A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 12

  ‘Ah, Malik. Chakula – still on?’

  ‘Most certainly, Mr Johnson. We were expecting you. Dinner is nearly ready – and this must be your guest.’

  ‘Yes, meet Angus Mbikwa.’

  Mbikwa? Mr Malik was vaguely aware that Rose Mbikwa had a son. But of course, what more natural than that as an old friend of Hilary Fotherington-Thomas, Dickie Johnson would also be an old friend of Rose, and of her son? After shaking the tall man by the hand, Mr Malik introduced the two new arrivals to his friends.

  ‘You have a wonderful place, Mr Johnson,’ said Mr Patel. ‘We all like it very much.’

  The older man gave a short sniff.

  The tall man smiled.

  ‘Yes, it is special, isn’t it? And Uncle Dickie has always been most generous with sharing it. I’ve been coming here since I was a boy.’

  ‘As you may know, Mr Mbikwa, this is our first visit,’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘Well, it’s been a while since I was last here, Mr Malik, but I can assure you it hasn’t changed a bit. Nor, I have to say, has its owner.’

  Another sniff.

  Mr Malik saw Petula coming towards them from the other end of the tent.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my daughter Petula?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Johnson.’ Petula shook the older man’s hand, then offered her hand to his companion. ‘And hello, Angus. How good to see you again.’

  ‘Petula. What a lovely surprise. So this was the safari you mentioned.’

  Mr Malik was finding all this rather difficult to follow.

  ‘You know each other?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy darling. Angus works for CI – he’s the new director I told you about. We had a meeting on Thursday night, at the Hilton.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Mbikwa, I was sure my daughter said you were from Switzerland.’

  Angus Mbikwa smiled.

  ‘I was working in Geneva for many years before I got this job – so yes, I suppose you could say I came from Switzerland. But I was born here. So, Petula, do I also get to meet your fiancé?’

  ‘Salman? I’m afraid Salman couldn’t make it.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ He turned to her father. ‘You have a wonderful daughter, Mr Malik. The work she is doing for Clarity International – for the country. You must be very proud of her.’

  ‘I am indeed, Mr Mbikwa. Thank you. Now, dinner should be ready in about half an hour, I think. Can I offer you both something to drink?’

  Dickie Johnson thought that a whisky might fit the bill – just a ‘chota peg’ – while Angus asked if he might have a ginger beer.

  ‘So, Mr Malik,’ he said, ‘have you and your friends seen much game so far?’

  ‘Well, yes – I suppose if you added them all up we have. That was this morning, of course, before this rain.’

  From Dickie Johnson came a different noise this time, something between a sniff and a grunt.

  ‘Juali rasha, that’s all. Couple of hours, gone.’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Johnson.’

  ‘So, game. Not disappointed, Malik?’

  ‘Indeed no, it has been as you said it would be. My friends have seen cheetahs and lions, and many antelopes and gazelle and buffalo and whatnot.’

  ‘Buffalo, eh? Dangerous beast, your buffalo.’

  Mr Malik could not help noticing a distinct I-told-you-so look pass from Mr Gopez to Mr Patel.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we were … er … talking about it earlier.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘I don’t suppose that you’d happen to know, Mr Johnson, which animal – which mammal – kills the most people in Africa, would you? It’s so hard to get reliable figures.’

  Angus laughed.

  ‘There’s not much Uncle Dickie doesn’t know about African animals, Mr Malik.’

  ‘Most interesting,’ said the Tiger. He turned towards their guest. ‘Mr Johnson, I wonder if you would be willing to help us. You see, there has been a small difference of opinion between our two friends here. One says the most dangerous animal is the hippopotamus, the other says buffalo. They are even willing to bet money on it. Would you be willing to settle the matter for us?’

  Dickie Johnson thought a bit, then smiled.

  ‘Delighted.’

  ‘Then, gentlemen, it appears we may have our expert witness. All right with you two?’

  Mr Patel looked at Mr Gopez. They both nodded.

  ‘Excellent. But before we ask Mr Johnson to adjudicate, perhaps it would be well to make sure the details of the wager are clear and unambiguous.’

