Martyn's Ramblings

Here is my FINAL version of Vivian Stanshall's "Sir Henry at Ndidi's Kraal"
If there are any mistakes then please accept my humble apologies.
Martyn

Sir Henry at Ndidi’s Kraal by Vivian Stanshall.

Hippo’s writhings and crocodile leavings, all on a bumpy sea, a river stocked with mad canoes and songs of a toothy mouth.
All along a river of unbelieving, bumpy, blue and deep, where none but the brave may brute and slave.
This river is asleep ……………….

“Where, without Rawlinson End, would madness be? Some calm outlaw collecting his thirst in a hatful of loco-water. Squinty in a look towards the mountains and in a cup containing the whole sky. I find no fault in myself in this, only salty reason.”

Sir Geoffrey smoothed his greying and enormous beard with beautifully manicured and white gloved fingers.

“Rawlinson,” he said, “we of the Geographic Society think you are the man.”

“What? Drugs? Humm? I always thought your articles were a bit too inspired!”

“We believe there is a tribe, still intact, of Zulus somewhere in the Drakensberg.”

“Wheeyyy, Brixton?”

“No, Africa, South and up a bit from Johannesburg. We want you to find them. You are the man.”

“I shall go to Zanzibar, then by dhow to Mombasa. By sea to Durban and then by veldt on foot to the Dragons.” Muttered Henry.

“Good grief, that’s a nasty cold.” Said the President, “would you like a tissue? But it’s clear from your experience, avarice and love of adventure, medallions and all the rest,” said Sir Geoffrey, “that you are the ideal man for the job.”

“You mean, send a man of my experience out into the land of the Bazoozoos, hhmmppph, I’d rather go to Brixton. Mind you, if it’s for the sake of the colours and the honour of the regiment, and a handsome stipend, with fixed bayonet I would enter the gents at Harrods.”

This last seemed to conclude the matter, although Henry’s request for a bazooka ‘to bring down the really big sods’ was turned down on the grounds of diplomacy, but mainly that Uganda now boasted a Royal Navy. Unfortunately this navy defended only Uganda and the Ugandan President’s refrigerator.

Sir Henry, bum to the log fire, Churchilled into a great balloon of brandy.
“When I was in Africa, in the 30s, it was a case of mutual respect and plenty of submission. Nowadays? Well…”

Henry took another great slug, two snails and growled into his balloon.

“I’m used to quite decent men in the F.O., making mistakes in the kennels at Harrods, but there’s something quite wrong with me. I should have boiled the water, or the sweets, …. Oauugh, the agony, sometimes a fully fledged man can think only of his mother, damn it!”

Henry remembered his mother, and preferred not to. She was a woman of great accumulated knowledge and no sagacity but with a great eruption of intellectual provocation, interfered with only by her unusually large moustache, and these sour, soup dripping, walrus imitations taught Henry much about diplomacy but nothing about manners and intelligence. Often, of a cold night, he would tuck his infant toes into the corners of his blanket, or pillow, and pray that he would not be kissed that night.
His mother was a childhood embodiment of Yarmouth. He convinced himself, having several times been kissed by this personage, that she was a substitute for the boxing of unpleasant fish, or at best another way of shaving. His first agreement to a goodnight kiss was predicated on the idea that this would be a soft business. He was wrong. It was an introduction to Germany.
Later, he convinced her that depilation with a car battery was not only economic but also a way of demonstrating the scientific with the cosmetic in quite the most fruitful assignment.
He was not a Christian, save in the department of ‘Suitable Sundays’, and concluded that in an outfit fit only for eating knickerbocker glories. All the same, he looked well enough, and continued that shaving soap was a kind of icing that graced the Lord’s razor, and the manufacturers of bog paper and his mother’s chins.

For Florrie, real life began when she went to sleep and ended abruptly, and dreadfully, when she awoke. This was not too surprising. Sharing a night with Sir Henry was not quite the restful night of tranquillity. He was a man notorious in his own bedroom. His stentorian farts, shouts and grumblings in his sleep were most upsetting.

Sudden, and alarming, he would spring from the sheets to rage horribly against the Hun, the Nips and Mrs. E’s damned chips, and this was scarcely conducive to slumber.

