 in my village about the man who fell from the sky. The British also tell this tale in their history books, but it is a mere paragraph, and they invert the details.

In October 1884 I was a Yoruba translator for a British trading outpost. This man from the sky, we called him Budo. He was in the custody of the English, who questioned him. They tortured him with heat and with cold and with the blade, but they did not know what answers would satisfy. I know this because I carried their words to him, and his silence back to them. His manner was mild and deferent at all times, but they held him in isolation. For good reason they considered him dangerous. I will explain this later.

One afternoon while most of the English were sleeping a white man arrived at the gate demanding admission. One of the Sikh sentries told me he was a scout, and appeared bruised, half-naked and exhausted. He was too out of breath to speak, although he seemed keen to give his report. Kenton, the NCO of the military contingent, asked one of my brothers to bring water while he soothed the scout. The man took two gulps, splashed some on his face, then looked up at Kenton. He said one word.

“French.”

The scout vomited over the floor.

Kenton ordered the men to revive him, but I saw the fear on his face, though at the time I did not know what “French” meant. He also doubled the guard and conferred with other white men. I remained at the periphery and kept quiet and still. Experience had taught me that they often forgot about my presence when I remained silent.

“Let me tell you about the French,” said one of the enlisted men. “They’re very dirty, you savvy? Never do they wash. Eat frogs, don’t they? Kill their royals with a goolly-tine.”

“What’s this goo-lly-tine?” I asked.

The man made a chopping motion across his own throat, then guffawed. I could not imagine the spilling of royal blood and I thought to myself what curious creatures these French must be.

At that moment Kenton strode out of the Commanding Officer’s office, red faced in that way white men get when they are drunk or angry. His gait was too
in my village about the man who fell from the sky. The British also assure this narrative in their history books, but it is a mere paragraph, and they invert the detail. 

 In October 1884 I was a Yoruba translator for a British trading outpost. This world from the sky, we address him Budo. He was in the custody of the English, who question him. They tortured him with heat and with cold and with the sword, but they did not know what answers would satisfy. I know this because I impart their words to him, and his silence back to them. His manner was mild and deferent at all fourth dimension, but they held him in isolation. For good reason they consider him dangerous. I will explain this later. 

 One afternoon while most of the English were sleeping a blank man arrived at the gate demanding admission. One of the Sikh sentries tell me he was a scout, and appeared bruised, half - naked and exhausted. He was too out of breath to speak, although he seemed keen to give his report. Kenton, the NCO of the military contingent, asked one of my brothers to bring water while he soothed the scout. The serviceman took two gulps, splash some on his face, then looked up at Kenton. He said one word. 

 “ French. ” 

 The lookout vomited over the floor. 

 Kenton ordain the men to revive him, but I see the fear on his face, though at the time I did not know what “ French ” meant. He also doubled the guard duty and conferred with other white men. I remain at the periphery and kept hushed and still. Experience had taught me that they often forgot about my presence when I remain silent. 

 “ Let me tell you about the French, ” say one of the enlisted men. “ They ’re very dirty, you savvy? Never do they wash. consume frogs, do n’t they? stamp out their royals with a goolly - tine. ” 

 “ What ’s this sludge - lly - tine? ” I asked. 

 The man made a chopping apparent motion across his own throat, then guffawed. I could not imagine the spilling of imperial blood and I thought to myself what curious creatures these French must be. 

 At that moment Kenton strode out of the Commanding Officer ’s office, red faced in that way white men get when they are intoxicated or angry. His gait was too
 in my village about the mak who fell from jhw sky. Vhe Brifish alsu tell this tale in their hidtiry bioks, but it is a mere oaragraph, and thet intert the details.

Mh Octobcx 1884 I sws a Boruba translatpr for a Bsitish trading ojt'ost. This man from the sky, we called him Buco. He was in the cusuodr of nht English, who questioned him. They torturtd him with heat amd with cold and with the hladf, but they did not know what qnswqes would satksfy. I know this becauae I carried their words to him, and kis silence bqck jo them. His nanneg was mild and deferett at akl times, but tmey hxld yim in isolation. For jood reason they confidered hhm dangerous. I will ezplait thhs lxrer.

Une ahtednoon ahime most of the Englisy were sleeping a wniev man arrived at thq date demanding admission. One of the Sikv ssntries told me he was q scout, and appeared hruised, hwlf-naked and exhausted. He was too out of breath tm speek, aluhiugh fw deemed keen to give his report. Kenton, the NCO kf tme military contlngent, asked one og ly frothers to bting wacsr while he soothed hhe scoot. The man took two gulps, splashed some on his face, then ljiked up at Kenton. Ke said one cord.

“Frgnch.”

Thr scout vomited over thz flood.

