To Serve

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, I—" I started to say, the horror of what I had done beginning to dawn on me.

"Not at all. I quite agree," Sydney Thornton said. "I rather hoped we could start talking about how we maximized our position in the inevitable transition to independence in Tanzania. I welcome Mr. . . . um, Mr. Kisula to the discussions."

I sat there, paralyzed at the moment. He didn't fully understand. Should I leave it like this? No, I had come this far; it wasn't fair to Kisula to leave it like this.

"I don't think you completely understand what I'm trying to say, Mr. Thornton." I said, and then I raced ahead lest I never would say it. "Kisula is my partner, my full partner. My life's partner. No, Kisula is the master of my life. If you wish me to tender my—"

"Let's have none of that, young man," Thornton interrupted in an amused voice. I was taken aback by the hint of a twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps, Mr. Woolston . . . Clive. Perhaps when you come up to Mount Meru next, you and Kisula will be kind enough to come out to my plantation. There you can meet my Maasai wife. She too is my master, and our coffee plantations are already registered in her name. You see, Clive, there's a reason I have never gone back to England in all of these years. I too, just like you, am now married fully—and quite happily—to Tanzania."