True at First Light

by Ernest Hemingway

  “Dear, dear. Do you think she had best go to the Ngoma with your colleague Mr. Chungo, sir? It may all be absolutely tickety-boo but she still is a Memsahib, sir. She still comes under the White Man’s Burden Act.”

  “She’ll go to the Ngoma with me,” G.C. said. “Make us a drink, Miss Mary; or no, I will.”

  “I can make drinks still,” Miss Mary said. “Don’t you both look so sinister. I made it all up about Mr. Chungo. Someone has to make jokes here sometimes beside Papa and his pagans and you and Papa and your night wildness and wickedness. What time did you all get up this morning?”

  “Not too early. Is it still the same day?”

  “The days run into each other and into each other and into each other,” Miss Mary said. “That’s in my poem about Africa.”

  Miss Mary was writing a great poem about Africa but the trouble was that she made it up in her head sometimes and forgot to write it down and then it would be gone like dreams. She wrote some of it down but she would not show it to anybody. We all had great faith in her poem about Africa and I still have but I would like it better if she would actually write it. We were all reading the Georgics then in the C. Day Lewis translation. We had two copies but they were always being lost or mislaid and I have never known a book to be more mis-layable. The only fault I could ever find with the Mantovan was that he made all normally intelligent people feel as though they too could write great poetry. Dante only made crazy people feel they could write great poetry. That was not true of course but then almost nothing was true and especially not in Africa. In Africa a thing is true at first light and a lie by noon and you have no more respect for it than for the lovely, perfect weed-fringed lake you see across the sun-baked salt plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is there absolutely true, beautiful and believable.

  “Is that really in the poem?” I asked Miss Mary.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then write it down before it gets to sound like a traffic accident.”

  “You don’t have to spoil people’s poems as well as shoot their lions.”

  G.C. looked up at me like a weary schoolboy and I said, “I found my Georgics if you want it. It is the one that hasn’t got the introduction by Louis Bromfield in it. That’s how you can tell it.”

  “You can tell mine because it has my name in it.”

  “And an introduction by Louis Bromfield.”

  “Who’s the man Bromfield?” G.C. asked. “Is it a fighting word?”

  “He’s a man who writes who has a very well known farm in America, in Ohio. Because he is well-known about the farm Oxford University had him write an introduction. Turning the pages he can see Virgil’s farm and Virgil’s animals and Virgil’s people and even his own stern and rugged features or figures I forget which. It must be rugged figures if he is a farmer. Anyway Louis can see him and he says it forms a great and eternal poem or poems for every kind of reader.”

  “It must be the edition I have without Bromfield,” G.C. said. “I think you left it in Kajiado.”

  “Mine has my name in it,” Miss Mary said.

  “Good,” I said. “And your Up-Country Swahili has your name in it too and right now it’s in my hip pocket and sweated through and stuck together. I’ll get you mine and you can write your name in it.”

  “I don’t want yours. I want my own and why did you have to sweat it solidly together and ruin it?”

  “I don’t know. It was probably part of my plot to ruin Africa. But here it is. I’d advise you to take the clean one.”

  “This one has words that I’d written in myself that aren’t in the original and it has notations.”

  “I’m sorry. I must have put it in my pocket some morning in the dark by mistake.”

  “You never make a mistake,” Miss Mary said. “We all know that. And you’d be much better off if you studied your Swahili instead of trying to speak all the time in Unknown Tongue and reading nothing but French books. We all know you read French. Was it necessary to come all the way to Africa to read French?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. This was the first time I ever had a complete set of Simenon and the girl at the book shop in the long passageway at the Ritz was so nice to send and then get them all.”

  “And then you left them down in Tanganyika at Patrick’s. All except a few. Do you think they’ll read them?”

  “I don’t know. Pat’s sort of mysterious some ways like me. He might read them and he might not. But he has a neighbor who has a wife who is a Frenchwoman and they’d be good to have for her. No. Pat would read them.”

  “Did you ever study French and learn to speak it grammatically?”

  “No.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  G.C. frowned at me.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not hopeless because I still have hope. The day I haven’t you’ll know it bloody quick.”

  “What do you have hope about? Mental slovenliness? Taking other people’s books? Lying about a lion?”

  “That’s sort of alliterative. Just say lying.

  “Now I lie me down to sleep.

  Conjugate the verb lie and who with

  And how lovely it can be.

  “Conjugate me every morning and every night

  And fire, no sleet, no candlelight

  The Mountain cold and close when you’re asleep

  “The dark belts of trees are not yews

  But the snow’s still snow.

  Conjugate me once the snow

  “And why the Mountain comes closer

  And goes farther away.

  “Conjugate me conjugable love.

  What kind of mealies do you bring?”

  It was not a nice way to talk especially to anyone with Virgil on their mind but lunch came then and lunch was always an armistice in any misunderstandings and the partakers of it and its excellence were as safe as malefactors once were said to be in churches with the law after them although I had never had much faith in that sanctuary. So we cleaned it up and rubbed it all off the slate and Miss Mary went to take a nap after lunch and I went to the Ngoma.