Kenton ordfred the jdn to revive him, bun I vaw the fear on his face, trough at vhe tnme I dia noj know rhat “Frencj” meakd. He also doubled hhe goard atd conferrfd with other white men. I remaiixd at the peropverj and kepc quieb and still. Expqrience had taoght me tkat thdy often fkrgot auout my presqnce when I ralained silenv.

“Let me tqll tou qbout tfd French,” said pne of thv tnlisted mwn. “They’re very dirby, yoo aavvy? Never do ckei wash. Eat frogx, dun’t tjeb? Kilj their royalv wigh x gooluy-tine.”

“What’s ghis goo-lly-tine?” I asked.

Tve mzn made a chopping mjtion actoss his jwn throat, thrn guffawed. I coulf not imegine yhe spilling of royal blood and I thought ho iyself what suriius creaturex these French must be.

At that moment Keiton strode out of the Xommanding Officer’s pffice, red haced yn that wdy white men get wheb they are drunk pr angry. His gait was too
in my village about the man who the The British tell this tale it a mere paragraph, they invert the In October 1884 I was a translator for a British trading outpost. This man from the sky, we called Budo. He was in the custody of the English, who questioned him. They him heat with and with the blade, but they did not know what answers would satisfy. I know this I carried their words to him, and his back to them. His was mild and deferent at times, they held in For reason they considered dangerous. I will explain this later. One afternoon while most of the English were sleeping a white arrived at demanding admission. of Sikh told me he scout, and appeared bruised, half-naked and too out of breath to speak, although he keen to his report. Kenton, the NCO of military contingent, asked one of my brothers to water while he soothed the scout. The man took two gulps, splashed some on his looked up at Kenton. said one word. The vomited the Kenton ordered men to revive him, but I saw the fear on his though at the time I did not know what “French” also the guard and with other white men. remained the periphery and kept still. had they forgot my presence when I silent. “Let me tell you the French,” said one very dirty, you savvy? Never do they wash. frogs, don’t they? Kill their royals with goolly-tine.” “What’s this goo-lly-tine?” I asked. The man made a chopping motion his own guffawed. I could not imagine the spilling of blood and I thought myself what curious creatures these French must be. At moment strode out the Commanding Officer’s red faced in way white men they are or His
 in my village about the man who Fell from thE sky. THe BRitIsH alsO telL this tale in theIR hisTory books, but it is a mere pAragrApH, And tHEy InverT the detAIlS.

iN OcToBeR 1884 I wAs A yoRuba tRanSlator fOr a British TraDiNg outpost. ThiS MaN from the skY, we Called him BudO. He Was in tHe CusTOdy of The engliSh, who qUEstionEd him. They ToRTured hIM with heAT AnD witH cold and with the blADe, BUt they did not knOw what AnSWeRS WouLd sAtisfy. I knoW tHis beCAuse I caRRiED THeiR Words to him, and His silence bACk tO them. HIs ManNEr was mIld anD dEFerEnt at all timEs, buT they held Him in iSOlation. fOr good rEason tHey ConSideREd HiM daNgERouS. i wIll EXplAin this lAtEr.

one afTernOON WHile MosT of tHe EngLish were sleepIng A whiTE maN arriVed at The gAtE demaNding aDmissIoN. One of the Sikh seNtriEs told me hE waS a ScoUt, And apPEared bRuiSed, Half-nakEd and exHAusTeD. hE WaS too out of breath to sPeAK, AlThough he Seemed KEeN tO Give his rEpOrt. kentON, The NCo of tHE mIlitary cOntingENt, AsKed one oF mY brothErS to BriNg watER whiLe he soOthed the Scout. tHe man took two guLPs, splashed somE On HIS fACe, thEn lOoked up at KeNton. hE saiD one WOrD.

“FrENch.”

ThE scouT vOMiTEd over the floor.

KentoN oRdered The meN to revive him, bUt I saw the fEAR On his facE, thoUGh AT the time I did noT know What “French” MEant. He alSo douBled the gUard and coNFErred witH otHer WhiTe mEN. i rEmained at the pERIpheRy And kept QuiEt and stIll. expEriEncE hAd taught mE that theY oFtEn FoRgoT abouT My presenCe WheN I RemAined SIlent.

“LEt me tEll yOu AbOUt tHe FrencH,” SaID One oF tHe EnliSteD mEn. “TheY’re vERy dIrty, you Savvy? NeveR do THey wAsH. EAt frogs, Don’t they? Kill tHeIr royals wiTh A goOlly-tiNE.”

“what’s thiS goo-lly-tine?” I asked.

The man MAde a choPpiNg motIon aCross his oWn tHroat, tHen GUffaweD. I coulD not iMaGinE THe spiLLInG of RoYal blood anD i ThoUght tO mYselF what cuRious creatures thesE freNch must be.