“Take back the Sudetenland, would you? Take that,”

- Smack –

“You, mnmn h.”

Here he would thrash the wardrobe,

“You slit-eyed shit! Burma Railway? It’s the bloody unions!”

- Smack –

“Get those filthy and sheaving things away from me. Dear God, what kind of saint employs a cook that can only bake poultices? Negroes driving London buses? Hrrmmmh. Death and I are old friends! You Sod!”

- Smack -

Crocodile tunnels and hippo columns and the reek of the aloes on the slope. The ranks of the Impis and the terrible, stabbing spears.

“By God’s trousers those bold sods knew how to fart! Hmmph – thank Christ I was wearing a snorkel, you never know when your lungs are going to give out in Africa, hmmph!” – sniff.

Henry was a man who equated flowers with surrender and weddings.
“The clashing of the shields and the stamp – stamp – stamp of their damned wogga feet. Frightening in a way! Hmmmph – not to a white man, but all the same. Never wear socks y’ know, dirty buggers! Polyurethane their feet, a lot of them. ICI has a lot to pay for in my opinion, including the loss of the Empire, but, erm, I’ll come to that.”
“Mark you, the development of gloss paint didn’t deter me from identifying and knowing every one of my men at any time of day or night. And I do believe the heathens appreciated that kind of gesture. N’aha yes! Those people really like the personal touch. Ahhol – I’ll give you an example. I never travelled anywhere, in the dark incontinent, without a ruddy great tin of gloss white. This might appear insensitive for a man of my obvious humility, but y’see, some of those poor buggers had names completely beyond English pronunciation and, so, to their cheery delight I numbered the sods. In short, the personal touch. Back and front, back and chest, and to make it even more human and individual I painted the last 27 of my bearers with the letters of OUR alphabet. A, B, C, erm, D, - and so on. The last man? Hah, knew you’d ask me that, was a question mark.”
“My God, the whole of South Africa, the whole bloody red World was a part of the Empire until we got soft and understanding. Damn it! Give a workman an opinion and you might as well give him a rifle, that’s what I reckon. Lot of odd-bods out there who don’t understand democracy. You have to beat it into ‘em. I can remember when any map of the World was red, well, practically. And those bits that weren’t I damned well coloured in m’self! Huhmm. Ah me! Always the optimist, the great romantic fool.”

“Ah balls!”, said Scrotum. “Niggers don’t know about billiards.”

“Keen on billiards?”, burped Sir Henry, “Ye Gods, those men chalk their fingers before picking their noses!”

Hhhhhh……. Tread, dead, the heavy water.
Quick, slow, quick the sucking sand.
Eat stones for breakfast and forget the Promised Land.

- Music, ship’s hooters and singing -

“I rounded the Cape and the ship put in at East London, where, thank Jesu, I was able to buy, at inflatable prices, another couple of crates of medicinal gin. Horrible stuff, made in England or Angleterre as we say in Polish. Not many Jews about! Noticed that in a passing hallucination. Damn me I was hoping to get a pair of emergency quel-change trousers knocked up.”

“I can knock up your trousers, Bwana.” Said Ubura.

“Great guns! You’re not one of those, are you? Huh, not surprised the population is dropping.”

“In de bush are dropped de lot.”

“What?”

“Is much more comfortable, Sah. And damned hot.”

- Drums -

“Out here Boon, know the Lordy. Tit, bum, tin ass an’ der guns”, said Ubura.

“Never heard of a mackerel pie and not a drop of rum in the mansion. How the deuce you Johnnies clean your teeth - I don’t know. Sell your women to the Sheikh of Araby, my God, huh, makes me sick to the craw, and for how much?”

“Ten quid a limb, boss. Big knockers maken fifty pound fifteen.”

“Hhmmm!“ mused Henry, “A thousand red bath-salts do you think? Revolting and effeminate. Mind you, women don’t seem to do a lot – just the cooking and cleaning up the beastly messes you buggers leave in the hut. Hmmh. How many bath-salts did you say?”, Henry thought of Florrie. “Hmmh. What for a white woman of impeccable virtue and virginity? I assure you.”

“Many, many bath-salts, Bwana!”

