meaning to, but I'm very fond of it.  I'll shave my head tonight." She seemed visibly relieved.  "Is that what this is all about?"
       "No," I said.  "That is merely an outward sign of the problem."
       "Then I don't understand."
       "It is difficult to explain," I said.  "Your khangas are more pleasing to the eye than theirs.  Your garden grows better.  You are as old as Wambu, but appear younger than her daughters.  In their minds, these things set you apart from them and make you more than a manamouki.  The correlary, which they have not yet voiced but must surely feel, is that if you are somehow more, then this makes them somehow less."
       "What do you expect me to do?" she asked.  "Wear rags and let my gardens go to seed?"
       "No," I said.  "I do not expect that."
       "Then what can I do?" she continued.  "You're telling me that they feel threatened because I am competent." She paused.  "You are a competent man, Koriba.  You have been schooled in Europe and America, you can read and write and work a computer.  And yet I notice that you feel no need to hide your talents."
       "I am a mundumugu," I said.  "I live alone on my hill, removed from the village, and I am viewed with awe and fear by my people.  This is the function of a mundumugu.  It is not the function of a manamouki, who must live in the village and find her place in the social order of the tribe."
       "That's what I am trying to do," she said in frustration.
       "Do not try so hard."
       "If you're not telling me to be incompetant, then I still don't understand."
       "One does not fit in by being different," I said.  "For example, I know that you bring flowers into your house.  Doubtless they are fragrant and pleasing to the eye, but no other woman in the village decorates her hut with flowers."
       "That's not true," she said defensively.  "Sumi does."
       "If so, then she does it because you do it," I pointed out.  "Can you see that this is even more threatening to the older women than if you alone kept flowers, for it challenges their authority?"
       She stared at me, trying to comprehend.
       "They have spent their entire lives achieving their positions within the tribe," I continued, "and now you have come here and taken a position entirely outside of their order.  We have a new world to populate: You are barren, but far from feeling shame or grief, you act as though this is not a terrible thahu.  Such an attitude is contrary to their experience, just as decorating your house with flowers or creating khangas with intricate patterns is contrary to their experience, and thus they feel threatened."
       "I still don't see what I can do about it," she protested.  "I gave my original khangas to Wambu, but she refuses to wear them.  And I have offered to show Bori how to get a greater yield from her gardens, but she won't listen."
       "Of course not," I replied.  "Senior wives will not accept advice from a manamouki, any more than a chief would accept advice from a newly-circumcised young man.  You must simply" -- here I switched to English, for there is no comparable term in Swahili -- "maintain a low profile.  If you do so, in time the problems will go away."
       She paused for a moment, considering what I had told her.
       "I'll try," she said at last.
       "And if you must do something that will call attention to yourself," I continued, reverting to Swahili, "try to do it in a way that will not offend."
       "I didn't even know I was offending," she said.  "How am I to avoid it if I'm calling attention to myself?"
       "There are ways," I answered.  "Take, for example, the chair that you built."
       "Tom has had back spasms for years," she said.  "I built the chair because he couldn't get enough support from a stool.  Am I supposed to let my husband suffer because some of the women don't believe in chairs?"
       "No," I said.  "But you can tell the younger women that Nkobe ordered you to build the chair, and thus the stigma will not be upon you."
       "Then it will be upon him."
       I shook my head.  "Men have far greater leeway here than women.  There will be no stigma upon him for ordering his manamouki to see to his comfort." I paused long enough for the thought to sink in.  "Do you understand?"
       She sighed.  "Yes."
       "And you will do as I suggest?"
       "If I'm to live in peace with my neighbors, I suppose I must."
       "There is always an alternative," I said.
       She shook her head vigorously.  "I've dreamed of a place like this all my life, and nobody is going to make me leave it now that I'm here.  I'll do whatever I have to do."
       "Good," I said, getting to my feet to signify that the interview was over.  "Then the problem will soon be solved."
       But, of course, it wasn't.
         * * * *
I spent the next two weeks visiting a neighboring village whose chief had died quite suddenly.  He had no sons and no brothers, and the line of succession was in doubt.  I listened to all the applicants to the throne, discussed the situation with the Council of Elders until there was unanimity, presided at the ceremony that installed the new chief in his ceremonial robes and headdress, and finally returned to my own village.
       As I climbed the path to my boma, I saw a female figure sitting just outside my hut.  I drew closer and saw that it was Shima, Ndemi's mother.
