A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (10 page)

The sight of Imran Hilaly demolishing four
Cheetah Chews and a Lion Licker had made Mr Malik feel a little peckish. He looked at
his watch. Yes, lunchtime. The driver found a place to stop the coach under some thorn
trees beside the river, and everyone piled out. Tiffin packets were passed round –
chapatti wraps, cutlets and samosas – and Mr Malik opened a case of mixed sodas.

‘Lemonade, cherry fizz or
cola?'

‘What, no beer?' said Mr
Gopez.

‘Mmmm,' said Mr Patel,
swallowing a large bite of samosa. ‘I'd know Ally Dass's cooking
anywhere. Plain soda for me, please, Malik old chap. Have you booked him for the wedding
yet?'

‘All arranged – mchuzi, marquee,
mosque.'

‘Mosque, eh?'

‘Salman said he wouldn't mind
temple but his family wanted mosque. Petula doesn't seem to care one way or the
other.'

The thorn tree in whose shade they now sat
was, Mr Malik noticed, adorned with several weaver birds' nests, each with an
attendant male advertising its nuptial credentials
with loud songs and
vigorous waving of wings. From their black eye masks and dark backs Mr Malik recognized
them as Baglafecht weavers. How long ago it seemed since he had last heard Rose Mbikwa
say those words on the Tuesday morning bird walk – ‘Bag-la-fecht weavers'.
What had she seen while she had been away in Scotland? he wondered. In the 1960s he had
spent two years in England but he had never crossed the border. Were there Scottish
swans, Scottish sparrowhawks, Scottish skylarks?

Mr Malik gazed up past the thorn tree to the
wide blue sky. High overhead flew a skein of birds – probably pelicans, he thought, on
their way to Upper Reservoir. As if from nowhere a pair of black kites appeared and
began circling above the coach. Amazing how even in an out-of-the-way place like this
they could spot a picnic within minutes. He looked around. Everyone seemed to have
finished their lunch packets and sodas. It was time to get back on the bus. Next stop –
the equator. For just as it is a tradition on the Asadi Club annual safari that the
first child to spot a zebra wins a prize, it is a tradition when heading north to stop
at the equator to stretch the legs and watch water go down the plughole.

Though I cannot claim to have learned much
from my Geography lessons at school, I arrived in Africa with the firm belief that the
equator is an imaginary line around the earth equidistant from both poles. I
wasn't much good at Science either, but I do remember our Physics master making a
convincing case that, contrary to popular belief,
the Coriolanus
effect, while ensuring that large fluid systems on the scale of hurricanes and ocean
currents tend to move clockwise in the southern hemisphere and anticlockwise in the
north, has no effect on the way the water turns as it goes down the plughole in the bath
(or should that be the Coriolis effect? I fear English was not a strong subject either).
On both counts I was wrong. The equator is in fact a white line drawn across the road
just south of Meru, where you can find a dozen cheerful locals with buckets of water and
small bowls ready to demonstrate for a few shillings that – look! On this side of the
equator the water goes round this way. We step over the line, and – look! It goes round
the other way.

‘Of course, it's all
nonsense,' said Mr Gopez once they were back on the bus. ‘I tried it in my
house once, all the baths and sinks and washbasins. Some went one way, some went the
other. It's all to do with the plumbing, they tell me.'

‘They do, do they?' said Mr
Patel, sitting down beside him. ‘Then it's a pity that “they”
didn't tell you which is the most dangerous animal in Africa.'

‘Buffalo,' said Mr Gopez.

‘Hippo,' said Mr Patel.

‘Oh, look,' said Mr Malik.
‘Over there, near that bush. Isn't that a dik-dik?'

There is a story told in many parts of
Africa about an elephant and the little antelope called the dik-dik. One day a dik-dik
was trotting through the bush when it ran head first into a huge mound of fresh elephant
dung. So fresh was the dung that the elephant who dropped it was
still
only a few feet away – and on seeing the dik-dik's distress, it burst into
laughter. The dik-dik, though it may be small in others' eyes, is large in its
own. Right, it thought, I'll show that elephant. Which is why even today the tiny
dik-dik always deposits its dung all in one place. This may grow into a pile many feet
tall, and the dik-dik is hoping that one day it will have made a pile big enough for the
elephant to walk head first into. All of which was of some interest to Mr Malik, as the
location chosen for the Asadi Club campsite was, according to the man at whose house he
was now paying a courtesy call, prime dik-dik country.

‘Dik-dik? Absolutely. Scores of
'em.'

‘And elephants, Mr Johnson?'

‘Tembo? Rather. Find dik-dik, and
tembo won't be far away.'

Mr Malik looked around the room where he was
now sitting. From what he had seen so far tembo seemed to be the only species of large
mammal not represented by a stuffed and mounted head hanging on one wall or other of the
sprawling bungalow.