  It was very much like other Ngomas except extraordinarily pleasant and nice and the Game Scouts had made a huge effort. They were dancing in shorts and they all had four ostrich plumes on their heads, at least at the beginning. Two of the plumes were white and two dyed pink and they kept them on with all sorts of devices from leather straps and thongs to binding them or wiring them into the hair. They wore bell anklets to dance with and they danced well and with beautiful contained discipline. There were three drums and some drumming on tins and empty petrol drums. There were four classic dances and three or four that were improvised. The young women and the young girls and the children did not get to dance until the later dances. They all danced but they did not enter into the figures and dance in the double line until late in the afternoon. You could see from the way the children and the young girls danced that they were used to much rougher Ngomas at the Shamba.

  Miss Mary and G.C. came out and took color pictures and Miss Mary was congratulated by everyone and shook hands with everybody. The Game Scouts did feats of agility. One was to start to turn a cartwheel over a coin that was half buried in the earth edge up and then stop the cartwheel when the feet were straight up in the air and to lower the head to the ground, sinking down on the arms, get the coin in the teeth and then come up and spin over to the feet in a single roll. It was very difficult and Denge, who was the strongest of the Game Scouts and the most agile, the kindest and the gentlest, did it beautifully.

  Most of the time I sat in the shade and filled in on one of the basic beat empty petrol drums working the end with the base of the hand and watched the dancing. The Informer came over and squatted down by me wearing his imitation paisley shawl and his porkpie hat.

  “Why are you sad, brother?” he asked.

  “I am not sad.”

  “Everyone knows you are sad. You m
ust be cheerful. Look at your fiancée. She is the Queen of the Ngoma.”

  “Don’t put your hand on my drum. You deaden it.”

  “You are drumming very well, brother.”

  “The hell I am. I can’t drum at all. I’m just not doing any harm. What are you sad about?”

  “The Bwana Game has spoken to me very roughly and he sends me away. After all our magnificent work he says I do nothing here and he sends me to a place where I may easily be killed.”

  “You may be killed anywhere.”

  “Yes. But here I am useful to you and I die happy.”

  The dance was getting wilder now. I liked to see Debba dance and I didn’t. It was as simple as that and, I thought, it must have happened to all followers of this type of ballet. I knew she was showing off to me because she danced down at the end by the petrol drum bongo.

  “She is a very beautiful young girl,” the Informer said. “And the Queen of the Ngoma.”

  I went on playing until the end of the dance and then got up and found Nguili, who had his green robe on, and asked him to see the girls had Coca-Cola.

  “Come on to the tent,” I said to the Informer. “You are sick aren’t you?”

  “Brother, I have a fever truly. You can take the temperature and see.”

  “I’ll get you some Atabrine.”

  Mary was still taking pictures and the girls were standing stiff and straight with their breasts standing out against the scarves that looked like tablecloths. Mthuka was grouping some of the girls together and I knew he was trying to get a good picture of Debba. I watched them and saw how shy and downcast Debba’s eyes were standing before Miss Mary and how straight she stood. She had none of the impudence she had with me and she stood at attention like a soldier.

  The Informer had a tongue as white as though it were sprouting chalk and when I depressed his tongue with a spoon handle I could see he had a bad yellow patch and a yellow and whitish patch in the back of his throat. I put the thermometer under his tongue and he had a temperature of a hundred and one and three tenths.

  “You’re sick, Informer Old Timer,” I said. “I’ll give you some penicillin and some penicillin lozenges and send you home in the hunting car.”

  “I said I was sick, brother. But nobody cares. Can I have one drink, brother?”

  “It’s never hurt me with penicillin. It might do your throat good.”

  “I am sure it would, brother. Do you think Bwana Game will let me stay here and serve under you now that you can certify that I am sick?”

  “You won’t be any ball of fire while you’re sick. Maybe I ought to send you in to the hospital in Kajiado.”

  “No, please, brother. You can cure me here and I will be available for all emergencies and I can be your eyes and your ears and your right hand in battle.”

  God help us all, I thought, but he is having these ideas with no liquor in him and no bang and none of the stuff and with a septic sore throat and possibly quinsy. It is pretty good morale even if it is just from the mouth.

  I was making a half tumbler of half and half Rose’s Lime Juice and whisky that would ease the throat and afterwards I would give him the penicillin and the lozenges and drive him home myself.

  The mixture made his throat feel better and with the liquor his morale blossomed.

  “Brother, I am a Masai. I have no fear of death. I despise death. I was ruined by the Bwanas and by a Somali woman. She took everything; my property, my children and my honor.”

  “You told me.”

  “Yes, but now since you bought me the spear I am starting again in life. You have sent for the medicine that brings youth?”

  “It is coming. But it can only bring back youth if youth is there.”

  “It is there. I promise, brother. I feel it flooding into me now.”

