THE LAST FRONTIER 



His name is Memba Sasa. Memba Sasa are two 

 Swahili words meaning "now a crocodile." Sub- 

 sequently, after I had learned to talk Swahili, I 

 tried to find out what he was formerly, before he was 

 a crocodile, but did not succeed. 



He was of the tribe of the Monumwezi, of medium 

 height, compactly and sturdily built, carried himself 

 very erect, and moved with a concentrated and vig- 

 orous purposefulness. His countenance might be 

 described as pleasing but not handsome, of a dark 

 chocolate brown, with the broad nose of the negro, 

 but with a firm mouth, high cheekbones, and a frown- 

 ing intentness of brow that was very fine. When you 

 talked to him he looked you straight in the eye. 

 His own eyes were shaded by long, soft, curling lashes 

 behind which they looked steadily and gravely 

 sometimes fiercely on the world. He rarely 

 smiled never merely in understanding or for 

 politeness* sake and never laughed unless there 

 was something really amusing. Then he chuckled 

 from deep in his chest, the most contagious laughter 

 you can imagine. Often we, at the other end of the 

 camp, have laughed in sympathy, just at the sound 

 of that deep and hearty ho! ho! ho! of Memba Sasa. 

 Even at something genuinely amusing he never 

 laughed much, nor without a very definite restraint. 

 In fact, about him was no slackness, no sprawling 



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