‘You are a hunter, Mr
Johnson?'

‘Hunting? Good God, no. Won't
have a gun on the place. Know what you're thinking. All these animals, no guns –
just dropped dead, did they? My father. Guns everywhere. Rifles, pistols, shotguns –
even had a 1914 Lewis gun, tripod and all. Boy Johnson, last of the great white hunters.
Meet a man, fight. Meet a woman, flirt. Meet an animal, fire. Lot of bloody good it did
him. Got drunk, hit my mother. Savaged to death by his own bull mastiffs.'

He nodded towards one wall that must have
contained the heads of twenty assorted big game. ‘Too late for them. Still, old
friends. Can't chuck 'em out, not now. Ever shot?'

‘No, Mr Johnson, I myself have never
held a gun.'

‘Good. Live and let live.'

Mr Malik smiled.

‘I must say that is my own
belief.'

‘Thought so. Like 'em alive, not
dead. Asked young Hilary. Said you were a good sort.'

‘Thank you. And as Mrs
Fotherington-Thomas told me, this is indeed a beautiful place. It is most generous of
you to let us stay here. I very much hope you will be able to join us for dinner one
evening, Mr Johnson. Would tonight, perhaps, be suitable?'

‘Better not. Beryl. Needs attention.
Ha. You know what they're like.'

Mr Malik was sure Hilary Fotherington-Thomas
had said that her friend was not married, but this clearly did not preclude other female
company.

‘Tomorrow perhaps?'

‘Love to, but I've got a
visitor. Old pal. Got to fetch him in the morning.'

‘Then please bring your
visitor.'

‘Really? Splendid.'

‘Are you picking him up from Meru? If
I can be of any help …'

‘Nairobi.'

‘That is a very long drive.'

‘Drive? No fear. I'll take
Beryl. Following wind, just over an hour.'

It took Mr Malik a moment to work out what
Dickie Johnson was talking about.

‘You fly, Mr Johnson? You mean that
Beryl is an aeroplane?'

‘One of the best. Like to see the old
girl?'

He led Mr Malik outside, to a large shed
behind the bungalow. After some heaving and cursing the door was opened to reveal an old
Land Rover and, beside it, a single-engined Piper Cherokee. Though Beryl was a little
scratched and dented for Mr Malik's liking, he didn't say so. What he did
say was that he hoped very much Mr Johnson would come the following night at six, and
that he would bring his visitor.

‘Excellent. Love to.'

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I should
be heading down to the campsite myself before it gets dark.'

‘Like a lift?'

‘No, please, I'd rather
walk.'

‘Good man. Only a mile or so. No
buffalo, but watch out. By the river. Hippos. Dangerous beasts, hippos.'

‘Indeed so,' said Mr Malik.

‘Well, anything else, let me
know.'

‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. You are too
kind.'

His host held out a hand.

‘Good. Tomorrow then.'

By the time Mr Malik had made his way back
to the campsite the sun was just setting. He found his friends already started on the
beer and chilli popcorn, but before joining them there was one more person he had to
see. He spotted him near the seventh tent.

‘Ah, Benjamin, how did it go – all
according to plan?'

‘The surprise, you mean, Mr Malik? I
had a little trouble with those very big screws – but then I read the instruction book,
as you told me. I had forgotten that they must be turned against the clock. Now
everything is fine.'

‘Good. And the lamps?'

‘All filled up and ready.'

‘Excellent. Thank you,
Benjamin.'

‘We were just saying, Malik old chap,
that this,' Mr Patel waved one hand around to encompass the campsite while using
the other to hand Mr Malik a glass of beer, ‘is a damned fine spot.'

The camp had been set up on a flat area of
coarse sand beside a small lake, left behind when the nearby river had changed course.
Shaded by thorn trees and surrounded by soft clumps of maru, the campsite already felt
friendly. Ally Dass had set up his kitchen slightly away from the main camping area, but
not so far that they could escape the smells of barbecued meat and simmering spices.

‘Thank you, my friends,' said Mr
Malik. ‘I am so glad you like it. Now, Ally told me he'd have dinner ready
by half past seven. That gives us just over an hour.' He looked over towards the
seventh tent, then back towards his friends. ‘So who's for a
game?'

‘What – cards, do you mean?'
said Mr Gopez.

‘Tiddlywinks?' said Mr
Patel.

‘No, not cards, and not tiddlywinks.
Not even snakes and ladders. Come, follow me.'

Up he got and, without seeing who might be
following
him, strode to the seventh tent. His friends were right
behind. When he pulled back the flaps they were amazed to see, glowing green beneath the
light of four hissing gas lamps, a full-sized twelve-foot billiard table.

