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in the gunny that has me mesmerized, this brown pouch that holds me spellbound, holed away in a basement listening to endless tales … Ji Bai was not innocent of magic and spells, and I realize that I sit here obedient to her charm, watched over by this watchdog Shehrbanoo of the gaping mouth, who holds many secrets …
    Dhanji Govindji was in contact with a number of people, in different towns across the land, who had been asked to help look for his son. A chocolate-coloured young man, Huseni by name; with hair like an Arab’s, not completely kinky, he wrote, and if you look into his eyes you will see that they are not coal black but a shade of brown. He is big, tall and muscular, a bull of a man, strong as Bhima … A network of mukhis was working on his behalf—in Portuguese East Africa, Kilwa, Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar on the coast; in Mpwapwa, Kilosa, Dodoma and Tabora in the interior; in Mombasa up north—and these mukhis kept an eye open for half-castes in their congregations, employed agents to search the brothels where such types reputedly loitered, to enquire in work gangs and prisons and comb the African tenements. Even after Moti had given up and left, Dhanji Govindji had no doubt his son would be found and could be persuaded to come home. To assist him on the home front he enlisted the help of Bwana Khalfaan.
    This Bwana Khalfaan had moved into Matamu from the Kilosa area a few years before, during the Maji Maji troubles, and was a mchawi of renown. It was said that he had predicted the arrival of the Europeans, and had talked of an iron boat which would run on land from the coast all the way up to Ujiji, well before the Central Railway Line came into existence. Bwana Khalfaan had a cure for any ailment, and to protect avillage from attack he had the medicine that would make its huts appear as ant hills.
    One morning Dhanji Govindji strode into his shop accompanied by the mchawi. Bwana Khalfaan was a short, wiry African of about thirty-five who wore a black, embroidered waistcoat over a white kanzu; evidently a man of substance. With him was a boy, also in a kanzu, bearing a sickly-looking white cock. The first thing the mchawi did was to check if there was an adverse effect at work in the household that kept Huseni away. To this end he proceeded to line up the members of Dhanji Govindji’s household, including the old man himself, the young children and servants. They stood before him like obedient pupils waiting expectantly, not sure what the master’s next move would be, and he eyed them one by one, as if trying to guess which of them was the evil influence, before his own tests revealed the conclusive answer. He picked up the cock and thrust it roughly into the arms of each one of them. This was originally the test for ascertaining if a claimant to the power was genuine; if the cock crowed, not recognizing the power, immediately the pile of kuni on which the impostor stood was put to flame. Bwana Khalfaan’s cock did not see anything unusual in any of the people lined up there, in Dhanji Govindji’s shop. It protested angrily at every pair of nervous hands that tried to smooth its feathers, until it landed in Fatima’s arms: here it came up with only a small squawk. The mchawi picked it up and handed it to the boy, then rubbed his chin, eyeing Dhanji Govindji’s haughty wife. “A wonder, this,” he said. “This woman has the powers, yet she does not have the powers.”
    He was answered by an oblique stare and a “Hmph” as she thrust out her chest and stalked away inside.
    “Meaning?” asked Dhanji Govindji.
    “There’s some power behind her, that is certain.”
    “Her mother!”
    “We’ll have to proceed slowly. Then we’ll see what we’ll see.” His eyes gleamed with excitement, he began pacing the floor inshort, springy steps, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Then he stopped to put a question to Dhanji Govindji. “Now listen. What taste did your son