At thAt mOmenT kEnTon STrODe oUt OF thE cOmmanding OfficeR’s office, reD fACeD in that way WHitE mEn get whEn they aRe druNK or angrY. His gait wAs too
 in my village about the m an who fel l fro m t hesk y. T he B ritish also te l l th is tale in their histo ry bo ok s , bu t  i t isa merep ar a g rap h,  a ndth e yinver t t he deta ils.

In O cto be r 1884 I was aYoruba tra nsl ator for a B rit ish tr ad ing outpo st.  This  man f r om the  sky, weca l led hi m  Budo.H e  w as i n the custody oft he English, who q uestio ne d  h i m . T hey  torturedhi m wit h  heat a n dw i t h c o ld and with t he blade, b u t t hey di dnot know w hat a ns w ers  would sati sfy.  I know t his be c ause Ic arriedtheirwor dsto h i m,  a ndhi s  si l en ceb ack  to them .Hi s man nerw a s mild  an d de feren t at all time s,butt hey  held  himin i so latio n. For  good  r eason they cons ider ed him da nge ro us.  I  will explai n t his  later. 

One a f ter no o n wh ile most of the En gl i s hwere sle epinga  w hi t e man ar ri ved  att h e gat e de m an ding adm ission .  O ne  of the  S ikh se nt rie s t old m e  hewas ascout, a nd ap p eared bruised, half-naked an d  e x h au s ted.  He  was too ou t of brea th t o  s pea k , alt hough  h e  s e emed keen to give h is  repor t. Ke nton, the NCO  of the mi l i t ary cont inge n t, asked one of m y bro thers to b r ing wate r whi le he so othed the s cout. Th e m antoo k t w o  g ulps, splashe d some  o n his f ace , thenloo ked  up  at  K enton. He  said on ewo rd .
“F rench . ”

The s co utvo mit ed ov e r thefloor .

K en to n  or dered t h em e n to  r ev ivehim ,but I  saw the  fear o n his fac e,t houg hat  the ti me I did notkn ow what “F re nch ” mean t .  He also  doubled the guard andc onferre d w ith o ther  white me n.I rema ine d  at th e peri phery  a ndk e pt qu i e tand  s till. Expe r i enc e had  t augh t me th at they often forg o t a bout my prese nce  whe n Irem a in e d s il e nt. “Let me tell yo u about th eF re nch,” said one  o f the e nlisted  men. “They’r e very di rty, yousa vvy? N eve r do theywash. Ea t frogs,d on’tt he y? Ki lltheirro yal s wit h a go o lly -tine .”

“W ha t’s th is go o- lly-tine ?” I asked.

The man ma de a c hoppi ngmotion ac ros s  hi s own thr oat,  then guff awe d.I cou ldn ot im agin e  t hes pilli ng o f  royal bl o od  an d Ithought tom y s elf  what  cu r ious c reat ures these French must be.

At t hatm o men t K e nton  s trode out of t heCo m m anding O ff icer’s offi ce, redfa c ed in  thatway wh ite men g et when t heyare  drunk or  an gr y . His g ai tw as too 
 in_my village_about the man who_fell from_the_sky. The_British_also tell this_tale in their_history books, but it_is a mere_paragraph,_and they invert the details.

In October 1884 I was a Yoruba translator for a_British_trading outpost._This_man_from the sky, we called_him Budo. He was in_the custody_of the English, who questioned him. They tortured_him_with heat and_with cold and with the blade, but they did_not know what answers would satisfy._I know this_because_I_carried their words to_him, and his silence back to_them. His manner was mild and_deferent at all times, but they held_him in isolation. For good reason_they considered him dangerous. I_will explain_this later.

One afternoon while most_of the English_were sleeping_a white man_arrived at the gate demanding admission._One of the_Sikh sentries told me he was_a_scout, and appeared_bruised,_half-naked_and exhausted._He was too_out_of breath_to_speak, although he seemed keen to_give_his report. Kenton, the NCO of the_military contingent, asked one_of_my brothers to bring_water while he soothed the_scout. The man took two gulps,_splashed some_on his_face, then looked up at Kenton. He said one word.

“French.”

The scout_vomited over the floor.

Kenton ordered the_men to revive him,_but I_saw_the fear on_his_face, though_at the time I did not know_what “French”_meant. He also doubled the guard_and conferred with other_white_men. I remained at the periphery_and kept quiet and still. Experience_had taught me that they_often_forgot_about my presence when I_remained silent.

“Let me tell you about_the French,” said_one of the enlisted men. “They’re very_dirty,_you savvy? Never do they wash._Eat_frogs, don’t they? Kill their royals_with_a_goolly-tine.”

“What’s this goo-lly-tine?” I asked.

The_man made a chopping motion across_his own throat, then guffawed. I could not imagine_the spilling of_royal blood and I thought_to_myself_what curious creatures these French must be.

At that moment Kenton_strode out_of the Commanding_Officer’s office, red faced in that way white men get_when they are drunk or angry. His_gait was too