“Don’t be cheeky with me you darkened and cheapskate sod. I know how many bath-salts make five,” Henry took a giant swig of imported Paraffino, “and, if essential, I’ll climb the big route, shoot the ogre and bring back the princess that lays the golden eggs, couple of cans of baked beans and a tin of tuna. Hmhh. Don’t you worry, I know m’ Bible. Also, two dozen farm fresh. Funny thing about ogres, obviously we have a bacon! Makes sense I suppose. Most giants are Jews or Muslims. Typical!”

“But whole lot of de giants being dey vegetarians, Boss?” whispered Ubura.

“What? Turnips, sprouts, soya sausages you clod,” – smack-

“Noo Sah, Chuan, Sahib, Bos, Bwana, and all the rest of the other ridiculous titles what you washed out people want to hear. Many of my family eating exclusively the men what land out of the sky. All little green buggers, Sah, with big ears and talking about the bars of Mars, with a pinch of oregano and a bit of paprika, well…”

“Well?”, growled Henry.

“… well the rest of the world don’t wanna know, ‘specially the western powers ….”

“Do you refer, you damned savage, to the Boer war?”

“No, Bos. Dat was the most Boer-ing War what I was ever de un-willing victim in. All was ‘regular’, Sir, and ‘sergeant’, shooting as well – shooting and shooting and shitting the family up the proverbial Creek. No paddles but some damned good uniforms.”

“There is justice in this world.” Said Henry, strangefully whispering, “Democracy, decency, kindness, and the occasional, necessary, merciful killing. I represent that very kind of kindness.”

“De what?” gasped Ubura, with understandable incredulity.

“The kind of ……… I take it you didn’t like the, er, beads and calico?”

“Mester, in mah country you am, is and are the WAR!”

- Night sounds -

Ubura rushed into Henry’s tent.

“Boss, simba – outside, Boss”

“What? You dusky hided swine.” Henry rose in a red rage.

“It’s simba, Sah. Quick, de big gun, Sahib”

“A sambo? I’ve got eyes in mi ruddy head.” Grouched Henry, rubbing his face violently to find one. He did and screwed his monocle into it. Now able to see a little his rage doubled. “Damned right. You pass it to me, that gun, immediatement and I’ll shoot you on the sodding spot. Now get out of mi private quarters, God damn it! I get approximately two erections a year and some blasted jungle bunny waltzes in to tell me that he’s a sambo.” Henry glowered through the flap of his tent.
“What the hell do you thinks holding mi bloody tent up? The bloody central pole, that’s what, now piss off!”

The lion scraped one paw easily through the canvas of the now sleeping Henry’s tent, and at that instant Henry let off a trouser cough of huge mackerel pie, an immense Billingsgate.

But he awoke, “By Saint Hernia’s sacred hankies, I know I’m attractive to women but a man must have his rest.” Henry rolled over and released another bum-thrump of such nauseous disgust that simba the lion reeled from his meal, gagged in the guy ropes and staggered, vomiting, into the forest. “Hummph!” grunted Henry, “Never did like women who paint their nails. Knew a ship’s purser once who filed his teeth and dyed his eyebrows. Three pink gins and he got the two mixed up. Horrible!” Henry Rawlinson lay on his back and went straight, well almost, “I always sleep tight.” to sleep.

- Music & song –

Apartheid and prejudice come before a fall,
But patronage is even worse you’re walking towards that wall,
For the common bricks of hostility thrown at you all away
How then can you face the sight, looking at the day?
I’m going black, baby, help me.
I’m going black – gonna die a native!
I’m going to die a native – I’m going black – NO!
I’m going black – I’m going black.
I’m not a white man any more! Help me
I’m not a white man any more. You’re not a white man ………..
You don’t know the score. Teach me. Beat me ……………….
I’m going black. How the Hell am I going to get served?

