Zamba

by Ralph Helfer

  It was Trevor Howard who introduced me and Pippa to the Treetops, in the heart of Aberdare National Park. It was one of his favorite places, a great place to stay overnight and see the various exotic animals come to the waterhole to drink and lick the salt that had permeated the ground around it. There were decks, balconies, and lounges covering every angle, so you could “talk to the animals” while enjoying a rather strong drink from the bar.

  Capucine (we called her Cap) was often there as well. She was a model from France who had turned her hand to acting (you might know her from What’s New, Pussycat?), and a truly lovely lady—inside and out. Her beauty was stunning, but that wasn’t what impressed me most—in all those days of shooting, with all the setbacks we encountered, she stayed compassionate and warm, and despite the weather, she never lost her temper or succumbed to depression, like others on the set.

  Weather wasn’t the only thing holding us back. One day, I was walking Zamba on the club lawn when I heard a commotion at the main entrance. A team of Askari guards were standing in formation by the main entrance. A tall man who appeared to be their captain was talking in Swahili to Jacob.

  “What’s happening, Jacob, why all the military?”

  “It’s the Mau Mau again. They just killed a white family over on the Laikipia road. It was pretty brutal—they skinned their children and hung them on the wall.”

  “That’s horrible. Why? What had the whites done?”

  “Those particular whites, probably nothing, but this war has been going on for some time.

  “How did it start?”

  “A tribe known in this area was unhappy with some of its clansmen dealing with the British, so a fight broke out, and that turned into a bloody war. Then the British got into it. But now the British have decided to pull out of Kenya and give it back to the Kenyans, and there’s now some unrest about the transition.”

  The Mau Mau were part of a Kenyan independence movement fighting the British colonial presence in Africa.

  “Will the British pull-out stop the war?”

  “I think so. We all want it to go away.”

  The captain sent his men to different areas of the club. Jacob took me by the arm and quietly said, “Ralph, be careful with Zamba.”

  “Why?”

  “There are rumors that some of the Mau Mau might try to stop the production. They could do anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, just keep an eye on him. We’ve stationed a few Askaris down by the lion house just in case.”

  I wasn’t about to leave Zamba and the other lions’ safety up to hired guards, although I had every confidence in the club’s ability to take care of us. Kellen, our driver Masai, and I slept in the lion house that night and all of the next week. Quite suddenly, my paradise had turned into a potentially dangerous place, and a sinister quiet fell over the peaceful club.

  One night, just after dinner, I walked Cap back to her room. We were chatting when we heard a commotion, then two thuds hit the door, followed by a loud banging. I heard the voice of the Askari captain. When I opened the door, I found him and four of his Askaris swiftly pulling a couple of spears out of the door. They pushed us inside the room and shut the door behind us. Apparently a few Mau Mau had pulled a quick raid on the club, and run off.

  The spears were about six feet long, with long, nicely sharpened points. They were quite heavy. Whoever had thrown them must have been either very big or very close. The next morning we were issued .45-caliber pistols, “just in case.”

  The staff of the club and the studio heads met that night, concerned for everyone’s safety and the success of the production. They decided that it would be important to show the African people, especially the Mau Mau, that the British were indeed leaving Kenya, and that this was cause for celebration at the club. They decided to throw a grand party in honor of Kenya getting its independence, Uhuru.

  It was planned for the following Saturday. Africans from all over the surrounding Nanyuki and close-by Nyeri areas would be invited. The theme was to say good-bye to the past and welcome in the new.

  Pippa joined us as we prepared for the event.

  I was curious to know what she thought about the threat of danger. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I can only tell you that the Mau Mau are pretty treacherous. They are capable of anything.”

  “We’ll keep close watch.”

  On the afternoon of the party, the club was buffed to the hilt. The staff was spit-polished, and the chef had prepared a special menu.

  While the sun was still shining, I brought Zamba out on the lawn for a few pictures with the dignitaries: the mayor, some very wealthy conservationists and nearby landowners, the chief of police, and some military big shots. The Askaris watched the crowds very closely. Zamba was feeling good, picking and choosing the people he wanted to be near. Sometimes he’d do that. When someone he didn’t like wanted to take a picture with him, he’d turn away. So catty!

  When I returned from taking Zamba back to his house, I found that the sun had set, and about thirty or forty small fires had been lit all over the lawns. Small groups of men stood around roasting mahindi (corn) and nyama choma (meat). It smelled delicious, but the atmosphere was heavy and tense. The men around the fires were segregated; the groups were either all black or all white. Kellen, a couple of Askari, Pippa, Bill Holden, and some of the crew watched and waited with me. Everybody was jumpy.

  We noticed quite a few British solders grouping together. Most were from the army base in Nanyuki. They were easy to pick out, as they had their heads shaved and wore their khaki uniforms. “They’re not happy with this, you know,” said Bill. “They never did have a good rapport with the locals.”

  Occasionally we’d hear a whistle and the Askari would rush to different parts of the lawn, breaking up small skirmishes.

  “Let’s get a drink,” suggested Bill.

