Kenyan crested guineafowl are shy and wary birds. They stick to one patch of forest, where they know every twig and track. It is next to impossible to creep up on one to shoot or grab it. But they possess great curiosity, and nothing incites their curiosity more than the colour blue. I have never seen this for myself but I am assured by my friend Kennedy that he has watched a Kenyan crested guineafowl staring at an empty pack of Clear Sky cigarettes for minutes at a time. Should you want to trap one of these birds, therefore, the best bait to use is not grain or fruit or anything that the bird might eat, but simply something blue. As a child, William Hakara always used small pieces of blue cloth which he would tie to a stick, the stick forming the trigger for a simple spring trap – bird pecks cloth, stick releases branch, branch pulls noose, noose catches bird. Often he would set a trap on the way to school and the resulting catch would be ready for him to pick up on the way home.
On leaving school William Hakara had been delighted to be accepted into the army, though disappointed when after basic training he had been posted not back to the coast (as he had hoped) but to Nairobi and the headquarters of the 1st/2nd Battalion Kenyan Rifle Brigade. So imagine his delight that first week when on evening patrol inside the perimeter fence he had heard a familiar soft clucking coming from some bushes just the other side. The next evening he carried with him on patrol not only his rifle but a pair of pliers, a length of fishing line and a scrap of blue cloth. No one would notice the small hole in the back fence right at ground level, just big enough for a curious bird. With luck, no one would notice the cloth tied to a stick, or the branch bent over with its noose of fishing line. And with even more luck the very next night after perimeter patrol he would be sucking the bones of a fine roast guineafowl.
His first thought when he saw flashlights near the fence was that someone was trying to steal his dinner. But if so they were making rather a noisy job of it. His second thought was that some of his fellow soldiers were coming home late and drunk from the Blue Beat Hotel and Bar on Magadi Road, trying to hop over the back fence into the barracks to avoid the MPs, and perhaps he should help them. But again, they seemed to be making a hell of a racket doing so. It was only when he crept closer to the fence and saw three men with torches and binoculars that he arrived at his third thought. These men were neither trap robbers nor fellow soldiers. They were intruders.
‘Halt,’ he said. ‘Who goes there?’
On the other side of the fence Harry Khan thought he had seen something move – a bird perhaps?
‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Keep it quiet, David – you’ll frighten the owls.’
‘That wasn’t me. I’m right here behind you.’
‘Then stop playing around, George.’
‘It wasn’t me either.’
‘Halt,’ said the voice again, ‘or I fire.’
Fire? Harry looked around. There was David with his spotlight, there was George with his. And there, over by the fence, was another light. He did some quick thinking. The Modern East African Tourist Inn was long closed, his red Mercedes the only vehicle in the car park. They had not seen lights from any other cars drive up. It was dark. They were alone, unarmed, and far from help.
‘George, David – halting OK with you?’
As they halted the voice spoke again.
‘Good. Now turn off your torches and put them down on the ground. Please. And put your hands up in the air.’
Three 600,000 candle power spotlights were gently lowered to the ground. Three pairs of hands were raised. They heard what sounded like the click and crackle of a radio and a minute later a vehicle rounded the fence and pulled up behind them.
Other lights shone bright, and glinting in their beams was the barrel of a gun.
‘Shit,’ said Harry under his breath. Then, ‘Who are you, what do you want?’
‘I think we will be the ones asking the questions, gentlemen,’ said another voice. ‘Turn. March.’
And turn and march they did – past the jeep, past the parked Mercedes, past the entrance to the MEATI, along the road and towards some gates whose large sign identified them as the entrance to the Headquarters of the 1st/2nd Battalion Kenyan Rifle Brigade.
37
Little shocks a lawyer. The things men do and the reasons they do them, the lengths to which men go to conceal what they have done and to hide their deepest fears and desires and emotions – even from themselves – all these are seldom hidden from the lawyer’s forensic gaze. H. H. Singh, LLB, MA (Oxon.) nonetheless had to confess to his wife mild surprise at the telephone call he received that Saturday morning just as he was about to leave for the club. It was from Colonel Jomo Bukoto. One of his men had arrested some intruders at the barracks and one of these intruders had been asking for him. Harry Khan – did he know the man?
