Rafiki was not afraid of death, but he felt his own mortality stalking him. Someday it would spring and he would be cut down, and he must find someone to carry on his work.
He decided to go home for the first time since he left many years ago. He would return to the scenes of his youth and find what little of his past is left to him. And while he was there, he would look for the future. He took a gourd and hung it near his entrance. The moon painted on it said “I am away,” and from it he hung five small bundles of grass. One would mean “back momentarily.” Two would mean “returning later today.” Three meant, “try again tomorrow.” The message of five was unmistakable. “I will return someday, God willing.”
Taking only his staff and a few herbs for his back pains, he left his home in the baobab.
The herbs he needed grew in the edge of the forest, but it had been a long time since he immersed himself in the dense trees. The light was dim, and fell in small golden patches around him that shifted drunkenly in the wind. Huge trunks like columns bore a roof of verdant leaves. It took him a moment to find where he was.
The path had changed some, but it brought back many old memories. Rafiki found himself deeply stirred. Crossing a stream where he used to play as a child, he reached in and got a small flat rock. He pulled back his hand, and unhampered by age gave it a quick snap, skipping it once, twice, and again across the water. “Still got it,” he muttered with satisfaction. He went and sat on the bank in the spot where his father had talked with him about the facts of life. Much of the anger that he had carried for years was gone. He was left with the good memories of a kind father that loved his family.
After a rather long walk, he finally got back to the village where he was born. With a smile of fond recognition, he looked at the clearing, and at the lone acacia that stood in the center. One of the females was pounding roots with a stone. Another was nursing an infant and gossiping with her companion. Young were running about, playing tag. “Asante sana, squash banana! We we nugu, me me apana!” Once he had been one of those.
He stopped to talk with one of the females. One after another of the friends he asked about was dead. Chango’s son was still there, as was a nephew of Bugweto. Duma, who had once terrorized him, was a pale shadow of his former self. He didn’t recognize Rafiki, but as his son said, “Some days he does not recognize me. Today is not one of his better days.” Pity surged in Rafiki. He tried hard not to associate the trembling, drooling specter with his childhood arch enemy.
Most never heard of, Rafiki, even though he used his old name. Finally he saw his old friend Wandani.
Wandani came up to the strange mandrill, still looking rather young. “Sir, can I help you find something?”
“Don’t you sir me, Wandani! What’s the matter--don’t you know your best friend?”
Wandani looked at him carefully. His eyes misted up. “Oh my gods!” He reached out and touched the snow white whiskers and looked at the wrinkled face. “Metutu, what happened?”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“I’m sorry!” Wandani hugged him firmly, stroking his back and patting his shoulder. “Metutu, I didn’t realize how long it had been! My dear friend!” He wept.
“It does my heart good to see you again.”
“Same here. So how is Asumini? How many children did you have?”
“You mean you don’t know?” The freshness of the pain surprised Rafiki as the tears welled up in his eyes. “She died after the first year. My daughter Penda too. It was a crocodile.”
Wandani gasped, bit his lip, and began to sob. “Oh no!” He hugged Rafiki so tightly he could hardly breathe. “Forgive me, but I must tell you I was in love with her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter. She never returned my feelings. Oh gods! Not my little Asumini!”
“Rafiki Wandani. My dear old friend. How many times I’ve wondered what happened to you.”
Wandani struggled to regain his composure. “Well, let’s see. Your brother Makoko died about three years ago of blood fever. His son Kudura is now in charge. Of course your dad is long gone, but you would have expected that.”
Wandani took Rafiki to the spot where his father died. “Here we buried his totem, right next to the effigy of Kima. It was his wish. Now some wanted to destroy it because he was an Aiheuist. It’s still not a safe philosophy, but it’s not actually illegal anymore. It’s beginning to spread, too.”
Rafiki smiled. "That’s what Busara said. He knew what he was talking about."
Next Rafiki passed by the tree where he had grown up. It still stood much as it had then. But there was a different home that called to him, one that had briefly been a refuge from the harshness of the world.
The cave was unoccupied. He and Wandani felt their way back into the dark recess as far as they dared. The few remaining lamps were long dried and withered. He had never even reached the stone column where he had first pledged his life to Aiheu.
Suddenly there was a soft blue light. They looked about, startled. “Asumini?”
The lioness purred. “Honey tree, welcome home. Hello Wandani!”
“It’s her!” Wandani said, shaking. “The ghost!”
“She’s quite nice when you get to know her.” Rafiki knelt and hugged her. “Oh it’s good to see you again! Has it been so far to travel that you won’t drop by?”
“You don’t need me. Most of my crowd are dead, so there’s not much left to hold me to this world. But my love for you is deathless.” She nuzzled him. “Take the cord from around my neck.”
It was the tooth that Busara had worn--her own canine on a cord braided from Ahadi’s mane. Rafiki pointed to himself, and she nodded. He slipped the cord around his neck.
“Now when you are lonely for me, I will be next to your heart. But don’t live in the past. As I have been to Busara, Uzuri has been to you. Appreciate what Aiheu has given you.”
“I know, but I shall not forget you.”
She nodded her head. Suddenly the lights twinkled to life. It was as if Busara had only just stepped out. Glad for the light, Rafiki walked on past the pillar of stone and looked at the wall. Busara’s paintings called to him with messages both pious and joyful. But they were also reminders of a happy time that had long since fled. He knelt down and looked at the painting that represented himself. Next to him was young Asumini, and their hands were joined. Rafiki reached out with his fingertips and brushed them lightly over Asumini. “My wife, my lover, my dear friend.” He looked at Wandani, a melancholy smile on his face. “I am fast growing old. Someday when my people are free, you must bring them here and show them these paintings. Tell them about Busara. Tell them that death itself could not destroy the work of Aiheu.”
“If not me, I promise I will send my son.”
“What is his name?”
“Metutu, of course.”