I asked Komba what it might be, and he
answered that it was the Home of the gods in Pongo-land.
"What gods?" I asked again, whereon he replied like a black Herodotus,
that of these it was not lawful to speak.
I have rarely met anyone more difficult to pump than that frigid and
un-African Komba.
On the top of this mound we planted the Union Jack, fixed to the
tallest pole that we could find. Komba asked suspiciously why we did
so, and as I was determined to show this unsympathetic person that
there were others as unpumpable as himself, I replied that it was the
god of our tribe, which we set up there to be worshipped, and that
anyone who tried to insult or injure it, would certainly die, as the
witch-doctor, Imbozwi, and his children had found out. For once Komba
seemed a little impressed, and even bowed to the bunting as he passed
by.
What I did not inform him was that we had set the flag there to be a
sign and a beacon to us in case we should ever be forced to find our
way back to this place unguided and in a hurry.
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