If I knew a song of Africa,--I thought--, of the Giraffe, and the African new moon lying on her back, of the ploughs in the fields, and the sweaty faces of the coffee-pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Would the air over the plain quiver with a colour that I had had on, or the children invent a game in which my name was,

or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me,

or would the eagles of the Ngong look out for me?