       "Jambo, Koriba," she said.
       "Jambo, Shima," I responded.
       "You are well, I trust."
       "As well as an old man can feel after walking for most of the day," I responded, sitting down opposite her.  I looked around my boma.  "I do not see Ndemi."
       "I sent him to the village for the afternoon, because I wished to speak to you alone."
       "Does this concern Ndemi?" I asked.
       She shook her head.  "It is about Mwange."
       I sighed wearily.  "Proceed."
       "I am not like the other women, Koriba," she began.  "I have always been good the Mwange."
       "So she has told me."
       "Her ways do not bother me," she continued.  "After all, someday I shall be the mother of the mundumugu, and while there can be many senior wives, there can be only one mundumugu and one mundumugu's mother."
       "This is true," I said, waiting for her to get to the point of her visit.
       "Therefore, I have befriended Mwange, and have shown her many kindnesses, and she has responded in kind."
       "I am pleased to hear it."
       "And because I have befriended her," continued Shima, "I have felt great compassion for her, because as you know she carries the thahu of barrenness.  And it seemed to me that, since Nkobe is such a wealthy man, that he should take another wife, to help Mwange with the work on the shamba and to produce sons and daughters.  She paused.  "My daughter Shuni, as you know, will be circumcised before the short rains come, and so I approached Mwange as a friend, and as the mother of the future mundumugu, to suggest that Nkobe pay the bride price for Shuni." Here she paused again, and frowned.  "She got very mad and yelled at me.  You must speak to her, Koriba.  A rich man like Nkobe should not be forced to live with only a barren wife."
       "Why do you keep calling Nkobe a rich man?" I asked.  "His shamba is small, and he has only six cattle."
       "His family is rich," she stated.  "Ndemi told me that they have many men and machines to do their planting and harvesting."
       Thank you for nothing, little Ndemi, I thought irritably.  Aloud I said: "All that is back on Earth.  Here Nkobe is a poor man."
       "Even if he is poor," said Shima, "he will not remain poor, for grain and vetegables grow for Mwange as for no one else, as if this is Ngai's blessing to make up for His thahu of barrenness." She stared at me.  "You must talk to her, Koriba.  This would be a good thing.  Shumi is very obedient and hard-working, and she already likes Mwange very much.  We will not demand a large bride price, for we know that the mundumugu's family will never go hungry."
       "Why did you not wait for Nkobe to approach you, as is the custom?" I asked.
       "I thought if I explained my idea to Mwange, she would see the wisdom of it and speak to Nkobe herself, for he listens to her more than most husbands listen to their wives, and surely the thought of a fertile woman who would share her chores would appeal to her."
       "Well, you have presented your idea to her," I said.  "Now it is up to Nkobe to make the offer or choose not to."
       "But she says that she will permit him to marry no one else," answered Shumi, more puzzled than outraged, "as if a manamouki could stop her husband from buying another wife.  She is ignorant of our ways, Koriba, and for this reason you must speak with her.  You must point out that she should be grateful to have another woman with whom to speak and share the work, and she should not want Nkobe to die without having fathered any children just because she has been cursed." She hesitated for a moment, and then concluded: "And you should remind her that Shumi will someday be sister to the mundumugu."
       "I am glad that you are so concerned about Mwange's future," I said at last.
       She caught the trace of sarcasm in my voice.
       "Is it so wrong to be concerned about my little Shumi as well?" she demanded.
       "No," I admitted.  "No, it is not wrong."
       "Oh!" said Shima, as if she had suddenly remembered something important.  "When you speak to Mwange, remind her that she is named for my sister."
       "I do not intend to speak to Mwange at all."
       "Oh?"
       "No," I said.  "As you yourself pointed out, this is not her concern.  I will speak to Nkobe."
       "And you will mention Shumi?" she persisted.
       "I will speak to Nkobe," I answered noncommittally.
       She got to her feet and prepared to leave.
       "You can do me a favor, Shima," I said.
       "Oh?"
       I nodded.  "Have Ndemi come to my boma immediately.  I have many tasks for him to do here."
       "How can you be sure, since you have only just returned?"
       "I am sure," I said adamantly.
       She looked across my boma, still the protective mother.  "I can see no chores that have been left undone."
       "Then I will find some," I said.
         * * * *
I went down to the village in the afternoon, for old Siboki needed ointments to keep the pain from his joints, and Koinnage had asked me to help him settle a dispute between Njoro and Sangora concerning the ownership of a calf that their jointly- owned cow had just produced.