  Taking from his pocket a fountain pen and notebook, Tiger Singh took the two participants aside. From his years of experience both in court and at the Asadi Club, he knew that when it comes to adjudicating such disputes it is always best to get things down in writing.

  ‘So tell me, Daddy,’ said Petula. ‘The surprise – everything went all right?’

  ‘Why don’t you come and see?’ said Mr Malik. ‘And perhaps our guests would like to see it too.’

  ‘Stap me vitals!’ Dickie Johnson ran his eye over the full length of the billiard table. ‘Heard of ’em. Never thought I’d see one.’

  ‘Heard of what, Uncle Dickie?’ said Angus.

  ‘Churchman’s Portable. Yes, look,’ he said, pointing to where two mahogany covers were leaning up against the side of the tent. ‘Removable tabletop – right, Malik?’

  ‘Absolutely and completely right. So you know about these tables, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘London maker, two-part construction, steel frame, three-sixteenths-inch Welsh slate, gutta-percha cushions. Only made about a dozen. Where on earth did you get it?’

  Mr Malik explained how he had come across the table in Nairobi at Amin and Sons. All he knew was that Godfrey Amin had bought it some years ago at auction.

  ‘It is in what seem to be its original crates, but the labels on them are so torn and faded you can’t really make out much. Do you play, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Used to. Not for years.’

  ‘Well, perhaps after dinner you would like a game. And speaking of dinner, I think it might be time to head back to the dining tent. Tonight we will be having something special – murgh hariyali. Our cook Ally Dass marinades the guineafowl in the sauce for two whole days.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. Plenty of piri-piri? Can’t stand bland food.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Johnson, I think you will enjoy your dinner.’

  Mr Malik was not wrong. After just one mouthful Dickie Johnson assured him that everything was indeed kizuri and that he hadn’t tasted anything quite so delicious in years. Angus Mbikwa, sitting between Mr Patel and Mr Gopez, also seemed to be enjoying himself.

  When the plates had been cleared and the glasses refilled, Tiger Singh proposed a toast of thanks to their host.

  ‘And, ladies and gentlemen, I would also like to thank Mr Johnson for agreeing to help us in another matter concerning the habits of African animals – two, in particular. This is a subject of which he has acquired an intimate knowledge through a lifetime of study. We are now honoured to be able to call upon that knowledge. Malik, would you explain?’

  Mr Malik picked up a sheet of paper from the table.

  ‘As many of you will know, two of our club members have made a bet. I have the terms here before me, drawn up earlier this evening. Mr M. Patel and Mr A. B. Gopez, as members of the Asadi Club, make the following wager. Mr Patel claims that the common or river hippopotamus is, at this time, responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other mammal. Mr Gopez claims that the wild or cape buffalo is responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other mammal. Death is here defined as intentional or accidental, immediate or within one year due to injuries inflicted. Mammal is here defined as including all animals which suckle their young, whether terrestrial, amphibious or aquatic, but excluding humans. The stake of the wager is to be ten thousand shillings from each party, winner take all.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Tiger Singh, ‘are you still happy with thes
e terms, and do you agree to be bound by the opinion of Mr Johnson, now before you, as expert witness in the matter?’ Both men nodded their agreement. ‘Then, Mr Johnson, will you kindly settle the argument for us?’

  Dickie Johnson stood. He looked first at Mr Patel, then at Mr Gopez.

  ‘It is,’ he said, with just the faintest of smiles, ‘neither.’

  20

  The wise frog does not count the teeth of the crocodile

  Although, as Mr Malik suspected, firm statistics are hard to come by, the claim that buffalo are the most dangerous beast in Africa seems mostly to come from people who have upset them. A reliable way to upset a buffalo is to aim a gun at it and shoot. Buffalo are sociable creatures; upset one and you will find that you have upset several. It is the wounded buffalo, often assisted by sympathetic family and friends, that seems to do the damage. Even so, and despite the fact that the African buffalo is common and widespread throughout much of the continent, death by buffalo is still a rare event. I have only been able to find one confirmed report of a man killed by a buffalo in Africa in the last five years. He was visiting the continent from Idaho with his wife – and yes, she shot at it.