  “That’s the stuff.”

  “Perhaps. But I can feel youth too.”

  “I’ll give you the medicine now and then I’ll drive you home.”

  “No. Please, brother. I came with the Widow and she must go home with me. It is too early for her to go yet. I lost her for three days at the last Ngoma. I will wait and go with her when the truck leaves.”

  “You ought to be in bed.”

  “It is better that I wait for the Widow. Brother, you do not know the danger that an Ngoma is for a woman.”

  I had a sort of an idea of this danger and I did not want the Informer to talk with his throat so bad but he asked, “Could I have just one last drink before the medicine?”

  “All right. I think it’s OK, medically.”

  This time I put sugar with the Rose’s Lime Juice and made a good big drink. If he was going to wait for the Widow it might be a long time and soon the sun would go down and it would be cold.

  “We will do great deeds together, brother,” the Informer said.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you think we ought to do a few great deeds separately to sharpen up?”

  “Name a great deed and I will do it.”

  “I’ll think up a great deed as soon as your throat is well. I have many small deeds I must do myself now.”

  “Can I help in a small deed, brother?”

  “Not in these. These I must do alone.”

  “Brother, if we do great deeds together will you take me to Mecca with you?”

  “I may not be going to Mecca this year.”

  “But next year?”

  “If it be the wish of Allah.”

  “Brother, do you remember Bwana Blixen?”

  “Too well.”

  “Brother, many say it is not true that Bwana Blix is dead. They say that he has disappeared until the death of his creditors and that then he will come again to earth like the Baby Jesus. In the theory of the Baby Jesus. Not that he will appear as the actual Baby Jesus. Can there be truth in this?”

  “I think there can be no truth in this. The Bwana Blix is truly dead. Friends of mine have seen him dead in the snow with his head broken.”

  “Too many great men are dead. Few of us remain. Tell me, brother, of your faith that I have heard spoken of. Who is this great Lord who heads your faith?”

  “We call him Gitchi Manitou the Mighty. That is not his true name.”

  “I see. Has he too been to Mecca?”

  “He goes to Mecca as you or I might go to the bazaar or enter a duka.”

  “Do you represent him directly as I have heard?”

  “In so far as I am worthy.”

  “But you hold his authority?”

  “It is not for you to ask that.”

  “Pardon me, brother, in my ignorance. But does he speak through you?”

  “He speaks through me if he chooses.”

  “Can men who are not…”

  “Do not ask.”

  “Can…”

  “I will administer the penicillin and you can go,” I said. “It is not fitting to speak of religion in a mess tent.”

  The Informer did not have the confidence in the oral penicillin that I hoped for from a potential doer of great deeds but it may have been disappointment at not being able to show his bravery under the big needle. He liked the pleasant taste though and took two tablespoonsful with enjoyment. I joined him in a couple of tablespoons just in case he might be poisoned and also because one never knew what might happen at an Ngoma.

  “It tastes so good that do you think it can be powerful, brother?”

  “The Great Manitou uses it himself,” I said.

  “Allah’s will be done,” the Informer said. “When do I take the rest of the flask?”

  “In the morning when you wake up. If you are awake in the night suck on these tablets.”

  “Already I am better, brother.”

  “Go now and look after the Widow.”

  “I go.”

  All this time we had been hearing the beating of the drums and the thin shaking of the ankle bells and the blowing of the traffic whistles. I still did not feel festive nor like dancing so, when the Informer was
gone, I mixed a Gordon’s gin and Campari and put some soda in it from the siphon. If this mixed well with the double dose of oral, something would have been established even though not perhaps in the realm of pure science. They seemed to blend harmoniously and, if anything, to sharpen the beat of the drums. I listened carefully to see if the police whistles were any shriller but they seemed unaltered. Taking this to be an excellent sign I found a cool quart of beer in the dripping canvas water bag and made my way back to the Ngoma. Someone was playing the head of my metal drum and so I found a good tree to sit against where I was joined by my friend Tony.

  Tony was a fine man and one of my best friends. He was a Masai and had been a sergeant in the Tank Corps and had been a very brave and able soldier. If not the only Masai in the British Army he was at least the only Masai sergeant. He worked for G.C. in the Game Department and I always envied G.C. having him because he was a good mechanic, loyal, devoted and always cheerful and he spoke good English, perfect Masai, naturally, Swahili, some Chagga, and some Kamba. He had a very un-Masai build, having short, rather bandied legs and a heavy, powerful chest, arms and neck. I had taught him to box and we sparred together quite often and were very good friends and companions.

  “It is a very fine Ngoma, sar,” Tony said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Won’t you dance, Tony?”

  “No, sar. It is a Kamba Ngoma.”

  They were dancing a very complicated dance now and the young girls were dancing too in a very intense copulative figure.

  “There are some very pretty girls. Who do you like the best, Tony.”

  “Who do you like, sar?”

  “I cannot decide. There are four really beautiful girls.”

  “There is one who is the best. You see who I mean, sar?”