A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (15 page)

Are we like monkeys, thought Mr Malik, or
are they like us? As Hilary Fotherington-Thomas had mentioned, a troop of baboons had
taken up residence in the old abandoned homestead down by the river. Mr Malik had asked
the driver of the safari bus to pull up outside it. Most of the baboons were taking it
easy in the shade of the wide veranda – couples grooming, mothers feeding babies, young
baboons playing in pairs or small groups. It was perhaps the younger ones that seemed
most human, chasing and quarrelling like children in a playground. Perched on the roof
was the old dog baboon. Though Mr Malik couldn't see its eyes, shaded beneath deep
brows, he could feel them watching him, watching everything. For at least half an hour
the safarists stayed there – nobody wanted to leave – until from the distance came a
loud hiccup.

‘A zebra,' whispered Benjamin.
‘Alarm call. Mr Malik, shall we go and see?'

Mr Malik signalled to their driver to start
the engine.

They found the small herd of zebra near the
river, no more than a few hundred yards away. The animals seemed nervous. One of them, a
stallion, was staring at a patch of
bushes. The driver stopped the
bus. After a couple of minutes, the stallion seemed to relax and put its head down to
graze with the rest of the herd. Mr Malik saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.
It was a lioness. Crouched low, moving just one leg at a time, she crept out of the
bushes to take up position right behind the vehicle.

‘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 haven'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.'