       When I had finished my business there, I placed charms on some of the scarecrows, and then, in midafternoon, I walked over to Nkobe's shamba, where I found him herding his cattle.
       "Jambo, Koriba!" he greeted me, waving his hand.
       "Jambo, Nkobe," I replied, approaching him.
       "Would you like to come into my hut for some pombe?" he offered.  "Mwange just brewed it yesterday."
       "Thank you for the offer, but I do not care to drink warm pombe on a hot afternoon like this."
       "It's actually quite cool," he said.  "She buries the gourd in the ground to keep it that way."
       "Then I will have some," I acquiesced, falling into step beside him as he drove his cattle toward his boma.
       Mwange was waiting for us, and she invited us into the cool interior of the hut and poured our pombe for us, then began to leave, for manamoukis do not listen to the conversation of men.
       "Stay here, Mwange," I said.
       "You're sure?" she said.
       "Yes."
       She shrugged and sat on the floor, with her back propped up against a wall of the hut.
       "What brings you here, Koriba?" asked Nkobe, sitting gingerly upon his chair, and I could see that his back was troubling him.  "You have not paid us a visit before."
       "The mundumugu rarely visits those who are healthy enough to visit him," I replied.
       "Then this is a special occasion," said Nkobe.
       "Yes," I replied, sipping my pombe.  "This is a special occasion."
       "What is it this time?" asked Mwange warily.
       "What do you mean, 'this time'?" said Nkobe sharply.
       "There have been some minor problems," I answered, "none of which concern you."
       "Anything that affects Mwange concerns me," responded Nkobe.  "I am not blind or deaf, Koriba.  I know that the older women have refused to accept her -- and I'm getting more than a little bit angry about it.  She has gone out of her way to fit in here, and has met them more than halfway."
       "I did not come here to discuss Mwange with you," I said.
       "Oh?" he said suspiciously.
       "Are you saying we have a problem that concerns him?" demanded Mwange.
       "It concerns both of you," I replied.  "That is why I have come here."
       "All right, Koriba -- what is it?" said Nkobe.
       "You have made a good effort to fit into the community and to live as a Kikuyu, Nkobe," I said.  "And yet there is one more thing that you will be expected to do, and it is this that I have come to discuss with you."
       "And what is that?"
       "Sooner or later, you will be expected to take another wife."
       "I knew it!" said Mwange.
       "I'm very happy with the wife I have," said Nkobe with unconcealed hostility.
       "That may be," I said, draining the last of my pombe, "but you have no children, and as Mwange gets older she will need someone to help her with her duties."
       "Now you listen to me!" snapped Nkobe.  "I came here because I thought it would make Mwange happy.  So far she's been ostracised and shunned and gossiped about, and now you're telling me that I have to take another wife into my house so that Mwange can keep being spat on by the other women?  We don't need this, Koriba!  I was just as happy on my farm in Kenya.  I can go back there any time I want."
       "If that is the way you feel, then perhaps you should return to Keyna," I said.
       "Tom," said Mwange, staring at him, and he fell silent.
       "It is true that you do not have to stay," I continued.  "But you are Kikuyus, living on a Kikuyu world, and if you do stay, you will be expected to act as Kikuyus."
       "There's no law that says a Kikuyu man must take a second wife," said Nkobe sullenly.
       "No, there is no such law," I admitted.  "Nor is there a law that says a Kikuyu man must father children.  But these are our traditions, and you will be expected to abide by them."
       "To hell with them!" he muttered in English.
       Mwange laid a restraining hand on his arm.  "There is a coterie of young warriors who live beyond the forest," she said.  "Why don't they marry some of the young women?  Why should the men of the village monopolize them all?"
       "They cannot afford wives," I said.  "That is why they live alone."
       "That's their problem," said Nkobe.
       "I've made many sacrifices in the name of communal harmony," said Mwange, "but this is asking too much, Koriba.  We are happy just the way we are, and we intend to stay this way."
       "You will not remain happy."
       "What does that mean?" she demanded.
       "Next month is the circumcision ritual," I said.  "When it is over, there will be many girls eligible for marriage, and since you are barren, it is only reasonable to suppose that a number of their families will suggest that Nkobe pay the bride price for their daughters.  He may refuse once, he may refuse twice, but if he continues to refuse, he will offend most of the village.  They will assume that because he comes from Kenya he feels their women are not good enough for him, and they will be further offended by the fact that he refuses to have children with which to populate our empty planet."