  We headed for the bar, which was packed four deep. A big, tall Brit soldier walked in with a few of his friends, and it was immediately obvious he had had a few too many. The bar was noisy, everybody talking at the same time. The Brit yelled his order to one of two bartenders, who were trying their best to serve everybody.

  The bartender acknowledged him but had many other orders ahead of the soldier’s. A minute passed. The Brit yelled again for his drink, this time using derogatory language.

  “Hey, you get your black ass over here! I’m talking to you. Where’s my drink?”

  Again the bartender, trying his best, nodded his head to acknowledge the order, and went back to mixing drinks.

  The Brit couldn’t wait. “You bastard!” he roared.

  Reaching across the bar, he grabbed the bartender by his jacket, pulled him across the bar, threw him to the floor, and punched him in the face. It took Bill, Jacob, a few of the guests, and me to pull the soldier off the poor man, and four Askaris to hold him and escort him all the way out the main gate.

  Bill was furious. He yelled for all the British army men to hear, “This is a harambee, a time of togetherness. Either live with it or get the hell out!”

  The party broke up soon after that; there was too much tension. A few of us lingered until everybody had left, and I sent Kellen down to check on the lions. Minutes later he came rushing up, out of breath and white in the face.

  “Ralph—Zamba’s gone!”

  I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

  “I looked everywhere! The door to the compound was open, and he’s gone!” Kellen was swaying back and forth in shock.

  We rushed to the lion house, and sure enough, the main door was open. The door to Zamba’s room was also ajar. There were no Askaris around. Both Zamba Jr. and Tammy were pacing their rooms, nervous and upset.

  I was frantic, and began the search even before the Askari captain had been called. He alerted his men, who searched the grounds. There was no moon, and with only flashlights to light our way, it was difficult to see anything. Many of the Askaris were
visibly shaken, afraid to go walking out in the dark looking for a lion. I understood their fear, but it needed to be done. Even if there had been no foul play, and Zamba had simply gotten out, he was still in very serious danger if he got into the bush. There were elephants, buffaloes, and other lions in close proximity to the club, and any of these were capable of killing Zamba on sight.

  The producers were frantic. If we didn’t find him we would have to close down the production. He was the star: no lion, no film.

  Morning broke. We hadn’t slept all night. Kellen, Pippa, the Askaris, and many of the crew were still out looking and calling Zamba, to no avail.

  I went back to my cottage to get a cup of coffee. As I turned the doorknob, I noticed a bit of fur stuck in the doorjamb.

  “Zamba!” I yelled.

  Taking the piece from the door, I ran down to the hotel and found the Askari captain.

  “Are you sure it’s Zamba’s fur? It could be a piece of fur from a Masai spear. After a kill, they clip a piece from the lion’s mane and tie it to the tip of their spear. Isn’t it possible?”

  He was right, I thought. It could be any lion’s fur.

  “Was there a note?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  There was no sign of Zamba that day, or the next, or the next. My heart was sick, and I couldn’t sleep, imagining what he might be going through. As the days wore on, the chances that we’d find him grew more and more remote. The studio flew an insurance man in from England, to determine whether we could continue the shoot. He said that if Zamba wasn’t back in two days, and in good health, we’d have to shut down the production.

  The producers were ready to pack up and leave. They realized that there was no other lion, not even Zamba Jr., who could safely work with a child, and that’s what the whole movie was about. I’m sure Junior could have done it, but my promise to Pamela’s mother was never far from my mind, and her faith in me weighed on my mind. Nothing was worth the risk.

  I felt a grief so deep over Zamba’s disappearance that I thought I would never recover. But even in my pain, I realized that everyone was being terrific. I was receiving support from everybody. Pippa was my constant companion: warm, loving, and supportive. She never lost faith that Zamba was out there, and okay, waiting to be returned to us, and her positive attitude kept me going even when my mood got very dark.

  I felt sure that he’d been taken. If someone had just opened his door and let him wander out, Zamba would eventually have come to the people at the hotel instead of wandering into the forest. I shared my thoughts with the Askari captain. He agreed with my thinking and ordered a patrol to start a search of all the nearby villages, questioning locals to see if they knew anything. We knew chances were slim that people would volunteer information because of the possibility of retribution, but we thought it was worth a shot. The captain also offered a reward.

  More days passed. We had called the airlines to arrange transportation for Kellen and the two lions back to the States. I couldn’t eat or do anything but feel desperate and depressed about Zamba.

  Suddenly a message arrived over the shortwave radio.

  “We’ve received news of your lion. Come quickly.”

  The note, written on a badly stained and ripped piece of club stationery, was in English and Swahili. It was from an unknown source, but they’d provided directions—up the mountain to the bamboo village. The note said that Zamba could be found in the second village there. I was shaking from head to toe. Pippa and I hopped in a Land Rover packed with a whole bunch of Askari and headed to the specified place.

  “Did the message say if he was alive?” I asked.

  “No.”