  Hippos are also common and widespread, spending most of their days lolling about African lakes and rivers and coming out to feed on grass, reeds and other such succulent herbage only after sunset. The first time I saw a hippopotamus in the wild was on a trip to Lake Naivasha. What has stayed with me even more than the sight of the animal itself, picked out in the dim beam of my torch not fifty yards away, was what it did. After heaving itself from the water and munching away at some papyrus for a while, it looked towards me and stood quite still. I knew what was about to happen – I remembered years ago seeing exactly the same look on the face of my own eighteen-month-old nephew. Sure enough the animal turned round and, with its back to me, began to pooh. What did surprise me, though, was the role of the animal’s tail in this procedure. Most animals with tails – even long tails like horses or cows or greater kudu – lift them out of the way. Hippopotamuses have short tails. But rather than lifting it, this hippo began whirring its tail from side to side like a demented windscreen wiper. Dung flew everywhere and, as I say, it’s not a sight you’d forget. I later found out that this – combined with retromingent urination – is the way that hippos mark their territory. And that’s the trouble, you see. Because while other hippos recognize and respect these markers, humans, on the whole, don’t. Which goes a long way to explaining why a not insubstantial number of them get attacked and killed by indignant hippos every year in Africa. But although I have been able to find a total of twenty-one reliable references to humans being killed by affronted hippos, both in Kenya and other African countries over the past five years, I must agree with Dickie Johnson that another mammal kills many, many more.

  ‘Dogs?’

  Mr Gopez’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Woofers?’

  Mr Patel seemed to be choking on his beer.

  ‘Man’s best friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dickie Johnson. ‘Dogs. Dozens, every year, in Kenya alone. Bites, infection, rabies. Whole of Africa? Hundreds.’

  ‘That must be ten times the number killed by buffalo and hippos combined,’ said Tiger Singh.

  ‘But, Tiger … they’re not –’

  ‘Mammals? Yes, they are.’

  ‘But they’re –’

  ‘Domestic?’ Tiger Singh turned to Mr Malik. ‘Am I right in thinking that the terms of the wager said nothing to exclude domestic animals?’

  Mr Malik nodded.

  ‘The terms are quite clear.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But …’

  ‘As Malik says, the rules are clear,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘I see no grounds for an appeal.’ He drained his glass. ‘The only question that now remains is what happens to the stake monies.’

  ‘Wager null and void.’ Mr Patel held out his hand. ‘Dogs indeed. I’ll have my ten thousand back, please, Tiger.’

  ‘All bets off,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Mine too, please.’

  ‘I fear,’ said Tiger Singh, ‘that the matter is not quite so simple, gentlemen. There has been no irregularity, you see. What has happened is simply that you have both lost your bet.’

  ‘Exactly. Come on, Tiger, cough up.’

  ‘I wish I could, Mr Patel, I wish I could,’ said the Tiger. ‘But this presents a most unusual ethical conundrum.’

  ‘Hand it over, Tiger. This isn’t a case in one of your bally courts of law.’

  ‘Indeed not, A.B., though that reminds me that I do seem to remember a precedent. Not in the annals of law, but in the annals of an equally august institution – the Asadi Club.’

  ‘Precedent?’ said Mr Patel.

  The Tiger nodded.

  ‘Cast your minds back to the Christmas of 1992.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course,’ murmured Mr Malik. ‘The Great Tombola Fiasco.’

  ‘Exactly, Malik, exactly. You may all recall that somehow or other half the tickets for the Christmas tombola disappeared.’

  ‘Sanjay Bashu lost them, you mean,’ said Mr Gopez.

  ‘Aspersions were indeed cast, A.B., but the evidence was never sufficient to make a watertight case. And nobody knew whose numbers they were.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Mr Malik. ‘The Tombola Committee couldn’t return the money because they didn’t know who to give it to.’

  ‘That’s right, Malik,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘It was decided that the only thing to do was to give the whole lot – the money and all the prizes – to charity.’

