A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Read online

  ‘She is using us to hide, Mr Malik,’ whispered Benjamin, ‘hide from the zebra.’

  It is strange but true that whereas the smallest human on foot will be the signal for every zebra and lion within a half-mile radius to hot-hoof or hot-paw it towards the distant horizon, ten people in a minibus seem not to arouse the slightest suspicion. They and their vehicle are seen by the resident wildlife as some kind of large but harmless fellow creature. The other two buses arrived a minute later. Neither zebras nor lioness took the slightest notice of them. The lioness had now crawled to a position not two feet from where Mr Malik was sitting in the passenger seat. She was so close that he could see only her left flank. Then, like a racehorse out of the gates, she was off. Before the zebras could even think about reacting she was halfway towards them. With snorts and brays they scattered.

  It was clear that the lioness had already chosen her victim. All that watching and waiting had been to see which among the small herd was the youngest or oldest or weakest – which would be the easiest kill. The watchers saw her catching up with one of them, getting closer by the second. The zebra headed for the river. Both animals disappeared behind a dense patch of meru, the zebra only inches ahead of the big cat. In the three minibuses twenty-eight people held twenty-eight breaths.

  ‘Look, there.’

  Benjamin pointed towards a dark shape from the other side of the bush. It was the zebra’s head. Its eyes were wide, its tongue flopped from open jaws. It was dead. The head of the lioness appeared. Her jaws were still round the zebra’s throat where she had clamped them as soon as she had bowled her prey to the ground, cutting off the air to its lungs. There were gasps from the minibuses, both at the shock of the death that had just happened almost before their eyes and at the magnificent strength of the lioness, dragging by the neck an animal twice her own weight – or more – as if she was doing hardly more than carrying home a shopping basket.

  ‘If she is moving it, she must have young cubs,’ said Benjamin. ‘Otherwise she would eat it right there.’

  And sure enough, after the lioness had dragged her prey a few more yards, two cubs, still with the spotted coats of infants, emerged from another low bush.

  ‘Where are the rest of the pride?’ asked Mr Gopez.

  ‘When she has her cubs, Mr A.B., the female leaves the pride. Usually just for a few weeks, though sometimes it is for ever.’

  ‘But those cubs, they are not old enough to eat that zebra, are they?’

  ‘No, they are still drinking their mother’s milk. But I think here it is easier to guard. She can feed herself and her cubs, and keep other animals away.’

  The lioness, after greeting her young with a small but no doubt affectionate snarl, lay down next to the dead zebra and began to feed.

  I know that the question now on most minds is exactly which species of zebra was the mother lioness now munching on? Of the two species common in Kenya my money is on Burchell’s zebra Equus quagga, subspecies burchellii. The size and location of the herd, and the fact that it was a stallion rather than a mare who seemed to be the boss, suggest this species rather than Grevy’s zebra Equus grevyi. Of course, if we knew whether the animal killed was white with black stripes, or black with white stripes, there would be no doubt. Without this vital piece of information it is impossible to be sure.

  A little further upriver the safarists had excellent views of a troop of black and white colobus monkeys coming down from the trees to drink. According to Benjamin, this was most unusual – these monkeys usually get all the water they need from the fruit and leaves they eat, and if they do find themselves thirsty will look for water in a tree hollow. But this particular troop didn’t seem at all worried by being on the ground. With much whooping and crashing of branches they followed each other down in two-tone confusion. Some of the smaller, and presumably younger, ones seemed to think it a great game to leap from the tip of one branch fully sixty feet above the ground into a low bush beneath them, all emerging unscathed from the fall.

  ‘Can they swim, do you think?’ said Mr Patel.

  As if in answer to this question, one of the younger colobus ran at full speed up a rock beside the river and launched itself into the air, landing in the water with a most satisfying splash. No sooner had it paddled ashore than it was ready to repeat the exercise, for all the world like a teenager at a swimming pool. This time it was followed by another young one. Both swam to shore and chased and frolicked in the shallows.