The Tiger made a couple of phone calls, changed his clothes and arrived at the barracks just thirty-five minutes after he had taken the call. After giving his name to the guard at the gate he was escorted to the officers’ mess where he found Colonel Bukoto, in golfing attire, about to crack a boiled egg. Beside his egg was a plate of buttered toast, already cut up into soldiers. Standing beside him was a larger soldier dressed in lieutenant’s uniform.
‘Good of you to see me, Colonel.’
Colonel Bukoto turned and looked him up and down – and now you will see what a fine lawyer Tiger Singh really is. For the Tiger was dressed in the pale slacks, short-sleeved shirt, sleeveless jumper and loafers that immediately identified him as a fellow golfer.
‘Mr Singh, I take it.’ The colonel smiled. ‘Sit down, old fellow. Tea?’
Though time was of the essence the business must not be hurried.
‘Thank you, Colonel.’ The Tiger made to sit down, hesitated, felt in his back pocket and removed a yellow plastic golf tee then settled on to the chair. ‘Tea would be lovely.’
‘So,’ said the colonel, signalling to an orderly, ‘this man Khan.’
‘Ah yes, Colonel Bukoto. Harry Khan. Perhaps you could fill me in on some of the details?’
‘Found by one of our guards late last night outside the back fence, trying to break in apparently.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With a couple of wazungu – Australian. They say they’re birdwatchers.’
Ah.’ The Tiger paused to accept the cup of tea. ‘Do you believe them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Birdwatchers, you say?’
The tone was flat, but the way the Tiger’s brow creased slightly as he spoke the words made the colonel, who had once been a fan of the works of Ian Fleming, sure he remembered something about birdwatchers in one of them. The Man with the Golden Gun?
‘You mean…?’
‘Tell me, Colonel, has either of these other chaps asked you to contact the Australian High Commission?’
‘Yes, they both have.’
‘Hmmm,’ said the Tiger.
‘Khan has been asking for you, though.’
‘It’s not Khan I’m worried about, Colonel. I know him. Playboy type. Pots of money, not a bad handicap. Matter of fact I’m supposed to be teamed up with him in the club final this afternoon – I don’t know if he mentioned it? But the other two…’ The Tiger leaned forward in his chair. ‘They’ve asked for the High Commissioner, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘And some mosquito repellant.’
‘Ah. Did you give them any?’
‘No.’
The Tiger nodded.
‘If I may say so, Colonel, you clearly know your stuff. Tell me, have they been separated yet?’
Colonel Bukoto turned to his ADC.
‘Have they been separated yet?’
‘No, sir. You didn’t…’
‘Do it. At once.’
The ADC barked out an order to another uniformed soldier who bustled away.
‘Have you talked to them yourself, Colonel?’
‘No, not yet. I thought it best to leave it
a little while.’
‘Of course.’ The Tiger picked up his cup and took a sip of the hot tea. ‘I don’t have much experience of this kind of thing but as far as the legal side of things goes I imagine you’re on pretty solid ground here.’
‘Yes – I checked, of course.’
The colonel nodded to his ADC.
‘Statutory power of arrest within two hundred metres of any military installation, sir. Power of detention and interrogation for twenty-four hours, sir.’
And that,’ said the colonel, picking up his napkin and wiping the toast crumbs from his moustache, ‘is even without the new anti-terrorism legislation.’
‘That gives you plenty of time to question them, then. Time for nine holes before you even start, I’d say.’ The Tiger smiled, then frowned. ‘Oh Colonel, if it’s all right with you I’d better see Khan, but would you mind if I just phoned the club first?’
The Tiger had tried his best to persuade the colonel.
‘No, Mr Singh, I’m afraid I must insist.’
‘But there are rules, regulations.’
