“The Blaylock?”

“The Blaylock Museum in Bagamoyo. There’s a charcoal sketch there of a ship. Unless my memory fails me, the ship’s name is Ophelia.”

BAGAMOYO

OF THE TWO CITIES WITHIN EASY REACH OF ZANZIBAR , DAR ES Salaam and Bagamoyo, the latter was Sam and Remi’s favorite. With a population of thirty thousand, Bagamoyo is a microcosm of both traditional African and colonial African history without the big-city bustle of Dar es Salaam and its two and a half million inhabitants.

Founded by Omani nomads in the late 1700s, Bagamoyo has at times been home to Arab and Indian traders of ivory and salt, Christian missionaries, slave traders, the German East Africa colonial government, and big game hunters and explorers bound for Morogoro, Lake Tanganyika, and Usambara.

“Here’s something we didn’t know,” Remi said, reading from the guidebook as Sam drove. “David Livingstone, in all his years in Africa, never visited Bagamoyo-at least not alive. He was brought to Bagamoyo after he died and was laid out in the Old Church Tower, now called Livingstone Tower, to wait for high tide so they could ship his body to Zanzibar.”

“Interesting,” Sam said. “I’d always assumed he’d used Bagamoyo as a staging area just like everyone else. Okay, we’re on the outskirts. Where’d Ms. Kilembe say the museum was?”

Remi plucked the Post-it note from inside the guidebook and read: “Two blocks from the old German boma, a fort.”“Which one? There are two, I think the guidebook said.”

Remi flipped over the note. “That’s all she wrote. Guess we’ll have to check them both.”

They found the first a few hundred yards north of three of Bagamoyo’s biggest tourist attractions: the crocodile farm, the Kaole Ruins, and a five-hundred-year-old baobab tree. They parked on the dirt road before the crumbling whitewashed fort and got out. A teenage boy walked by with a donkey on a lead. He smiled broadly and said, “Jambo. Habari gani?”

Hello. How are you?In halting Swahili, Sam replied, “Nzuri. Unasema kiingereza?”

“Yes, I speak little English.”

“We’re looking for the Blaylock Museum.”

“Oh, yes, Crazy Man House.”

“No, I’m sorry, the Blaylock Museum.”

“Yes, same thing. Other boma

. One kilometer up. Livingstone Cross, yes?”

“Yes. Asante sana ,” Sam replied.

“You’re welcome, bye-bye.”

With a click of his tongue, the boy continued on with his donkey.

“Your Swahili is improving,” Remi remarked.

“Just don’t ask me to order food. You won’t like what we get.” “What did he mean ‘Crazy Man House’?”

“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?”

Sam and Remi didn’t know how to respond. After a few moments Morton slapped his knee and laughed. “Got you, yes?”

“Yes, you did,” Sam replied. “So you’re not-”