‘String for break, A.B.?' said
Mr Malik.

As the Tiger had surmised, the legal case
of Hareesh vs Hareesh (no relation) for which H. H. Singh, LLB, MA (Oxon.) was engaged
to represent the plaintiff had indeed taken longer than expected. What should have been
a simple out-of-court settlement – after all, how much damages can a courier company
expect to be awarded just because its business competitor decides to use the same shade
of pink for its delivery bicycle? – had turned into a detailed and protracted argument
about ethics, economics, family and justice. In the Tiger's experience it is
seldom wise to raise the question of justice before a court, especially in a civil case.
But as so often happens both plaintiff and defendant seemed determined to win at any
cost, and there was nothing that either counsel – nor even the judge – could do about
it. The Tiger could only be thankful that at twelve-thirty Judge Kafari decided to
adjourn the case until the following Monday (Friday afternoon, as the Tiger was well
aware, was the judge's golf afternoon). As soon as the Tiger was out of his wig
and robes he phoned the garage to see if there was any news on his Range Rover.

When it comes to having a car repaired,
Kenyan motorists have three basic options. The most expensive choice is to take your
vehicle to the MORF, or Manufacturer's Official Repair Facility. Not only will a
MORF almost certainly have the appropriate repair manual for your vehicle, but you can
be reasonably sure that someone there will be able to read it. And while one can never
be certain that spare parts used in a MORF are exactly as specified by the manufacturer
(and not some cheap pirated copy thereof), said parts will probably do a fair
approximation to the job required. The second choice is to go to your friendly local AVA
– All Vehicles Accepted. There is no pretence here at using genuine new parts –
second-hand parts are the norm. But you know that the savings are being passed on to the
customer, and while the mechanic's overalls may not be spotless, each grease stain
can be read as a badge of experience. Third on the list of choices is the
jua
kali
– Swahili for ‘hot sun'. Such repair facilities are common on
the outskirts of every city and town throughout Kenya. They consist of a man standing
beside the road with an adjustable wrench and what my friend Kennedy insists on calling
an ‘Irish screwdriver' – and when it comes to straightening a steering rod
or unbending a side panel you'd be amazed just how much a clever and determined
Kenyan can do with one spanner and a large hammer.

For the repair of the malfunctioning fuel
pump on his Range Rover, Tiger Singh had put the vehicle into the capable hands of
Rhapta Road Repairs – All Vehicles Accepted. The old fuel pump had come off easily
enough, the manager assured him when he phoned, and the new one would be on ‘in a
jiffy'. He would call back the minute
it was ready. By five
o'clock that minute had still not come, and another phone call revealed that in
fact the new pump had not yet arrived. Ah well, worrying about that would have to wait
until the morning. Right now, what Tiger Singh needed was a drink. He was already on the
street outside his chambers on Mama Ngina Street and about to raise an arm to hail a cab
to take him to the Asadi Club when he heard a voice calling his name.

‘Hey, Tiger!'

The voice seemed to be coming from a red
Mercedes sports car that had just pulled up on the other side of the road. Its driver –
brown-skinned, white-haired, wearing a white shirt unbuttoned far enough to show a large
gold medallion – was waving to him in a most familiar way.

‘Hey, Tiger – need a lift?'

Of course, it was Khan – Harry Khan. After
looking both ways twice, then once again to make sure, the Tiger crossed the road.

‘Hello, Khan old chap. Good to see
you.'

‘You too. So … can I give
you a ride?'

‘That's very kind of you. I was
going to take a taxi over to the club – my car's being repaired.'

‘The Asadi Club? Jump in.'

The Tiger opened the shiny red door and sank
into the soft leather seat.

‘In this baby I'll have you
there in no time flat.'

Though in ideal conditions the Mercedes-Benz
SL roadster that Harry Khan was driving can accelerate from 0 to 100 kph in about the
time it takes to read this sentence, and you can be cruising at something over 200 kph
very soon thereafter – not in Nairobi. A combination of
a complete
absence of road rules, and the frequent absence of what in other cities goes by the name
of ‘road', means that the duration of any journey in Nairobi is known only
to the gods of traffic – and whether you are in a Mercedes or a Morris Minor seems to
make very little impression on them. On this particular Friday evening the longest delay
was caused by a couple of thulu boys, enterprising young men who adopt a pothole, fill
it in, then cheerfully stand beside it soliciting payment for their public spirit from
every motorist who passes. What with that, and the usually heavy traffic, it took Harry
Khan and the Tiger a full forty minutes to cover the five kilometres from downtown
Nairobi to the Asadi Club. By the time they had parked the car and pushed through the
front door of the clubhouse, both were in need of a long drink.

