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“Guess we’ll find out.”
THEY FOUND THE OTHER boma with little trouble, following glimpses of its whitewashed battlements until they reached its crushed-shell parking lot. Here there were more locals going about their business, selling food and sundries from storefronts and awning-covered carts. Sam and Remi got out and began walking, looking for a sign that read either “Blaylock” or “Crazy Man.” After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, they stopped at a vendor’s cart, bought two ice-cold bottles of cola, and asked for directions.
“Yes, Crazy Man House,” the man said. He pointed west down a narrow dirt alley. “Two hundred meters there, find wall, then thick trees. Turn right, find path, find place.”
“Asante sana,” Remi said.
“Starehe.”
AS PROMISED, THEY FOUND a waist-high mud-brick wall before a grove of acacia and wild lavender. They turned right and, twenty feet down, came to an opening in the wall. On the other side, a winding path took them through the grove to a white picket fence, beyond which stood an old schoolhouse, long and narrow, with a butter yellow exterior and heavy shutters in dark blue. A black-on-white hand-painted sign above the porch steps read BLAYLOCK MUSEUM AND CURIOSITY SHOP. The last three words were clearly written in a different hand, as though added later as an afterthought.
A bell above the door tinkled as they entered. Hand-hewn support posts ran down the center of the space supporting rafters, from which hung dozens of poorly stuffed African birds in poses that Sam and Remi assumed were meant to represent midflight. Sitting on the rafters above their inanimate cousins were several animate pigeons. Their cooing filled the space.
The walls were dominated by wicker shelving units, no two sharing the same height or width or shade of wood. Spaced at intervals down the building’s midline were eight rickety card tables covered with threadbare sheets. On both the shelves and card tables were hundreds of knickknacks: wooden and ivory statuettes of giraffes, lions, zebras, dik-diks, snakes, and people; collections of knives ranging from the standard pocket variety to daggers carved from bone; hand-painted fetishes covered with feathers and bits of tree bark; hand-drawn maps on hide; charcoal pencil portraits and landscapes; compasses; water bags made from animal stomachs; and several models of Webley revolvers and bullets of varying sizes.
“Welcome to the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop,” a voice called in surprisingly good English.
At the far end of the room was a lone card table they hadn’t noticed. Sitting behind it was an elderly black man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and a white GOT MILK? T-shirt.
“Thank you,” Remi replied.
Sam and Remi walked over and introduced themselves.
“I am Morton,” the man replied.
“Forgive us, but what exactly is this place?” Sam asked.
“It is the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop.”
“Yes, I know, but to whom is it dedicated?”
“The greatest unsung African explorer to ever grace the shores of the Dark Continent,” the man replied. Clearly, he’d delivered this pitch many times. “The man to whom hundreds owe their lives and the lives of their grandchildren: Winston Lloyd Blaylock, the Mbogo of Bagamoyo.”
“The ‘Mbogo of Bagamoyo,’” Sam repeated. “The Buffalo of Bagamoyo?”
“That is correct. The Cape buffalo.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Remi asked.
“Mbogo Blaylock came from America to Bagamoyo in 1872 to seek his fortune. He stood four inches over six feet, weighed twice as much as the average Tanganyikan man at the time, and had shoulders as wide as the mbogo for which he is named.”
“Is that him?” Sam asked, pointing to a grainy black-and-white daguerreotype on the wall above Morton. It showed a tall, broad-shouldered man in Hemingwayesque safari clothes. In the background were a dozen Maasai warriors kneeling with assegai spears.
“That is him,” Morton confirmed. “The complete history of the Mbogo is available in this fine leather-bound volume.”
Morton swept his hand toward a wicker shelf on the right-hand wall. Remi walked over and lifted one of the books from the stack. The cover was not leather but rather Naugahyde, crudely stapled into place. Glued to the front was a reproduction of the wall photo.
“We’ll take two,” Sam said, and brought their purchases back to the card table. As he was paying Remi asked, “We were told we might find something about a ship here. The Ophelia?”
Morton nodded and pointed to a three-by-five-foot framed charcoal sketch of a steam-sail ship. “The hunt for the Ophelia was Mbogo Blaylock’s first great adventure. It is all in the book. I wrote the index myself. It took me three years.”
“That’s true dedication,” said Remi. “How did you come to . . . be here? Did your family know Mr. Blaylock?”
For the first time since they entered, Morton smiled. Proudly. “My family is Mbogo Blaylock. I am second cousin to Mbogo’s great-grandson.”
“Pardon me?” Sam asked. “You’re related to Winston Blaylock?”
“Of course. Doesn’t it show?”