The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (20 page)

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Authors: Lawrence Anthony,Graham Spence

BOOK: The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild
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‘I’m speaking today.’
‘Oh.’ She stared at me with interest. ‘Then
you
are Anthony.’
I nodded. ‘How is it inside?’
‘Hot,’ she replied. Unfortunately, she wasn’t referring to the weather. She was using the colloquial Zulu word for dangerous. In other words, Code Red.
She clicked her tongue, unhappy that my presence could spark more problems. ‘Are you sure you still want to speak?’ I followed her gaze as she watched a crowd of men arrive,
one waving a dilapidated shotgun. ‘I’ve already had to radio for reinforcements.’
The phalanx of police was due primarily to the smouldering faction fight and not because of me personally. Nevertheless it was disconcerting to know that even they thought this meeting could turn nasty at any moment.
‘Yes, I will speak,’ I replied with a bravado I certainly didn’t feel. I knew I had been cleverly framed. Convincing hundreds of angry tribesmen in a state of virtual civil war of my innocence would not be easy, even with behind-the-scenes help from Prince Gideon.
We were interrupted by a messenger sent to fetch me. I followed him into the sardine can and sat in the front row just as an
induna
garbed in full warrior regalia finished off an extremely animated address. Suffice it to say, the gist of his message was that their enemies had spies in this room. The crowd growled, searching around for suspects.
The speaker, a senior chief, introduced me and asked the crowd that I be accorded a fair chance to put my case. Given the explosive mood of the meeting, this was no idle request.
I took a deep breath and, holding the priest’s bottled
muthi
, stood and thanked the speaker whom I knew well. I could count on him if the going got rough. I then pointedly thanked the
Nkosi
for inviting me, as well as other councillors and headmen or anyone else I recognized, naming them one by one. In other words, I was shamelessly name-dropping. The priest translated.
I then put the
muthi
bottle on the floor next to my chair. There was no immediate reaction, but I could see that it certainly had got some of the crowd’s attention. Perhaps they knew what it signified, and I was glad I had decided to bring it along. I needed all the help I could get.
Despite my apprehension, my voice came out strong, following Prince Gideon’s instructions to the letter. This
gave me some confidence and I pulled myself upright. Speaking as calmly as I could, I stressed that Zulu culture honourably entitled everyone to a fair hearing. I spoke in English as I wanted any questions to be translated, giving me precious extra moments to mull before I answered.
Just as I thought everything was going swimmingly, all hell exploded. ‘Apologize!’ screamed a loud voice, ignoring what I had just said. ‘Apologize for what you have done.’
Other agitators took up the chant, trying to provoke the crowd. ‘Apologize! Apologize!’
For a moment I was shocked, like a hare in a spotlight. Then instantly it all became clear; I knew what I had to do. Any apology would be a fatal acknowledgement of guilt and that’s exactly what the cabal wanted. If I fell into that trap, giving in to a lame plea bargain, I would be finished. So I ignored the goading and waited for the speaker to restore order, which he eventually did. When it was quiet, he nodded at me to continue.
‘I cannot apologize …’ I said, which immediately incited more jeers from one section of the crowd. My eyes shot across. They had made the mistake of sitting together and now I knew exactly who they all were.
‘I cannot apologize,’ I repeated, ‘because I have done nothing to apologize for.’
More jeers.
‘A man – if he is a man,’ I accentuated, ‘will only apologize if he has done wrong and then he
must
apologize. Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to lie to the
Nkosi
? Do you want me to lie to this meeting? Are you asking me to give up my manhood and lie like a coward just because I am being threatened?’
These arguments may sound medieval in an airconditioned First World courtroom, but in rural Zululand your integrity is central to your masculinity. That’s the way it is. You may lie to outsiders, but not to your clan.
A wiry man with a wispy moustache jumped to his feet. ‘But you are lying! You’re lying as your words come out! I myself saw you giving guns to our enemies! It was dark but I saw you with my own eyes meeting secretly with our enemies. I saw you giving them many weapons.’
I knew him. He was a layabout and a poacher, and not a good one at that. And, wow! he was their key witness. I breathed a faint sigh of relief. Their prime source against me was a well-known petty thug with no standing in the community whatsoever. I knew the
Nkosi
and his advisers wouldn’t miss that.
Unable to contain himself in the headiness of his newly acquired status, the
impimpi
– informer – had blown his cover by jumping up too soon. Now the crowd knew that the chief witness was basically unreliable.
Then the leader of the cattle cabal stood up and the hall went silent. A beefy man with a distinguished lantern jaw grizzled over by a peppercorn beard, he was a senior community member whose standing was rooted in cattle wealth. He spoke with authority, trying to undo the damage brought about by his
impimpi
’s premature accusation.
‘Mr Anthony, I thank you for coming here to clear up some important matters. I know you are a man who does not lie’ – he paused, clearing his throat for effect – ‘and as you do not lie, do you deny that people were living with you on Thula Thula while they attacked our people and threatened our chief?’
In effect, the cabal head was saying he had eye-witnesses that combatants had been on my land – and daring me to dispute it.
‘We all want to hear the answer to that question,’ I replied slowly. ‘That is why we are here.’ I saw the leaders on the podium lean forward. ‘But, I ask that I be allowed to finish what I have to say – everything – before anyone makes a judgement. Is this agreed?’
I needed those assurances desperately.
‘It is so,’ said a senior chief. ‘Anthony will finish.’
‘Good,’ I said, then raised my voice. ‘Then I deny that they were living with me. I deny it emphatically.’
The room erupted, so sure were they of my guilt. The cabal leaders were grinning wildly. I had been caught out. I was a liar.
It took a few minutes for the
izindunas
