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.
14
When elephants fight it is mice that suffer
As the Tiger had surmi
sed, 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?’
A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 9