Sir Henry had no need of mosquito nets or any of that kind of nonsense. His very breath took care of that nuisance. But in that noisome and restless doze he experienced the first of many completely asexual dreams concerning Florrie. And more surprisingly, even, of old Scrotum. He awoke in a speckled sweat thinking of Rawlinson End.
Several months without a letter, or even a crateful of cheer from home, Sir Henry a man of profound compassion and forgivefulness, tacked a piece of air-mail paper to the glistening back of his toilet bearer and directed him to ‘kneel in the desk position’.
Sadly the wretched heat and filthy, foreign conditions Henry had endured in the African veldt had blunted and dried up his Parker fountain pen. He was forced to write in blood. It was not, of course, his own and he found to his great invention and pleasure just what a grand ink well could be improvised from a human ear. Again, it was not his own. His letter was as follows. And it perhaps illuminates a more emotional and unexpected side of Sir Henry Rawlinson:-

My dearest Florrie,
It’s a bit of a bloody pickle out here. Of course I have killed a lot of things – that’s the good side.
I haven’t seen a white man since the last time I shaved.
Knowing of my deep love for you would you immediately send me three crates of brandy, several hundred rollmops and a mouthorgan.
What these sods need is a good nightly rendering of Jollity Farm. Bloody drums and banjos all night long – if I shout at them they think I’m singing the sodding chorus and if I shoot one or two the whole lot of ‘em turn resentful, hmmph, ridiculous! Pity they don’t have a Butlins out here – a couple of years in there would knock some sense into them.
I would, naturally, prefer to have mi tuba, bound to get damaged in transit - some wog would turn it into a cannon.
Looking forward to the brandy,
Yours,
Henry

- Music -

To waltz without pain is sweet, to tango with negroes is suave,
but celebrate Christmas without Uriah, is a harder thing to carve.

Gosomusa had a rather specialised business in hairpieces. “Send only a portion of hair from any hairy portion of de body and the same will be returned to yourself in the form of a perfectly matching wig. This will fool all de girls. Our wigs come in complete with a choice of sterilised carpet tacks or de new waterproof wood glues.”

For some reason beyond his comprehension he was arraigned, arrested and had to flee, not only from South Africa but from his whole family and happy customers.

“Was good for the whole bald human race. They not sure how to face being bald even behind a wife, seventeen kids – and a darned good business.”

At best Gosomusa was very much like Henry. It was only that, as yet, in the pursuit of finance Henry had not so far had need to scalp anybody. When Gosomusa first lifted the ponderous porcelain weight of Henry’s throne onto his head he was the proudest man on the expedition. The field toilet was as huge as an elephant’s foot. In Durban Gosomusa had polished the brass and mahogany seat to a fine gloss that matched his own cheeks, but now the sun had robbed the wood of its sheen and the acid drops of vultures greened the metal. He remembered the words of Babba Sir Henry the wind breaker, the “Breaker of Winds”, that he, Gosomusa, was the bearer, after the brandy bearer and the gun, “the most vital piece of a gentleman’s equipment in all of Africa.”
Most of the boys were Afrikaans speaking as were the shield bearers, the privy seal, who stood in a square about the throne when Henry ‘did what he had to do’. He called them the Inner Truth.
Whilst polishing the mahogany and brass of Sir Henry’s field toilet Gosomusa had time to ponder on this. “It is not true that the shortest line is always straight.” Gosomusa knew this now to be true from the many times he’d held the porcelain in front of his swaying master. The Fuhrer of Rawlinson End had a bladder like a zeppelin and an aim like the rapid escape of a serpent. As consequence Gosomusa’s hair was quite straight and his skin so bleached, were it not for his nostrils, he could pass for a German tourist.

When white gloss painted number 7 reported that the Induna, of what was undoubtedly a very large Impi, had been surveying the expedition for several days, Henry demanded to know what were the size of the thing’s horns, since he’d never heard of the animal? Being told that the horns of the Zulu Impi were very large indeed Henry declared he would, “… bag the bugger in the morning, use it as a hat stand.”

It was in light of this unfortunate misunderstanding, an Impi being a highly trained Zulu regiment of ferocious endeavour and initiative, that in the light of that mid-African morning, Henry – after several great gulps of rum – found himself awake, outside his tent on the aloe scented hills, quite alone save for the ever faithful and weeping Ubura. The camp, deserted and the porters gone.

“I suppose they’ve taken all the wire wool, hmmph!” grumped Henry, feeling some movement of mackerel in his unmentionable and heavily corseted regions.
They had.
“Probably get the white gloss paint off. God damn it! I suppose I’ll have to use bog paper, if they haven’t nicked it!”
They had.
“And all the emergency turps. Pheow, Lord of trousers!” grumped Henry. “You don’t find cactus in the dark in-continent, do you?”