‘Mr Singh, if I may say so I make the rules around here.’
‘But…’
‘No, my mind is made up. You take him. I’ll get the story out of the other two, don’t you worry about that.’
‘But Colonel, surely this is highly irregular? I mean, the chap’s under lawful detention and all that.’
‘Well, he can be lawfully undetended then, can’t he? Leave it to me.’
‘But really, it’s only the club comp. There’ll be another chance, next year or…’
The colonel held up a hand.
‘Mr Singh, consider it an order.’
And so on the last Saturday of the bird competition we find Tiger Singh, still in his golfing attire, arriving at the Asadi Club with fifteen minutes to spare and with an unusually subdued Harry Khan in tow behind him. Harry has not, of course, added a single species to his list. His plans of night spotting, followed by a few fruitful hours birdwatching in Nairobi National Park before noon have, thanks to Private William Hakara, come to nought.
But what of Mr Malik?
38
Beneath his mosquito net at Number 12 Garden Lane Mr Malik had also spent a sleepless night. Yesterday’s experience out looking for birds in Benjamin’s village seemed to have put things in new perspective. He had never been so close to death. Life seemed different. Today, he would not be looking for birds. As soon as he had drunk his morning Nescafé and eaten his two breakfast bananas he telephoned for a taxi. He directed the driver along Garden Lane to the roundabout. Taking the second exit they drove past the telephone exchange and post office, turned right at the mosque and at 8.30 a.m. precisely pulled up outside the Aga Khan Hospital. Had he not already missed one visit due to this bird thing, this Harry Khan thing? No, there were more important matters, more important even than winning a chance to take Rose Mbikwa to the Hunt Club Ball.
For the next two hours, as he had on so many Saturday mornings for the last four years, Mr Malik sat by the bedside of the sick and dying, talking with them or not talking but always listening, and always thinking. And afterwards he had gone (without his new binoculars) to the old cemetery with its broken wall and memories, to think some more. Yes, there were more important things. Do birds, he wondered as he watched the scrawny chickens pecking round the gravestones, mourn their dead? Do birds have regrets?
When Mr Malik arrived at the Asadi Club at ten minutes to twelve that morning he found it so crowded he could hardly squeeze through the doorway into the bar.
‘Malik, is that you?’ shouted Mr Gopez.
‘I think you’re a winner, old boy,’ said Patel.
Harry Khan had already revealed to the Committee that he had seen no new species since the night before, and the sorry tale behind it. He was still one ahead, but surely Malik had seen something.
‘Give the man space,’ said the Tiger. ‘Now, Malik, tell us what you’ve seen since yesterday.’
‘Oh, nothing new,’ said Mr Malik, ‘nothing at all.’
‘Yes yes yes,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘but how many birds have you seen?’
‘None.’
The bar went silent.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the Tiger, his voice raised. ‘We have already learned something of Khan’s unfortunate experience and that since last night he has seen no new birds to add to his total. Malik, are you now saying that you too have no additions to make to your list?’
Mr Malik nodded.
The bar erupted into cheers and hoots and catcalls. Harry Khan’s face changed from one of resigned despondency to the broadest of grins. It was with some difficulty that the Tiger ushered Mr Malik to the table in the corner of the room where the rest of the Committee had found seats.
‘My God, Malik,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘surely you must have seen one bally bird. Where on earth have you been all morning?’
Mr Malik, thinking of the people he had visited in the hospital, then the hour he had spent in the old cemetery, smiled.
‘I fear that the only birds I have seen today, my dear friends, are a few old hens.’
Mr Gopez dropped his face in his hands. Mr Patel gave a slow shake of his head. The Tiger said nothing, but then he spoke.
‘Then I think, gentlemen,’ he said in his softest voice, ‘that we have a draw.’
Mr Gopez raised his head.
‘Draw? What – the chickens, you mean? Yes, Tiger. Most amusing. Very bloody funny.’
‘Chickens,’ mused Mr Patel. ‘Hmm.’
