Into his own office. His portrait leered at him from above the

fireplace and he winked at it. What have we this morning, Johnson?

These requisitions, sir, and the pay cheques, sir, and development

reports from the engineers, sir, and. . . Johnson was a greasy-haired

little man in a greasylooking alpaca coat; with each sir he made a

greasy little bow. He was efficient so Sean hired him, but that didn't

mean he liked him. You got a stomach ache, Johnson? No, sir. Well,

for God's sake, stand up straight, man.

Johnson shot to attention. Now let's have them one at a time. Sean

dropped into his chair. At this time of the day came the grind. He

hated the paper work and so he tackled it with grim concentration,

making random checks on the long rows of figures, trying to associate

names with faces and querying requisitions that appeared exorbitant

until finally he wrote his signature between the last of Johnson's

carefully pencilled crosses and threw his pen onto the desk. What else

Is there? Meeting with Mr Maxwell from the Bank at twelvethirty, sirAnd

then?

The agent for Brooke Bros. at one, and immediately after that Mr

MacDougal, sir, then you're expected up at the Candy Deep mine. Thank

you, Johnson, I'll be at the Exchange as usual this morning if anything

out of the ordinary comes up. Very good, Mr Courtney. just one other

thing.

Johnson pointed at the brown paper parcel on the couch across the room.

From your tailor. Ah! Sean smiled. Send my servant in here. He

walked across and opened the parcel. Within a few minutes Mbejane

filled the doorway. Nkosi? Mbejane, your new uniform. Sean pointed at

the clothes laid out on the couch. Mbejane's eyes switched to the gold

and maroon finery, his expression suddenly dead. Put it on, come on,

let's see how you look.

Mbejane crossed to the couch and picked up the jacket. These are for

me? Yes, come on, put it on. Sean laughed.

Mbejane hesitated, then slowly he loosened his loin cloth and let it

drop. Sean watched him impatiently as he buttoned on the jacket and

pantaloons, then he walked in a critical circle around the Zulu. Not

bad, he muttered, and then in Zulu, Is it not beautiful? Mbejane

wriggled his shoulders against the unfamiliar feel of the cloth and said

nothing. Well, Mbejane, do you like it? When I was a child I went with

my father to trade cattle at Port Natal. There was a man who went about

the town with a monkey on a chair, the monkey danced and the people

laughed and threw money to it. That monkey had such a suit as this.

Nkosi, I do not think he was a very happy monkey. The smile slipped off

Sean's face, You would rather wear your skins?

rwhat I wear is the dress of a warrior of Zululand.

There was still no expression on Mbejane's face. Sean opened his mouth

to argue with him but before he could speak he lost his temper. You'll

wear that uniform, he shouted. You'll wear what I tell you to wear and

you'll do it with a smile, do you hear me? Nkosi, I hear you. Mbejane

picked up his loin cloth of leopard tails and left the office. When

Sean went out to the carriage Mbejane was sitting on the driver's seat