Against his common sense, he turned back. “I’m going to regret this.”
She greeted his arrival with a snarl that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Go away! Buzz off, ape!”
He stared at the shoulder. Clearly, she could not walk well, if at all.
“I said beat it! You think you can throw sticks and stones at me? You think you’re really funny?? I’ll make you laugh till you beg death to release you!”
Busara just stood there staring, tears in his eyes and his chin beginning to quiver. Despite her spirit, she was obviously afraid and in deep anguish. He took a gourd from his staff. “There is an artery just under the skin on my throat,” he said calmly, drawing a line with his finger. “If you rake me there, I will die in two minutes, maybe three and you won’t have to die alone.”
The lioness was surprised by his answer. “You’re very brave--or very stupid.”
Busara reached in the gourd and took some moistened herbs. “Lie still.” He started to put the herbs on the wound when a paw swept out and struck his hand. Busara moaned and clutched his bleeding hand. No doubt she expected him to run. Her expression changed from anger to surprise.
Without unkind words he gathered up the scattered herbs from the grass. Setting the example by putting a small dose on his own hand, he said, “I mean you no harm. A little more still, if you please.”
Patiently, but trembling, he reached toward the wound. “This won’t hurt a bit--I promise.”
“What is that stuff?”
“It will relieve your pain.”
“It looks like weeds to me.”
“It can save you.” He reached for her jaw and before she knew what to expect he slipped his other hand in her mouth. Her eyes turned to stare at him. “Consider it our agreement. If I hurt you, bite it off.”
Despite her misgivings, she held still and let him place the poultice on the wound. It did not pain her, so she even let him poke and prod around the wound, then massage the area to restore circulation.
She sighed with relief and let go of his hand. “That does feel better,” she said. “I have been stoned by monkeys before. I didn’t know they could be kind.”
He looked into the large, beautiful eyes of the lioness. “Anyone can be kind.”
She looked back. “You’re crying, aren’t you?”
“The Bedango makes my eyes water.” He wiped his eyes and got another gourd. “Here, drink this water.”
Slowly and carefully he poured its contents into her mouth. Some of it spilled, but enough made it into her parched throat to bring a smile of relief. “The gods must have sent you. What is your name?”
“Busara.”
“‘Teacher.’ That is a good name. I am Asumini.”
“That means ‘jasmine.’ A delicate flower.” He looked at his cut hand and glanced at her injured but still powerful arm. With a smile of amusement, he harvested grass, then raised her head and made a soft cushion. “Asumini, as soon as you can walk we have to get you out of this sun. I live in a cave nearby. There you will be safe from the jealous eyes of night.”
“I can’t stay here. I can’t eat fruit, and you’re no hunter.”
“I’ll scavenge.”
“You’ll drive off the hyenas, eh?” She looked at him wistfully. “I know I am not long for this world, but I will pray for you, Busara.”
“There must be someone that can help you,” Busara said. “Don’t you have family or friends?”
“My husband and my pride sisters,” she said. “If you would go to the west to Pride Rock, surely the gods would repay you someday. As you walk, chant ‘Aiheu abamami,’ so they will know you are a friend. Tell them Asumini sent you.”
“I will find them.”
“It’s a long trek.”
“It does not matter.” He reached down and stroked her face. “Don’t worry. This time death will not win. I promise.”
Her tongue touched his hand. “I won’t forget you.”
“And I won’t forget you.” Clearly it was not the Bedango that made his eyes water that time.
Thus begun the ‘Peace of Asumini’ which made Mandrills corban--safe from harm--which is still honored in the Pride Lands to this day.
CHAPTER 1: RAFIKI IS BORN
The mandrill Neema was crying out in anguish as she brought her child into the world. Her husband, Chief Kinara, had sat unruffled through many struggles with a calm smile. Now he was clearly in distress listening the muffled moaning of his wife. His sons Makedde and Makoko were trying to comfort him as best they could.
“Bear down,” the midwife said. “It will hurt more, but it is much quicker. Bear down.”
A piercing scream left no doubt it hurt. “Oh gods! Oh gods! See me through!”
The midwife said, “The more it hurts, the more you will love your child.”
“If I love him much more, it’ll kill me!!”
Even in her pain, she kept a little sense of humor. But the chief was not amused. He kept wringing his hands and pacing around. “Why doesn’t she hurry!”
“She’s doing the best she can,” Makedde said. “Some things can’t be hurried.”
“That’s it,” said the midwife. “Come on, Neema! It’s almost over!”
Finally there was a cry that sounded more like a call of relief. And a few moments later came a shrill yip showed that a new voice was speaking.
At long last the midwife came for the Chief. The young sons were warned away for now. “You’ll get your chance. Don’t crowd the mother.”
Chief Kinara looked at Neema and the small moist bundle of fur and long limbs she held. “Our son,” she whispered.
“Our son,” he said, bending down to kiss Neema’s perspiring brow. “You said you wanted a daughter this time. Did you change your mind?”
“I stick with what works. You know that.”
He turned the small face to look at him. With a slight shrug, he contemplated the somewhat plain but pleasant visage. “Metutu,” he said, for the child was no beauty but also was not ugly. The midwife, not understanding, went outside and said, “Listen all! Chief Kinara has a son. By the will of the gods, Metutu!”
Neema frowned at her husband. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“It means one whose face does not lie.”
“It also means plain one.”
“He’s the son of the chief. They better not call him ‘plain one’ if they know what’s good for them!” He bent down and looked into the child’s eyes.
“Oh look, he’s smiling at me!”
“It’s probably gas,” Neema said.
“I tell you he’s smiling,” Kinara stressed. “And well he might smile. His life will be easy and free from pain, at least if I have any say over it.” He kissed the child. “Welcome home, Metutu.”
CHAPTER 2: GROWING PAINS
Metutu’s first days at home were a series of pleasant experiences. Kinara’s promise was being fulfilled, for the only hardships he’d ever known were in the stories of gods and heroes his mother used to tell. His every need was taken care of by his devoted mother and his trusted servants.
When he turned three, the age where other young mandrills took on small chores, Metutu was told to keep a sharp eye on the servants and make sure they did not shirk their jobs. Even then, there was no doubt he was being groomed for leadership, perhaps as the next chief.
Metutu’s brothers were much older. They treated their young sibling with affection and gentleness, but they were interested in playmates more their own age that understood the rough, complex games of older boys. So when Metutu wanted a playmate, Busara was careful to select someone about his age, a bright, polite youth from one of the powerful families on the council. Wandani by his temperment and learning was the clear choice. In addition, his parents were strongly loyal to Kinara’s administration, so Wandani would never try to influence the Chief through his son.