THE EAST COAST 159 



Unless the new Sultan blows up the British 

 Resident or indulges in some similarly improbable 

 act of lunacy, he cannot but go down to posterity 

 as a good ruler, for his hands are tied by the 

 nation that demands peace and goodwill and 

 a fair price for Consols. 



His are the " shambas " (plantations) of M'Do 

 and Mwera; his that lovely bit of Zanzibar 

 which is known as Bububu, to which a toy engine 

 on toy rails puffs and snorts. His are the narrow 

 streets and marts, the peoples, the bazaars, 

 and the other islets that cluster round this 

 emerald in the sapphire setting. But they are 

 only his in name. He has much to survey but 

 he is no monarch. The despotism of his ancestors 

 began to totter when, one hundred and fifteen 

 years ago, Commodore Blankett " threshed up 

 the East Coast of Africa against the north-east 

 monsoon and a strong current." 



The cardinal ensign that flies from the flag- 

 staff is his emblem, but, methinks, he can never 

 gaze on it without seeing Britannic stripes of 

 blue and white searing the red field. The doors 

 and balconies of his palace are graven with texts 

 from the Koran, but there must be one word in 

 the philosophy of the book that for ever sheds 

 the consolation of the mystic East — Kismet. 

 It is the writing on the wall the hand of fate has 

 carved in the great characters of the Foreign 

 and Colonial Offices : "Thy kingdom shall be taken 

 from thee." It is a legend that the pen of destiny 

 is scrawling across the uttermost places of the 

 earth. These are no mystic symbols, no hiero- 

 glyphics; the very children in the market-place 

 can read them. The mainland has long realized 

 their portent, and you too Zanzibar, island that 

 clings to the ribs of Africa, have come to know 



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