A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (13 page)

Mr Malik had no difficulty recognizing one
of the men who had just pulled up in an old Land Rover as Dickie Johnson, nor in
surmising that the other darker-skinned man – the rather tall and good-looking and much
younger man – must be the guest he'd flown to Nairobi to pick up. The two of them
hurried through the rain to the tent.

‘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 these 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.'

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.

‘Is that all there is?' sang
Miss Peggy Lee. ‘Is that all there is?'

Rose Mbikwa curled up on the sofa.

‘If that's all there is, then
let's keep dancing.'