  ‘My God,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Look over there – isn’t that a crocodile?’

  Not twelve yards from the young monkeys something was moving through the water – and yes, those eyes and nostrils were unmistakable.

  A large African crocodile can kill a zebra or even a buffalo. While not quite up to this challenge, this one was without doubt big enough to swallow a young colobus in a single gulp. One of the male adult monkeys stood up on its hind legs and gave a scream. But rather than running away, the first young colobus picked up a small stone and threw it towards the crocodile. Within seconds the others were lined up along the bank beside it, showering the water with stones. The occupants of the safari buses saw the crocodile stop swimming. Perhaps reasoning in its slow reptilian way that there’s really very little meat on a monkey these days, it turned and swam away.

  Monkey meat was notable only by its absence on the lunch menu back at the campsite. The hungry safarists had to make do with a simple assortment of freshly cooked pakoras followed by crispy murgh masala, a large bowl of mattar paneer and a creamy koya gobi mattar with cauliflower and mushrooms, and plain old navratan rice. The plates cleared and cleaned, it was time to leave.

  There was no doubt that the Churchman’s Patent Convertible billiard table had been a great success. It really was the most marvellous contrivance, thought Mr Malik, as he helped Benjamin pack it up. When the two halves were together you could hardly see the join, but after a few clockwise cranks of the ‘draw-bar extender screws’ (the ones that Benjamin had that small problem with) the halves came apart, while operating another mechanism caused the legs to begin folding under, each running on wheels along a steel track attached to the packing case into which each half of the table fitted. When both halves were flat in their cases, the two of them replaced the mahogany tops and lifted the lids on to the cases. The cases were built to the same quality as the table. Thick felt and a tight fit ensured that their contents were well protected for transport back to Nairobi. At one o’clock the coach turned up as arranged.

  Tiger Singh wondered whether Angus Mbikwa would like a lift back to Nairobi in his Range Rover.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Singh, but I am already being looked after.’

  ‘Oh, of course – you’ll be flying back with Mr Johnson.’

  ‘No, I am being driven back by Ms Malik.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Petula. ‘If you would rather go in Mr Singh’s Range Rover, I’m sure it would be much more comfortable.’

  ‘But, Petula, we still have to discuss next week’s agenda. So thank you, Mr Singh, but I will go with Ms Malik.’

  ‘Nice chap,’ said Mr Patel, joining Mr Malik to wave the two of them off in Petula’s little Suzuki. ‘I was chatting to him at dinner last night. He told me all about his new job, so I asked him to give the talk at the club on Thursday week. Said he’d be delighted. Know anything about it, this Clarity thing?’

  ‘Clarity International? Yes, it’s all to do with keeping governments honest. Petula’s on the local board. That’s how she met him, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it must have been through his mother. Pal of yours, I seem to remember.’

  At the Nairobi Hunt Club Ball four years ago Mr Patel had not been the only person surprised to see Mr Malik dance, nor to remark on his dance partner. The sight of him waltzing round the ballroom of the Suffolk Hotel with the lovely Rose Mbikwa caused many a tongue to wag – and to continue wagging for some weeks afterwards.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ said Mr Malik, ‘but I ha
ven’t seen her for some time. She’s been looking after her father in Scotland, though I heard she’s just got back.’

  ‘Speaking of getting back,’ said Tiger Singh, ‘any of you other chaps like to come with me? It’ll be quicker than the coach. Might even have time for a game of billiards at the club before the others arrive.’

  ‘No thanks, Tiger,’ said Mr Patel. ‘I … er … promised to help young Imran with his homework on the way back.’

  ‘Jolly kind of you to offer, Tiger,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘but I think I might go in the coach and have a bit of a snooze. Why don’t you go, Malik?’

