WINGED DEATH 197 



I will always remember this menage for several 

 reasons; one because of the continuous parade of 

 kukus of both sexes and all sizes that passed through 

 the cook hut to end their journey on our table. The 

 adjacent country furnished very Httle game, making 

 it necessary for us to subsist on chicken most of the 

 time. A properly cooked fowl is always acceptable, 

 but pishi could never understand that it took a lot of 

 boihng to soften a tough bird. He reasoned that if 

 eggs boiled soft in a short time and got hard with long 

 boihng, the same rule apphed to the chicken. Toward 

 mealtime I would stroll to the cook shack and ask for 

 the menu. Pishi invariably rephed, "kuku, bwana," 

 simultaneously pointing to a scrawny looking fowl 

 tied by a string to a near-by bush. When I asked 

 him if the bird was for today or tomorrow, he would 

 innocently say, "For today, bwana," and, sure enough, 

 about one hour later, Ted, Austin, and myself would 

 be strugghng with this ancient fowl. 



January second was the day set for the great n'goma, 

 or dance, to be held in celebration of the Hon victories. 

 At about ten o'clock in the morning a runner came in 

 to tell me that the dancers were coming from far and 

 near and collecting at the n'goma grounds. Arriving 

 there, we found several hundred already gathered. 

 The El Moran were all in full war dress, with painted 

 designs of varied colors covering their bodies. Soon 

 they commenced dancing in a great circle to the furious 

 beating of the drums. It was a fascinating sight to 

 watch their gleaming bodies as they swayed and 

 pranced to the wild rhythm. Adorned with monkey 

 fur and ostrich plumes, \Yiih tinkling bells around their 

 ankles, with their taU headdresses bobbing up and 



