"Where? Oh! Yes, you're right!"
"And look at that one!" Metutu leaped up and ran a short distance. "There's a hare! And look at that one!" He giggled. "That one looks like old Umbogi from the council...see his potbelly?"
"Oh gods, don't let him hear you say that!" Makedde laughed. "I see it, though, you're right!"
Metutu pointed. "Look! That looks like a lion!"
Makedde peered curiously. "Where?" He looked about, but couldn't see even the faintest wisp of cloud where Metutu was pointing.
"Right there!" Metutu laughed. "It looks more like a lioness, actually. But she's all white instead of golden." He stared up dreamily, then giggled. "She looks like she's smiling at me."
Makedde looked again at the empty sky where Metutu was peering, then down to his brother. His skin tingled as he looked at Metutu with renewed interest. "Yes, I suppose she is, brother."
CHAPTER 9: THE JOYS OF WORK
The more Metutu found out about work, he realized that good feelings were a small part of every job. That more often than not there were other feelings--weariness, perspiration, and sometimes boredom. As he began helping his brother Makedde, he expected to feel as good as he did giving his dinner to Wajoli. But after the initial burst of pride, he took a full dose of reality. Metutu was not yet skilled, and so he was most useful doing hard labor, freeing up Makedde for his thriving medical practice.
Campa root was a valuable resource in shamanic medicine. It was also easy to recognize and almost indestructible. This made gathering Campa a great way to break in a new apprentice.
Metutu kept repeating to himself one of the verses that helped him remember what he was after:
After nearly three hours of pulling Campa, he had a very large stack of leaves to discard, and a precious small hoard of root tips. It was almost more than he could bear to see how little of a gourd he could fill with the prize.
Disgusted with himself and his job, Metutu headed back for lunch, half decided to quit. He walked into the baobab. “Brother, we need to talk.”
“Just a moment.” Makedde was busy with a small mandrill child. “Open your mouth, son.”
The boy gaped open. “Ah, I see. Is it sore around here?”
“Ahh haa,” the boy said.
“But it isn’t making you cough?”
“Ahh ahh.”
“Fine. You can close now.” Makedde smiled. “It’s a sore throat, and not serious at that. We’ll give you something for the discomfort, and maybe even a pinch of Tiko Root. You like that?”
“Yes sir!”
Makedde rubbed the boy’s head affectionately. “Jamala, you make sure he takes three of these crushed in a cup of water every morning, highsun and evening for pain. Two days worth should do it, but if it’s still bothering him, you know where to find me.” He got a sprig of Tiko root and handed it to the boy. “Aren’t you growing like a weed! Soon, I’ll have to look up to see you eye to eye!”
The boy laughed and chomped down on his Tiko root.
When they were gone, Makedde looked to Metutu. “I don’t know how I’d get it all in without your help!” He took the gourd. “That’s a lot of Campa root. Are you sure that was empty when you got it?”
“Yes, brother.”
“Impressive. Now what did you want to talk with me about?”
Metutu smiled shyly. “I forgot. I guess it wasn’t that important.”
CHAPTER 10: THE PATIENCE OF AIHEU
The sweat rolled down Metutu's face, dripping off the end of his nose and making it itch. But he didn't dare raise a hand to wipe it away. He glared fiercely at the Euphorbia he was trying to uproot. Makedde had cautioned that he needed the plant undamaged; the virtue of the roots lay right at the skin. Scraped, they were almost worthless.
Metutu was locked in mortal combat with the plant. He bared his teeth and grinned at the root. “Sooner or later, you’re going to be conquered, and I’m going to laugh at you! You hear me??”
Of course the plant did not hear him. Metutu felt a little foolish arguing with it. He looked at the sensitive root endings exposed to the air and decided against using the sharp wooden digging stick Makedde had given him. Sighing, he set it aside and used much of his precious water ration to moisten the soil. Then he worked with his fingers to carefully scoop away the mud. He hissed in irritation as he felt his fingertips scrape against the small rocks embedded in the mud, but continued to uncover more and more of the plant until it finally gave up. Metutu had managed to outthink a plant, and he grinned in triumph.
“Stupid old weed! Did you really think you could win against my superior intelligence??”
Metutu bore the hard-won prize back toward his home in the baobab. The sun was hot, and he had no water left to quench his thirst. Worse, the mud that had caked on his hands was hardening into a cement that served to irritate the scratches in his skin. “Next time I’ll think to bring more water.”
There was a patient with Makedde. Uwezo looked miserable, and he was. Metutu was hoping to find Makedde alone to share his moment of triumph. And though he was loathe to interrupt a patient, he felt he should quickly show his brother him the bulb. “Hey, look what I got!”
Makedde looked up a little upset. “That’s nice. Right now I’m in the middle of....oh, look at your hands!”
“Oh, I scraped them.”
“Why not go pound your head on a rock while you’re at it!” Makedde sighed at the reckless youth. "God only gives you one pair of hands. There will always be more bulbs."
Uwezo laughed. “You know, that reminds me of....” He winced. “My sore throat. Sorry.”
Makedde turned back to examining Uwezo. “Metutu, the Bedango extract is right in the....” He looked around to point, but Metutu was already rubbing down his hands. “Hfff, well pardon me!”
Metutu dried his hands and stood next to Makedde to watch Uwezo describe his symptoms in dreary detail.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Uwezo droned on. “Today, however, all I wanted to do is sleep. Then when I lay my head down my pulse pounds in my ears. Tic tic tic all the time. I have a headache and my throat is sore. And there’s this dryness in my nose.”
“Not to mention the itching under your arms,” Metutu said.
“Yeah, that too.” He looked at the young mandrill. “I didn’t know you were a shaman too?”
“Not yet,” Makedde said. “So great Metutu, what is your diagnosis?”
"Brother, that sounds like Dol Sani."
Makedde burst out laughing, along with his patient. "Dol Sani is a CHILDHOOD disease. And, well, LOOK at him!"
The rather robust mandrill was a bodyguard for Kinara. He smiled indulgently. “Oh PWEEZE don’t tell my mommy!”
“So you’ve never had it before?” Metutu asked.
“Well no.”
“That’s right. You were an only child and you grew up on the edge of the village.” Metutu looked at Makedde with a wry grin.
“But he MUST have had it at SOME time,” said Makedde, unbelievingly. “Everyone gets that growing up. I mean, it’s almost tribal law.” He laughed.
Metutu shrugged. "I guess so. Still, the itchy arm pits. I was asked for my opinion...."
Metutu climbed down to collect more herbs. He resolved to make no more diagnoses that day.
"That's a fine young brother you've got there, Makedde."
"Indeed, Uwezo. He's come a long way." Makedde chuckled as he bent over him again, his sensitive hands exploring under the other mandrill's jaw, testing the glands there. "I remember when you couldn't GET him to use his own hands to pick up something. Now I can't get him to keep his hands off..." he broke off, frowning. Makedde sat back and looked at him. "Did you say your joints ache?"