, headmen, to restore some semblance of order. Then, as promised, I was able to continue.
‘However, I do not deny that men have been hiding on Thula Thula,’ I said. ‘I emphatically deny that I know them, or that they were living with me.’
The cabal leader again stood, shaking his head and grinning.
‘This man says he does not know who is in his home, on his own land.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Which man does not know his visitors?’
Laughter. The
Nkosi
raised his hand for silence. He nodded at me to carry on.
‘As you all know, Thula Thula is a very big place. It takes many hours to walk fast from one side to the other. Anyone can easily hide there.’
‘But you have workers patrolling on your land!’ shouted the cabal leader, pointing a finger. ‘And you still say you don’t know your visitors?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘But do you? Do you know who lives on Biyela land?’
‘Of course we know! No man will dare stay on our land if the
induna
of the area does not know his name.’ He laughed again, playing to the crowd, confident of victory.
I then signalled to David at the back of the room. A few moments later he came forward with Ngwenya who, impressed by the occasion raised both his hands head-high in traditional greeting.
I introduced him. ‘This is Ngwenya, my senior ranger. We all know his family is well respected in this area.’ I was pleased to notice several of the senior
indunas
nodding in assent.
I turned to one of the
indunas
who controlled the Ntambanana area, west of us. ‘Biyela land in Ntambanana is off limits to anyone. No one can stay there. Is that correct?’
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘No one is there, no one may stay there.’
‘Ngwenya and I have just been there and I can tell you now there are several people living deep inside the land. We found them and spoke with them, they have been there for weeks. The bush has hidden them. Just as it hid the men you said were on my land.’
Ngwenya nodded as I spoke.
‘Is this true, Ngwenya?’ asked the
induna
, suddenly standing up. ‘Were you there? Are there people living there?’
Ngwenya nodded. ‘
Yebo
, it is as Anthony has said.’
‘
Hau!
’ The
induna
’s traditional exclamation of surprise echoed across the now silent room. ‘Then they are trespassers. ’
The cabal leader shrugged dismissively, but my argument had found traction and the tribal leaders were now looking at me expectantly.
‘I repeat, I did not know anyone was hiding in the bush on Thula Thula. The same way the honourable
induna
did not know men were hiding on his property. Trespassers are trespassers; they are not visitors. They are not welcome.’
There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. Not huge, but still reassuring.
‘What about the guns?’ someone shouted from the back.
Now that was what the meeting was all about.
‘Yes, we have guns,’ I said. ‘We have guns to protect ourselves from wild animals – you all know that. Why would we give away our guns and put our lives in danger walking in the bush with no protection?’
I was about to answer my own question but a tribal elder stood up first to defend me. This was a sure sign that the tables were turning.
‘Mkhulu speaks the truth,’ he said. ‘I have spoken to his rangers and they all still have their guns. Their guns never leave their hands because they need them for their work. They wouldn’t give them away to endanger their own lives.’
‘Anthony lies!’ shouted another cabal member in desperation. ‘Everyone knows he is the one supplying guns to be used against
Nkosi
.’
OK, this was now getting personal and anger crept into my voice.
‘No. Not everybody knows. This has got nothing to do with everybody. It’s not “everybody” who’s accusing me. It is just a few saying these terrible things and they say it recklessly without proof. All that’s happening here is someone is trying to drive a wedge between me and the
Nkosi
; someone with another agenda altogether.’
‘We don’t believe you!’ shouted the same man. ‘Our people are dying because of you. We don’t want you here living with us. You are white, and we do not trust you. You must take your family and go.’
I could hear the sudden intake of breath. Every head in the crowd swivelled, first to the
Nkosi
, and then towards me.
I suddenly felt tired. This is what it had all come to; in South Africa, when logic shrivels, the same dreary dinosaurs rear their vicious heads. But thanks to the racial slur, I now had the crowd’s absolute attention.
‘Several of the leaders here today knew my name long before I came to Thula Thula. They know that I worked with Zulu leaders during apartheid, even before some of you were born,’ I added, invoking the deep Zulu respect for age.
‘I had believed, and hoped with all my heart, that apartheid was dead. Yet this man wants to start it again here in our village.’
I turned to him, ‘You will bring shame on all of us.’
At that moment the young
Nkosi
stood up. He stood straight as a spear, and at that instant I knew that he was a true leader.
‘This has gone too far. We are not holding a trial here,’ he said. ‘Anthony’s not on trial. This gun-running is a matter for the police. If anybody has proof, then take it to the police – not just make wild claims, which is what is happening here in this hall. I will speak to the police myself after the meeting. Anthony was a good friend to my father. This matter is dismissed.’
It was done and I breathed a sigh of relief.
That was the last thing the cabal wanted to hear. They had no proof of anything other than some rebels had been trespassing in the virtually inaccessible corners of Thula Thula. They knew the gun-running claims were complete hogwash; they knew how much I revered the
Nkosi
’s family. They knew that the only way to get at me was to incite the crowd into open revolt. They had failed and been publicly humiliated in the process.
Indeed, their bluff had been called by the
Nkosi
himself. The victory was sweet for me, and after the meeting many villagers, some carrying fighting sticks, shook my hand or waved, as if welcoming me back to the fold. Addressing this hostile meeting had in itself proved my innocence. Under Zulu tradition the matter could not be opened again. Thula Thula was safe.
Back at Thula Thula later, with Max comfortingly at my side, I looked out over the reserve and on the horizon caught a glimpse of the herd. They were on the move, safe and free to go where they pleased. The victory was sweet indeed, but that didn’t mean the struggle was over. I had made some serious enemies, as I was soon to find out.

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