‘Where the hell is everybody?'
said Harry, glancing to his left as they entered the bar. ‘I don't remember
ever seeing the billiard room empty when I was here last time.'

‘Oh, didn't anyone tell you? The
safari – the annual club safari. It's this weekend.'

‘Safari? Oh yeah, sure. I
remember.'

‘I would have been there
myself,' said the Tiger as they took their drinks from the bar to the table by the
window, ‘but I had to be in court this morning and my car's being fixed.
Malik's found somewhere near Meru this year. I'm still hoping my car will be
ready to drive up tomorrow. Anyway, Harry, you haven't told me yet what brings you
to Nairobi – visiting the family again?'

‘No, not this time. This time
it's business.'

‘Don't tell me the Khans are
going to start up in Kenya
again. Does this mean we'll be seeing
the old signs going up – “Khan's for Kwality”?'

Before selling up and moving to Canada –
before the Idi Amin thing had blown up in Uganda – the Khan family had owned a string of
general stores throughout East Africa. Their advertising signs were a common sight on
hoardings from the coast to Kampala.

Harry Khan smiled and shook his head.

‘I'm talking business with a
capital B.' He patted his briefcase. ‘Could be one of the biggest things to
hit Nairobi for quite a while. I was telling the minister about it just
yesterday.'

‘Really? I'd have thought things
were a bit, how shall we say – uncertain? – for investors here at the moment.'

Harry laughed.

‘Yeah, well, that's Kenya. But
now could be just the right time. Sure, confidence is down – but so are prices and
costs. Me and my brothers are thinking this could be the moment for a smart guy to make
a move.'

‘And what exactly is the business you
are suggesting?'

‘Shopping centres, Tiger baby. Retail.
I'm not talking about your Sarit centre or your UKAY. I'm talking big,
I'm talking about something like Nairobi has never seen before.'

‘Sounds impressive, Harry, and I dare
say Kenya can do with all the investment it can get.' The Tiger raised his glass.
‘Good luck to you.'

‘Thanks, Tiger. But, believe me,
it's nothing to do with luck. When I want to gamble, I go to Vegas. Planning,
preparation, knowing how the system works – that's how you get things
done.'

‘So, the minister
was … er … helpful?'

‘The Honourable Brian Kukuya promised
me his full cooperation. Like I always say – what Harry wants, Harry gets.'

The Tiger raised an eyebrow.

‘And you promised
him …?'

‘Hey, no promises.' Harry
Khan's smile widened. ‘But I think you could say we understand each
other.'

The Tiger was fairly sure he knew what Harry
Khan meant. As happens everywhere in this world, the men with the power can use that
power to be helpful or not helpful. If you wanted to get things done in Kenya
(sometimes, as the Tiger well knew, even in the Kenyan court system), you had to play by
their rules.

‘I should warn you, though, Harry.
I'm afraid ministers tend not to last very long in office at the
moment.'

‘Yeah, so I heard. This Dadukwa guy,
right? I've met a few people out there who'd like to see
that
eagle
grounded for good – though from what I've been hearing, the
Evening News
may not be around much longer anyway. But don't worry. Harry always keeps more
than one iron in the fire.'

The Tiger nodded.

‘So where will it be, this shopping
centre?'

‘That's one of the things
I'm doing right now – scouting out sites. I've already got a couple of
possibilities lined up. The other thing I'm trying to do is put together a local
team. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm pleased to be talking to you
right now, Tiger,' continued Harry Khan. ‘We'll be needing a lawyer –
and from what I hear, you're the best.'

The Tiger held up his hands.

‘Sorry, Harry, I'm flat out at
the moment. Believe me, the last thing I need is more work. As I say, I would have been
on the club safari right now, but I had to appear in court this morning, and then my
car … Anyway, I'm not really sure it's my area. I could probably
put you in touch with someone …'

‘Come on, Tiger. Name your
price.'

‘It really isn't the money,
Harry. I just don't have time for any more work.'

‘OK, OK.' Harry Khan raised his
glass. ‘Cheers. I guess I'll just have to find some other way to persuade
you. So, this safari. I guess old Jack'll be there, right?' Seeing the look
of confusion on Tiger Singh's face, ‘You know, Malik – that's what we
used to call him at school.'

‘Malik? Oh yes, he'll be there.
He's arranged the whole caboodle.'

‘You remember last time I was here –
that bird thing?' Harry Khan looked down into his glass. ‘I guess he really
liked that broad. Anything come of it – him and Rose?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

Harry Khan smiled.

‘Then maybe I'll give her a call
later. Her number should still be in my little old black book. But right now, how about
another drink? And seeing how there's no one in that billiard room, what do you
say to a game?'

It was the Tiger's turn to smile.

‘For a small wager, perhaps?' he
said.