Ubura shook his head.

“Then you’d better find me a haystack or a thatched roof, and damned quick!”
“What’d they bugger off for anyway?”

“We are in the land of the terrible King Ndidi, Boss. The boys were frightened when you talked of shooting the Impi, and they run away.”

“I’ll shoot any damned thing I like. And put it over the mantelpiece.” Growled Henry, “God’s teeth, I’m paying them two English shillings a month and all the berries they can find and the ingrate sods piss off, Hmmph?”

Henry stared at the scattered boxes and moribund fires of what was left of his safari, “And to what do I owe your loyalty?” he bellowed.

Ubura shuddered and shrugged.

“You avaricious toad.” Yelped Sir Henry, “Two bob a month and you’re anybody’s.”

Sir Henry took stock of the situation. He had a can of corned beef, his shot gun, half a crate, a tin of talcum powder and a large Christmas, unwanted, bag of bath-salts. It was this last, glittering, iridescent item that gave him the great wheeze. It was to prove a mistake.

“Lead me to this terrible Ndidi, you squid!”

Ubura rolled his eyes like dice and came up with an unlucky 13.
Luck was not a lady that morning, more like a whore with a heart of bath-salts.

“Ndidi, Boss?”

“Yes, indeed Ndidi.” Roared Henry, now determined on his course. It was to prove a great education.

- Music -

With a mighty wealth of air and gas, Sir Henry, in tattered magnificence entered the Kraal of Ndidi - and just before falling over, in supposed obeisance, he farted hugely and jeering women were stunned in their avian ululation and battle scarred warriors held their noses.

The tyrant Ndidi was most impressed with this behaviour and pursuant were hurried discussion with his ministers to find that Henry’s smell and its effect were an augury of power and mystic strength.

“I see you white man, and I see you again,” said Ndidi, suspiciously.

“He says he sees you Sir Henry Baba.” Interpreted Ubura, “A greeting, Sir.”

“Well, good to hear it, at least the fat shit won’t want to steal mi monocle. Why’s he grunting and making all those damned clicking noises, hmmh?”

“It is from the tongue of the Hottentots, now a part of the Zulu language. The great king Ndidi does not speak English proper.”

“Good Grief! This is a part of the Empire, isn’t it? Well I’m buggered.”

Ubura delivered a lengthy over laudatory paean to the bored black monarch.

“What are you going on about? Just tell the bugger howdy doody and what not and will he kindly get off his bum and fetch me a large one. Where’s the ruddy drinks cabinet anyway?”

Henry raised the seat of his field toilet and sat down heavily. He mopped his sunned raspberry brow impatiently. Ndidi flicked his wildebeest fly switch imperiously and Ubura stopped in mid praise. Ndidi glowered a cold appraisal of Henry and then stared at the mahogany and porcelain throne.

“Hmmh!”, he grunted, “Tut, tut, tick, tock.” Knitting his brows and seeing the whole of his ugly head he raised his hand, “Ah welcome this strange white King Henry.”

As one sovereign to another Ndidi indicated to Henry one of the vast clay pots of royal beer at the base of his dirt mound.

Henry grumbled and rose blinking to his feet, staggered forward, peered inside and frowned terribly. “Pfuffh, Whayu! Wuff,” he recoiled, “Listen, you sweaty clod. If I’d have wanted a piss I was already settled in the perfect position.”

Not understanding, Ndidi considered this an ‘after you’, and a Kingly gesture of courtesy. A minister filled a goblet with foaming amber fluid. The black King drained it, mightily.

“Mmmm, nnnn.” He remarked. Ndidi’s page boy wiped Ndidi’s lips with his young head.

“It is the Royal Beer, Baba.“ Murmured Ubura. “Stronger even than your own Infamous Grouse whisky. The King Ndidi invites the King Henry…”

“King Henry Hum? Well, suppose it’s understandable!”

“…. he invites you to drink with him.”

“Stronger than the old Infamous, Huh? Mmmm.”

As Henry quizzed this impossibility the King himself stooped to fill another goblet.

“Whaar, yyy… “ said Henry, rudely brushing him aside.