  ‘I would be pleased to,’ said Mr Malik. He was somewhat surprised at the alacrity with which his friends had refused the offer of a lift, but this could be a chance to have a chat with the Tiger about a few things that had been on his mind. What did he think were the chances the club mascot would turn up again, and what were his thoughts about A.B.’s theory on the Erroll case? The Tiger might even have some advice on mending broken engagements. ‘But would it be possible to drop Benjamin off on the way? He’s having a few days with his family.’

  Mr Malik had never before driven with Tiger Singh. Never in his life did he want to again. When I tell you that even after taking the B6 and leaving Benjamin at the bus stop in Embu they reached Nairobi in under five hours, you will be able to make a good guess at how many trucks were overtaken on blind corners, how many village dogs escaped death by the width of a whisker and how many chickens survived by just the skin of a beak. When they arrived at the club a game of billiards was out of the question – it was all Mr Malik’s shaking hands could do to hold on to a glass without spilling its contents.

  He had noticed the absence of the Kima Killer as soon as he’d walked in the door. Once he was halfway into his second drink and felt that his heart rate and adrenalin levels had subsided below the critical range, he asked Tiger Singh to again go through the events leading up to the disappearance of the club mascot. The Tiger had been there on Friday night. Harry Khan had given him a lift from town and stayed on to play billiards. In fact, they were the last to leave.

  ‘Can you remember who else was here that night?’ asked Mr Malik.

  Tiger Singh thought hard.

  ‘There was no one in the billiard room – I remember Harry Khan remarking on that – but I think there were a few people in the bar when we arrived. Whether anyone was in the dining room, or anywhere else, I really couldn’t say. But there definitely wasn’t anyone else here when we left – apart from the manager. I told you about that business with the front door getting accidentally locked, didn’t I? Harry had left his keys inside – in his briefcase, as I remember. He went back inside to fetch it from the bar, pulled the door closed behind him and locked us all out. But it was all right, I had a spare back-door key at home and Harry took it back to the club for the manager after he’d dropped me off.’

  ‘If it was the Bashu boys, then they must have been hiding somewhere in the club.’

  ‘But even so, how could they have got away with the lion? It’s not something you could hide under your hat.’

  Nor even, thought Mr Malik, in your briefcase. Nothing more could be done about the matter for the moment. Tiger Singh at last managed to persuade Mr Malik that a relaxing game of billiards was just what he needed and had time to win two games before the coach arrived with the rest of the safari party.

  ‘Place doesn’t look the same out there,’ said Mr Gopez as he joined them in the bar. ‘Has anyone worked out yet how they did it?’

  As Mr Malik shook his head, he noticed a pale mark on the wall.

  ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that where the registration certificate usually hangs?’

  24

  The monkey bitten by a snake fears a vinestem

  Mr Malik awoke with a startling thought. Oh my God, what about the loos? There might be enough room in the garden for 170 people, but he had only one loo – two, if Benjamin didn’t mind guests using his. Wait a minute, what was he worrying about? There was not going to be a wedding. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Not even the Tiger had been able to suggest how to get Petula and Salman back together. He sat up in bed and shook his head. He supposed Petula knew what she was doing. He gave a long sigh. It was all too difficult. He reached for one of the stack of books on the bedside table.

  On the cover a white man in a short-sleeved shirt and slouch hat lounged on a lawn sloping down to some water. Beside him was an enormous deerhound. It was a picture of Lord Erroll taken at Lake Naivasha sometime in the 1930s. Mr Malik picked up a second book. Looking back at him was a young woman dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. She was lying on bare ground beneath some trees. Beside her, its head in her hand, was a cheetah. In the black and white photograph the young woman looked about sixteen. This was the girl who claimed Sir Jock Delves Broughton admitted to her he had murdered his rival in love, Lord Erroll. Was A.B. right? Could Juanita Carberry really have been the killer? There was no doubt that he had put his finger on something. There was something strange about the timing of her revelation, so long after the event. If she had decided to keep silent at the time, why change her mind, and why do it then? Then there were the inconsistencies in her own accounts. Was she in Nairobi at the time of the murder or wasn’t she?