‘Indeed the chickens,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘Nothing in the rules, as far as I am aware, rules out a chicken.’
‘But it’s a domestic bird,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘It’s not even native to bloody Africa.’
As I say, nothing in the rules excludes domestic species, and nothing excludes species that have been introduced.’
‘But a chicken…?’ said Mr Malik.
The clock struck twelve.
It took the Committee nearly an hour of debate and a most thorough reinspection of the rules before they made their final judgement. The chicken, though domesticated, was unconfined and unrestrained and was ruled an eligible bird. Mr Malik had informed them of seeing it before the deadline expired. It must be added to his list. The result was therefore a draw.
‘So,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘ what do we do now?’
‘I’ll tell you what you do,’ said a voice from the bar. ‘Toss for it.’
The voice (which you will not be surprised to hear belonged to Sanjay Bashu) was echoed by a score of others, several of whom were only too happy to provide a coin. Amidst the shower of shillings Harry Khan raised his voice.
‘If it’s OK with Jack, it’s OK with me.’
Mr Malik was thinking that it was probably not OK with Jack when another member spoke.
‘Hang on. I didn’t put up five lakh to be won or lost on the toss of a coin. If it’s a draw, bets are off.’
The crowd now seemed evenly divided between those calling for the toss and those who wanted the wager cancelled. It was again the Tiger’s turn to speak up.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. May I remind you of the circumstances surrounding the initiation of this wager, this competition? The true prize, you may remember, is not a monetary one. It is for the hand, be it temporary, of a lady. And I think you will all agree that such a matter is most unsuitable – monstrously unsuitable it might be said – to be settled with the toss of a coin. No, gentlemen, a draw is a draw. In this instance I think we will have to agree that all bets are cancelled.’
Which was a relief to Mr Malik, who had been thinking along much the same lines himself.
‘Thanks, Tiger,’ he said.
‘Well, all right and all very well,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘But that still doesn’t solve the problem.’
‘Problem, A.B.?’ said Mr Patel.
‘Yes, what about the invitation business? I mean what now – the bet is cancelled but they are both going to ask her, is it?
’
‘I see what you mean, A.B. Just the problem we were trying to avoid. Putting the lady in an invidious position and all that.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it too,’ said Mr Malik.
The three members of the Committee turned their faces towards him.
‘I’ve been thinking about it, and have decided that in the circumstances it is only right…’ Mr Malik saw Harry Khan appear through the crowd. He raised his voice. ‘That as a senior member of the Asadi Club, and in the present circumstances, it is right and proper for me to withdraw from the competition. I shall not ask Mrs Rose Mbikwa to the ball.’
A moment’s silence was followed by a general gasp from the room.
Are you sure about that, old chap?’ said Mr Patel.
‘Perhaps we should talk it over,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Don’t want to rush these things, not after all you’ve gone through.’
‘No, exactly,’ said the Tiger. ‘It would be fairer if neither of you ask her.’
‘My mind,’ said Mr Malik, ‘is made up.’
Yes, he thought, there were more important things.
Harry Khan smiled. The Tiger stood up and turned towards him.
‘In that case, Mr Khan, it looks as though you have won. There seems to be no reason against, nor impediment to, your asking Mrs Mbikwa to the Nairobi Hunt Club Ball.’
‘Thanks, Tiger. And thanks, guys – you too, Jack. It’s been fun, real fun.’
His white smile broadened further.
‘Now, where’s that telephone? Looks like this could be some little lady’s lucky day.’
39
‘Well,’ said Mr Patel as the three members of the now disbanded Special Committee sat down that evening around their usual table at the club, ‘who’d have thought it?’
Mr Gopez shook his head.
‘What on earth made him do it?’ he said. ‘I know he didn’t win, but he didn’t actually lose.’
‘I must admit I was myself surprised by Malik’s action – his abdication if I may so put it,’ said the Tiger. ‘As was my wife when I told her.’
A Guide to the Birds of East Africa Page 16