       "Then I'll explain my reasons to them," said Nkobe.
       "They will not understand," I answered.
       "No, they will not understand," agreed Mwange unhappily.
       "Then they will have to learn to live with it," said Nkobe firmly.
       "And you will have to learn to live with silence and animosity," I said.  "Is this the life you envisioned when you came to Kirinyaga?"
       "Of course not!" snapped Nkobe.  "But nothing can make me -- "
       "We will think about it, Koriba," interrupted Mwange.
       Nkobe turned to his wife, stunned.  "What are you saying?"
       "I am saying that we will think about it," repeated Mwange.
       "That is all that I ask," I said, getting to my feet and walking to the door of the hut.
       "You demand a lot, Koriba," said Mwange bitterly.
       "I demand nothing," I replied.  "I merely suggest."
       "Coming from the mundumugu, is there a difference?"
       I did not answer her, because in truth there was no difference whatsoever.
         * * * *
"You seem unhappy, Koriba," said Ndemi.
       He had just finished feeding my chickens and my goats, and now he sat down beside me in the shade of my acacia tree.
       "I am," I said.
       "Mwange," he said, nodding his head.
       "Mwange," I agreed.
       Two weeks had passed since I had visited her and Nkobe.
       "I saw her this morning, when I went to the river to fill your gourds," said Ndemi.  "She, too, seems unhappy."
       "She is," I said.  "And there is nothing that I can do about it."
       "But you are the mundumugu."
       "I know."
       "You are the most powerful of men," continued Ndemi.  "Surely you can put an end to her sorrow."
       I sighed.  "The mundumugu is both the both the most powerful and the weakest of men.  In Mwange's case, I am the weakest."
       "I do not understand."
       "The mundumugu is the most powerful of men when it comes to interpreting the law," I said.  "But he is also the weakest of men, for it is he, of all men, who must be bound by that law, no matter what else happens." I paused.  "I should allow her to be what she can be, instead of being merely a manamouki.  And failing that, I should make her leave Kirinyaga and return to Kenya." I sighed again.  "But she must behave like a manamouki if she is to have a life here, and she has broken no law that would allow me to force her to leave."
       Ndemi frowned.  "Being a mundumugu can be more difficult that I thought."
       I smiled at him and placed a hand upon his head.  "Tomorrow I will begin to teach you to make the ointments that cure the sick."
       "Really?" he said, his face brightening.
       I nodded.  "Your last statement tells me that you are no longer a child."
       "I have not been a child for many rains," he protested.
       "Do not say any more," I told him with a wry smile, "or we will do more harvest prayers instead."
       He immediately fell silent, and I looked out across the distant savannah, where a swirling tower of dust raced across the arid plain, and wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, what to do about Mwange.
       How long I sat thus, motionless, I do not know, but eventually I felt Ndemi tugging at the blanket I had wrapped around my shoulders.
       "Women," he whispered.
       "What?" I said, not comprehending.
       "From the village," he said, gesturing toward the path that led to my boma.
       I looked where he indicated and saw four of the village women approaching.  There was Wambu, and Sabo, and Bori, and with them this time was Morina, the second wife of Kimoda.
       "Should I leave?" asked Ndemi.
       I shook my head.  "If you are to become a mundumugu, it is time you started listening to a mundumugu's problems."
       The four women stopped perhaps ten feet away from me.
       "Jambo," I said, staring at them.
       "The Kenyan witch must leave!" said Wambu.
       "We have been through this before," I said.
       "But now she has broken the law," said Wambu.
       "Oh?" I said.  "In what way?"
       Wambu grabbed Morina by the arm and shoved her even closer to me.  "Tell him," she said triumphantly.
       "She has bewitched my daughter," said Morina, obviously uneasy in my presence.
       "How has Mwange bewitched your daughter?" I asked.
       "My Muri was a good, obedient child," said Muri.  "She always helped me grind the grain, and she dutifully cared for her two younger brothers when I was working in the fields, and she never left the thorn gate open at night so that hyenas could enter our boma and kill our goats and cattle." She paused, and I could see that she was trying very hard not to cry.  "All she could talk about since the last long rains was her forthcoming circumsion ceremony, and who she hoped would pay the bride price for her.  She was a perfect daughter, a daughter any mother would be proud of." Now a tear trickled down her cheek.  "And then the Kenyan woman came, and Muri spent her time with her, and now" -- suddenly the single tear became a veritable flood -- "now she tells me that she refuses to be circumsized.  She will never marry and she will die an old, barren woman!"