  Mr Gopez stared at him.

  ‘Are you suggesting that my ten thousand shillings – our twenty – goes to charity?’

  ‘That is exactly what I’m suggesting, A.B. In the spirit of the Asadi Club, it seems the obvious solution.’

  The two men looked at Tiger Singh, then at each other.

  ‘And may I further suggest that as an independent party, Mr Mbikwa might decide which charity? What do you say Patel, A.B.?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Mr Gopez.

  It did not take Angus Mbikwa long to decide.

  ‘The Aga Khan Hospital?’ said Mr Malik, getting up from the table. ‘An excellent choice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go and see a man about a –’

  ‘Don’t say it, Malik,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘About a … game of billiards.’

  On his way out of the dining tent with Dickie Johnson, Mr Malik heard one of his friends – he couldn’t be sure which – muttering that this would be the last time he asked Malik to help with a wager, and he realized, with a smile, that those were exactly the words he had been hoping to hear.

  ‘Wondering …’ said Dickie Johnson. The red was back on its spot after he’d made a tricky long jenny into the top right pocket, and now he was lining up for a cannon. ‘Tomorrow, first thing.’ He stroked his cue ball past the red and other white, clipping both of them but moving neither far. ‘Four seats.’ He repeated the stroke in the opposite direction, scoring another cannon and lining up for a third. ‘Like one?’

  Mr Malik had heard Angus suggest over dinner that Uncle Dickie might take Beryl on a joyride the next day and had heard him persuade Petula to go too. Now it seemed that Dickie Johnson was asking him if he’d like to accompany them.

  Mr Malik was not a cowardly man. Should duty summon, he was ever ready to heed the call. The Malik head was steady and the Malik heart was strong – but it has to be said that the Malik stomach was neither. A joyride in a single-engined aircraft – and he had seen the aircraft – was not, on reflection, a duty. But perhaps …

  ‘That is very kind of you, Mr Johnson. Could I, by any chance, accept your offer on behalf of a friend of mine?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dickie Johnson scored a third cannon and now looked set up for the couple of reds that would win him the game. ‘First thing. Before it gets bumpy.’

/>   ‘Then I will tell my friend Benjamin to be ready by dawn.’

  The gates to the large house in Serengeti Gardens swung open, the red Mercedes crept up the driveway and stopped beside the front door.

  ‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Rose Mbikwa, getting out of the passenger side. ‘It was a wonderful evening.’

  ‘You still dance like a dream, Rose baby – like a dream. Do it again sometime soon, right?’

  ‘Sometime soon.’

  ‘Great. Hey, I’ve just had an idea. What are you doing next weekend?’

  ‘Nothing planned. I’ve only just got back, remember.’

  ‘I was thinking of going down to the lake – my cousin’s got a place there. And Saturday night –’

  ‘The band still plays at the old hotel?’

  Harry Khan grinned.

  ‘You bet. Why don’t you come down and spend a couple of days. There’s loads of room. I could pick you up Friday afternoon, bring you back Sunday.’

  Rose thought for a moment.

  ‘No, I probably shouldn’t. My son Angus has just come back to Nairobi for a new job and I’d like to spend some time with him. He’s so busy during the week.’

  ‘Hell, bring him along too. Like I say, there’s loads of room.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Ask him. I’ll phone you Thursday.’

  The front door was not locked. Rose let herself into the house. She did not feel like going to bed. She had been home only three days and it was not yet nine o’clock in Edinburgh. And as Harry had pointed out, in New York it would be four o’clock in the afternoon – why, he’d only just be getting out of bed. She was pleased she had said yes to his invitation when he’d phoned up out of the blue. It had been fun, just as much fun as when she’d been out with him the last time he’d been in Nairobi. Now she was home it brought back happy memories of dancing around the house with Joshua all those years ago. And she thought of Mr Malik, and dancing with him that evening four years ago at the Hunt Club Ball. She smiled. Oh, how fast the years went by. Rose wandered over to the record player. Doris Day? No, not tonight. She pulled a record cover from the pile and put the disc on the turntable.