  He could see problems, though, with A.B.’s theory. If Juanita had shot Erroll, how had she managed to get his car into the ditch, and how had she manoeuvred his dead body on to the floor of the car all by herself? There was something strange about the position of the car too. If the murderer – whoever it was – waited for the car to slow down at the road junction, why was it on the Nairobi road, a good 150 yards beyond the junction, when it was found by the milk delivery drivers? Something was still not right. But why, thought Mr Malik, was he wasting his time thinking about the Erroll case? It was over, it was finished, it was all in the past. Like the wedding.

  He put the books back on the pile beside the bed and looked over at the clock. That must be Petula he could hear bustling about in the kitchen. Time to get up. It was going to be a busy day.

  ‘Ah, there you are, darling.’ Mr Malik levered open the tin of Nescafé with a teaspoon. ‘How was the drive home yesterday?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Petula, taking the jug of passion-fruit juice from the fridge. ‘Was that you we saw in Mr Singh’s car?’

  ‘That’s right, he gave me a lift back to Nairobi.’ Mr Malik spooned just the right amount of powder into his cup, added a dash of water from the tap and stirred. He’d found that if you mixed in a little cold water before you added the hot it seemed to taste better. ‘I didn’t see you, though.’

  ‘You overtook us and another couple of cars rather fast on the hill just outside Muranga. As far as I could see you seemed to have your eyes shut.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Malik, filling the cup from the kettle. ‘Just having a bit of shut-eye, I expect.’ Mr Malik took a sip from his cup. ‘You know, darling, about the wedding …’

  ‘Daddy dear – the wedding is on.’

  Mr Malik put down his coffee.

  ‘Really? I’m delighted to hear it.’

  ‘You know – that’s just what Angus said you’d say. It was good to have that chance to talk – to someone outside it all, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘So you didn’t just talk about Clarity International all the way home then?’

  ‘We talked about lots of things – we even talked a little bit about you. But he made me see that perhaps I was a little hard on Salman. After all, his work is important, and important to him. So I’m going to give him a second chance.’

  Mr Malik thought back to his own work and marriage. How many times had his own dear wife missed out on evenings out or weekends away when something came up at the factory? Too many. She had never complained. Though Mr Malik knew that he could not undo all the mistakes he had made in his life, sometimes he found himself wishing that he had done things differently.

  ‘Work isn’t
everything – but yes, perhaps you were a little hard. So I don’t have to cancel the marquee, uninvite all the guests?’

  His answer was a small kiss on the cheek. The telephone rang.

  ‘The Tiger called you two as well, did he? Do you know what it’s about?’

  ‘All he said to me was something about a letter, A.B.,’ said Mr Patel. ‘Did he mention anything else to you, Malik?’

  ‘No, but he sounded worried – and you don’t often hear the Tiger worried.’

  When Tiger Singh arrived at the club moments later, his brow was indeed adorned with an unaccustomed furrow.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Malik, A.B., Patel. Good.’ He took from his briefcase a single sheet of paper. ‘I’ll cut straight to the chase, gentlemen. This morning I received by courier this letter from the office of the Minister for the Interior. It is short and to the point, simply calling my attention, as President of the Asadi Club, to Statute 232 of the 1901 British East Africa Protectorate Regulations, later passed into law sine legislatio at Kenyan independence in 1963.’

  ‘Ministry?’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘Statute?’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘Sorry, old boy,’ said Mr Gopez, shaking his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  The Tiger put the letter down on the table in front of him.

  ‘The statute in question relates to a regulation that all non-governmental, non-religious organizations are required to register with the proper authority at or within three calendar months of establishment. Those that fail to do so will be deemed non-lawful and liable to have their assets seized.’

  ‘Register?’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘Proper authority?’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘Assets seized? Sorry, Tiger,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘It is quite simple, gentlemen,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘They are trying to get their hands on the Asadi Club.’

  Mr Gopez groaned. ‘Not a-bloody-gain.’

  ‘But they can’t,’ said Mr Patel. ‘I mean, it’s ours, the members’.’