The hanging had not been announced publicly, and young Omari and his brother, Abdelkarim, were among the handful, scattered across the road and partly hidden by the grass, who watched the proceedings. The brothers saw mighty Makunganya, his eyes covered by a white cloth, his demeanour as defiant as always, accept the rope and swing from the hefty branch until he became still; whereupon a murmur of the shahada erupted from the grass: There is no God but Allah. Whatever his folly and cruelty, he was a man of Kilwa. He was ours and his motives were right. Angry looks from across the road restored stillness once more. The brothers watched the chief’s war minister, his spy, Jicho, and his telegraph saboteur, Mkasi, do likewise. But their hearts were heaviest when they watched the small figure of the man they had come to know well, the Indian Punja, also walk to the gallows, where he removed his black fez and handed it to a policeman before accepting the rope. After the hangings, a few soldiers under the command of a German superior carted away the bodies to be buried in secret.