       Morina could speak no more, and began beating her breasts with her clenched fists.
       "That is not all," added Wambu.  "The reason Muri does not wish to be circumcized is because the Kenyan woman herself has not been circumsized.  And yet the Kenyan woman has married a Kikuyu man, and has tried to live among us as his manamouki." She glared at me.  "She has broken the law, Koriba!  We must cast her out!"
       "I am the mundumugu," I replied sternly.  "I will decide what must be done."
       "You know what must be done!" said Wambu furiously.
       "That is all," I said.  "I will hear no more."
       Wambu glared at me, but did not dare to disobey me, and finally, turning on her heel, she stalked back down the path to the village, followed by Sabo and the still-wailing Morina.
       Bori stood where she was for an extra moment, then turned to me.
       "It is as I told you before, Koriba," she said, almost apologetically.  "She really is a witch."
       Then she, too, began walking back to the village.
       "What will you do, Koriba?" asked Ndemi.
       "The law is clear," I said wearily.  "No uncircumcised woman may live with a Kikuyu man as his wife."
       "Then you will make her leave Kirinyaga?"
       "I will offer her a choice," I said, "and I will hope that she chooses to leave."
       "It is too bad," said Ndemi.  "She has tried very hard to be a good manamouki."
       "I know," I said.
       "Then why is Ngai visiting her with such unhappiness?"
       "Because sometimes trying is not enough."
         * * * *
We stood at Haven -- Mwange, Nkobe, and I -- awaiting the Maintenance ship's arrival.
       "I am truly sorry that things did not work out," I said sincerely.
       Nkobe glared at me, but said nothing.
       "It didn't have to end this way," said Mwange bitterly.
       "We had no choice," I said.  "If we are to create our Utopia here on Kirinyaga, we must be bound by its rules."
       "The fact that a rule exists does not make it right, Koriba," she said.  "I gave up almost everything to live here, but I will not let them mutilate me in the name of some foolish custom."
       "Without our traditions, we are not Kikuyu, but only Kenyans who live on another world," I pointed out.
       "There is a difference between tradition and stagnation, Koriba," she said.  "If you stifle every variation in taste and behavior in the name of the former, you achieve only the latter." She paused.  "I would have been a good member of the community."
       "But a poor manamouki," I said.  "The leopard may be a stealthy hunter and fearsome killer, but he does not belong among a pride of lions."
       "Lions and leopards have been extinct for a long time, Koriba," she said.  "We are talking about human beings, not animals, and no matter how many rules you make and no matter how many traditions you invoke, you cannot make all human beings think and feel and act alike."
       "It's coming," announced Nkobe as the Maintenance ship broke through the thin cloud cover.
       "Kwaheri, Nkobe," I said, extending my hand.
       He looked contemptuously at my hand for a moment, then turned his back and continued watching the Maintenance ship.
       I turned to Mwange.
       "I tried, Koriba," she said.  "I really did."
       "No one ever tried harder," I said.  "Kwaheri, Mwange."
       She stared at me, her face suddenly an emotionless mask.
       "Good-bye, Koriba," she said in English.  "And my name is Wanda."
         * * * *
The next morning Shima came to me to complain that Shumi had rejected the suitor that had been arranged for her.
       Two days later Wambu complained to me that Kibo, Koinnage's youngest wife, had decorated her hut with colorful ribbons, and was beginning to let her hair grow.
       And the morning after that, Kimi, who had only one son, announced that she wanted no more children.
       "I thought it had ended," I said with a sigh as I watched Sangora, Kimi's distressed husband, walk back down the path to the village.
       "That is because you have made a mistake, Koriba."
       "Why do you say that?"
       "Because you believed the wrong story," answered Ndemi with the confidence of youth.
       "Oh?"
       He nodded.  "You believed the story about the Ugly Buffalo."
       "And which story should I have believed?"
       "The story of the mundumugu and the serpent."
       "Why do you think one story is more worthy of belief than the other?" I asked him.
       "Does not the story of the mundumugu and the serpent tell us that we cannot be rid of that which Ngai created simply because we find it repugnant or unsettling?"
       "That is true," I said.
       Ndemi smiled and held up three fingers.  "Shumi, Kibo, Kimi," he said, counting them off.  "Three serpents have returned already.  There are 97 yet to come."
       And suddenly I had the awful premonition that he was right.

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