"No one of you," he said, "is to drink beer." Then he called a great
meeting of the whole town. In serried masses thousand upon thousand
the Bamangwato faced their great chief. He lifted up his voice:
"I, Khama, your chief, order that you shall not make beer. You take
the corn that God has given to us in answer to our prayers and you
destroy it. Nay, you not only destroy it, but you make stuff with it
that causes mischief among you."
There was some murmuring.
His eyes flashed like steel.
"You can kill me," he said, "but you cannot conquer me."
* * * * *
_The Black Prince of Eighty_
If you rode as a guest toward Khama's town over seventy years after
those far-off days when Livingstone first went there, as you came in
sight of the great stone church that the chief has built, you would
see tearing across the African plain a whirlwind of dust. It would
race toward you, with the soft thunder of hoofs in the loose soil.
When the horses were almost upon you--with a hand of steel--chief
Khama would rein in his charger and his bodyguard would pull up behind
him.
Over eighty years old, grey and wrinkled, he would spring from his
horse, without help, to greet you--still Khama, the Antelope.
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