Ndidi froze in terrible unbelief and 20,000 spears stuttered militarily on ox-hide shields. Kneeling before the huge clay pot Henry clasped it as though it were a woman and lifted it to his mouth. There was a silence. The pot contained at least four quarts of potent brew. Henry swallowed the lot, pausing only three times for breath. There was a silence. Then Ndidi, his great belly quivering, bellowed his delight.

BELCH, burfed Sir Henry and with a “Whey, wwwrrr, and erm, cheers!”, sniff.
20,000 stamping, cheering warriors erupted in cheers from the giant crowd.

“King Ndidi says he will present you with a Kaross – it is a great honour, Baba.”, whispered Ubura.

“A ruddy cross?” choked Henry, “I know I’m a saintly man but I’m not the son of … God’s teeth, and what next? Mount Calvary, Golgotha, a place of the ruddy skulls? Does he think I’ve walked over the lakes? Blast it! I’m not even a bloody Jew boy. Tell him that, the silly sod!”

Ubura informed the King that Henry was delighted with his generosity and that the great white King had a gift for the all powerful Ndidi. Maybe it would be the corned beef.

Ndidi signalled and an ageing Induna emerged from a large hut bearing a beautiful cloak of leopard skin. Ndidi rose and solemnly placed it about Henry’s shoulders.

“Well at least it’ll keep the chill out on the way to my crucifixion.”

“Kaross,” intoned Ndidi.

“Not if I can help it, you bugger!” Henry gave a great eye-rolling shrug of el-Greco martyrdom, “tell this sooty Pontius Pirate, that I’m going to give him some priceless jewels.”

Ubura looked a bit puzzled but did as he was told. Then, to his utter horror, Henry with a slight and dignified bow reached into the field toilet, grunted and placed in Ndidi’s enormous hands the bag of bath-salts. Henry screwed his monocle into his left eye. Even more astonishing the gross and sweating Ndidi. Then, taking one pinky crystal from the spilling bag he held it to the light. The sun glanced off King Henry’s magic eye and the bath-salt danced in reflected glare.

“Aaahhh-mmmm.” Groaned an entranced Sir Henry. Shaking his head like a great connoisseur. So very sorry to see it pass from the family. With a resigned sigh he plumped back on the throne, quite overcome.

Ndidi growled with pleasure and horrid noises of feigned expertise and pawnbroker approval. Henry was offered beer which he accepted with a reluctance bordering on the good manners of a gannet. Also a huge wooden platter of solids – it was meat of some kind.

At the sight of this food, “Not Roman Catholics, I trust? Wuh! I’d hate to have garlic on my breath. Wuurrrrffff!” Henry wurfed. He wurfed and ejected a solid shout that convinced the assembled warriors and the King Ndidi that this strange white man could speak in rainbows.

At home Henry always said, “Grouse!” before a meal. This here was clearly impossible and a breach of courtesy. “Grease!” he said, largely, and winked.

“Hell” He sure aint squinting.” Said Ndidi, sagely. At the risk of castration, or a clubbing, Ndidi’s generals could only agree.

Once more on his feet, a condition Henry equated with only the middle classes, he staggered towards the King. Ndidi wore a great blue Kaross about his naked shoulders and gigantic belly. About his head was a leather ring. “Issi kuku.” Said Ndidi, pointing to his head ring and pointing out his manhood.

“Is he?” yelped Henry, “Does he play clarinet? Must say, I hate this circus m’self.”

Ndidi, part educated and part fed on missionaries, rose in misunderstanding. A thousand gleaming, angry spears were poised at the Fuhrer of Rawlinson End. Ndidi stabbed pointedly at his cloak.

“Kaross is mantle of the King.” He intoned, “This is blaubuck. None left now. All shot out, just what is left on ma body. It lives.”

“Hmmph. Probably crawling.” Said Henry, “Mind you, a good going over with turps….”

Ndidi seemed confused for a moment then ordered two of his ministers to be buried up to their necks in ant hills. Henry declared Ndidi “A ruddy good egg.”

Henry downed the second of the royal pots of beer and collapsed on the throne, “Do you catch my meaning, mmmm?” He mumbled.

Ndidi caught nothing and supervised the clubbing of nine of his wives.

