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shoulder.
    â€œSuba,” she said, “don't cry. Suba, you are a man, you must be strong.”
    He paid no attention to her. She sat down by his side and put an arm around his shoulder. Still he continued to cry.
    â€œYou were so strong this morning,” she said. “I could not have managed without you. I could not have explained anything to the man. If it were not for your help, the vultures would now be picking over Itsho's body. And I didn't even thank you. I forgot to thank you.”
    Suba looked up at her and wiped his eyes. Then he fell upon her breast and sobbed and sobbed. She held him tight. He was only a child, she realised. And I, Nandzi thought, I am already an adult, ready to have children of my own, to be married. I have no right to cry: this boy needs my support. But she could not control herself and the tears came to her eyes again. So they hugged one another and cried together; and Suba was comforted and fell asleep in her arms.
    All this the other prisoners, the men, watched in silence. They were men no longer, Nandzi thought. They had all been emasculated and become the dogs of their new masters.
    The guards brought in two bowls of steaming gruel. Their hands untied, the famished prisoners gathered round the bowls and pushed and shoved and struggled for a handful of the watery pap.
    Nandzi had no heart to join them. Suba stirred. Gently, she moved him aside. Then she stood up.
    â€œWill you not leave some for the boy?” she shouted at them above the hubbub.
    The men withdrew. In their hunger, they had lost their dignity and forgotten the mutual obligations which custom imposed upon them. They looked at her in guilty silence, sullen and surly at having been exposed. Who was this young girl to scold them so?
    â€œHere. Take it,” said one of them, handing her the bowl.
    * * *
    They walked across country, picking a way through the coarse reeds of the long grass, over low rolling hills, through level patches of desiccated swampland. Scattered trees and termite mounds, as tall as two men, dotted the landscape. The captives walked in a small, tight group. Most of the men wore nothing but a loin cloth. The rough grass scratched their skin. A few wore the pants and cotton smocks in which they had been captured. All were barefooted. None wore a hat. The air was full of the fine dust of the harmattan. The sun was hidden but its fierce dry heat penetrated the haze and withered them. The men spoke little. They were turned in upon themselves, crushed by the consciousness of their new status. Only when their captors cracked their whips to make them walk faster, did they turn on them with a quick look of hatred.
    Twice during the morning they came across a running stream. There they quenched their thirst and scooped handfuls of water over their grimy whitened bodies. Once they came upon a dawa-dawa tree in fruit. Abdulai paused to let Suba climb it and even allowed the slaves a share of the pods with their yellow powder.
    Nandzi walked a little behind the group of men. Suba was glad to keep her company. He talked and talked. He told her about his family and about how he had been taken by the Bedagbam. Unwittingly, he chased from her mind the oppressive picture of Itsho's broken head.
    All around them rode their captors, always ready to flick a whip at a straggler. They wore broad-brimmed conical straw hats, trimmed with red and black leather. There was little chance of being attacked now and they had consigned their leather armour to their saddle bags; but they carried their spears at the ready and their hide shields, swords, leather-stringed bows and quivers of iron-tipped arrows were close at hand. Most wore a long-sleeved smock of thick hand-woven cotton, dyed in indigo or black and yellow, and calf length cotton trousers. Some had covered their noses and mouths with a cloth to filter out the dust.
    Their black and bay horses were smaller than Abdulai's. They had delicate ears and a short