“Wauugh, mmm!” burfed Henry, through a fog of unseeing. “Never let ‘em get on top of you, that’s the sure sign of a pervert!”

The gorgeous maidens advanced on the assembled ranks of warriors.

“If one of them fellas gets erect, he’s sure of to get the clubbing coming.” Said Ubura.

Henry was very fond of clubs. At least it got him away from home and when he was in London he usually stayed at the Urethreum.

“Well, they all look very erect to me. Stick a bear skin on ‘em, whh? Oh! They’re all in bare skin, but they might make fine Guardsmen.”

“Erect?” said Ndidi, and he gave an emetic sign to his executioners. It was thus that Henry, in all ignorance, was largely responsible for the end of the Zulu nation. Noting the skull breaking advances of the executioners, Henry had risen to protest, “Damn it. I’ve played rugby at Doctor Arnold’s and it was definitely against the rules to raise the clubs above the shoulder, or to wear shorts above the knee. I say, this is all without discipline.”

Ubura interpreted this to Ndidi, who having paraded his herds of pure white cattle before this new and strange King, Sir Henry, felt a twinge of shame. To this end he ordered another fifty warriors executed.

“Dear God.” Said Henry. “Just like Scotland.”

The terrible King Ndidi decided that his audience with this amazing King Henry had really been too exhausting and he needed just a little time in his harem. His 900 wives would soothe him. To show his respect, he offered the now very drunk Henry the finest hut in the Royal Inner Kraal, after his own.

Ndidi was helped to his flat, bare feet and he pointed with his switch to a magnificent round thatched building decorated with cowrie shells. Behind Ndidi his chief minister bared his gold teeth in anger. It was his hut.

“Aaohh, huu, so that’s where it is! I was wondering. Whuuu. Anyway, thank God I was nearly bloody bursting.”

Before Ubura had time to explain, Henry was barging his way through gaping Indunas, witch doctors and ministers and before he’d even stooped to enter the beautiful bee-hive hut, he’d already unbuttoned his shorts.
When Henry debouched, cursing and burping and wiping his hands down the side of his shorts, it was soft, sudden, sable dusk. The inner kraal was almost deserted. Only Ubura polishing Henry’s throne, nine gigantic pure white bulls and also a man with gold teeth who stared with calm hatred at Sir Henry.
Behind, the high stockaded harem was only quiet and from the hut of the great wife of Ndidi nothing but a dreadful snoring. Before the entrance to this great hut stood motionless, four heavily muscled Royal Executioners each with a short stabbing spear, club and axe. Each stood behind their shields and each wore the head ring of great warriors.
Having been awarded the head ring meant that they were now fit to marry, have children and settle in their own kraals. But these splendid men chose to remain as body guard to their King demonstrated a fierce and marvellous loyalty. Only Ubura understood the niceties of this sacrifice.

“Do you know, they don’t have any windows in that bloody place. Jesu! I like mi privacy in these matters as much as any gentleman but bugger me! I had to crawl around on mi hands and knees in the ruddy dark, looking for the pan….....”, Ubura shook his head sadly, “Whhuh, I found it alrighty. Fact is I found three of ‘em. But can you believe this? They were all full! FULL! They were bloody brimming. Had to feel ma way to ma feet ‘n do it up the wall, Phuh! No wonder these wallers catch odd diseases and carry fly swishes. Downright revolting! Don’t clean their bogs out!”

“They were not pans, Baba Henry, Sir.” Throated Ubura. “They were pots of the Royal Beer, ordered there by his Great Majesty for your pleasure.”

“WHAT? Does he think I drink in lavatories? Dear Lord! Hospitality? And just where does his Gracious Majesty thing I’m going to bunk down? With the blasted bulls?”

Ubura could only point back to the hut.

“WHAT? Sleep in the lavatory too? Ear nose and throat. I’m getting out of this. I’m getting out of this stinking hole before lighting up time.”

- Music -

Cock a doodle one says, “the chicken in his run”,
Cock a doodle two says, “the monkey in the zoo”,
Cock a doodle three says, “you can come ‘n look at me”,
Cock a doodle four says, “the bars are off the door”,
Then Cock a doodle five says, “I’ll eat you all, alive”.

Transcribed by Martyn Weston (February 2007)