  The captain cautioned me that it might be a hoax, and warned me not to get my hopes up. The directions took us up a rough black cotton road way back into the bamboo forest. We were slipping and sliding all the way, and getting stuck at every turn. Eventually a few of the men jumped out of the Rover and walked alongside, helping to keep it on the road, pushing when necessary.

  After about an hour, we arrived at a rundown village, where the local people worked, cutting bamboo. Rows of shacks lined the muddy road that ran down the center. Half-wild, half-starved dogs roamed the town, and junk—a burned-out car, rusty and broken farm equipment—was piled up everywhere. The people stood back and watched us drive through, hidden in the doorways and shadows.

  We piled out of the Rover and fanned out to search the village. Some of the Askaris tried threatening the villagers in an attempt to get some answers, but nobody would say anything. Pip and I stood in the middle of the street.

  “The captain was right,” I said sadly, my voice shaking. “It is a hoax.”

  Then I heard a familiar “AUGH!”

  “Zamba?” I said, looking frantically around.

  Again the “AUGH!”

  “Zamba—where are you?”

  Pip and I looked at the same time to a large tarp crumpled off to the side of the street, the kind that was usually used to keep maize and other supplies safe from the rain. Rushing over, we pulled and tugged until it came loose.

  “Zamba! Oh my God! Hi, baby!”

  Stuffed into a small, heavy, bamboo cage was my Zamba. He was thin, with bloody scrapes on his sides where he had been rubbing against the bars. His mouth and gums were also bloody; he had been trying to escape by chewing on the thick bamboo. The cage was so small that he couldn’t turn around, and he had been sleeping in his own feces. There was no water or food; a stinking dead rat hung from its tail inside the cage.

  We pulled apart one side of the cage until Zam could squeeze out. As soon as he was free, he fell to the ground, exhausted from malnutrition.

  My fury that anyone could be so cruel took second place to my joy that Zamba was alive. I got down and gave him a hug, as dirty and smelly as he was, and he responded, despite his weakness, rolling over with me in the mud. I began to laugh and laugh as relief from the stress of waiting hit me, and he mumbled and grunted as if telling me his story. I was just so grateful that his ordeal had ended! Tears coursed down my cheeks. Zamba was back.

  We never did find the people responsible for taking Zamba. The captain did not believe it had been the Mau Mau. He explained, “If it had been, Zamba would had been cut up and his skin sent back to you in a basket. No, this was someone else.”

  “Maybe someone has a grudge against the production company?”

  “We know the two Askaris on duty at the lions’ compound that night have disappeared.”

  “Do you think they did it?”

  “It’s more likely that they were paid to help. We’ll probably never know. But I think that once they’d done it, for whatever reason, they couldn’t handle it. Ultimately, what did they get out of it? Nothing. Something went wrong, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I hope they don’t try again.”

  “If they do, we’ll be ready for them.”

  It took a number of weeks for Zamba’s sores to heal. The makeup lady had to cover his wounds for the camera. Needless to say, Zamba had a lot of company every night after that. We all took turns sleeping with him for fear something would happen again. He received a lot of paw holding and got a little tiny bit spoiled. He was worth it.

  22

  During the next few weeks, Zamba seemed a bit uncomfortable. He was edgy and disinterested, slow to respond to my requests, and he hadn’t been sleeping or eating well. At first I thought it might be residual anxiety from his kidnapping ordeal, but when it continued for a while, I began to recognize the mood he was in, and I thought I knew what he needed.

  Although Zamba was a “people person,” he needed downtime the same as anyone else. We all have to get away once in a while. At the ranch, whenever he became restless, I would take him up to see our spectacular tree, the Old Lady. It wasn’t so much a getaway as a return, a trip back to a place that held wonderful memories. The visit offered us a little tranquillity, away from the humdrum and stressful routine of everyday life.

>   When we’d return from seeing her, I’d have my old Zamba back again. His appetite would return to normal and his mood would improve; it was miraculous what a little vacation could do. But we were in Africa now, and there was no Old Lady in sight. I had a moment of anxiety, wondering if another place could recharge Zamba’s batteries the way the Old Lady could. I didn’t know, but there was only one way to find out.

  I asked the Wildlife Authority for a special permit to take Zam into my favorite game reserve. This was obviously a very odd request: usually people went to the reserve to look at the animals that were already there, not to bring their own. I had a long conversation with Kabui, the head game warden. He was concerned about the safety issues, but he also knew Zamba, and how special he was. He and his family had their pictures taken with Zamba during production, and I could tell he wanted to help us.

  “Very well. You have become like a brother Kenyan, Bwana, and so we will allow it, but only if you take two of our Askaris with you.”

  I had wanted to be alone with Zamba. This was his time, our time. I was always happy to answer the inevitable questions—“How did you befriend him?” “How much does he weigh?”—from strangers, but the purpose of the trip was to get him away from that kind of attention, and back to something more natural.

  “Okay,” I said, “but I want to bring my own men.”

  After a small huddle we agreed I could provide my own men as long as they were comparable to their Askaris. No problem there! I choose two warriors who had been assigned to the production. One was my driver, Masai, and the other was named Kapeno. Kapeno, like Masai, was a tall, lean, full-blooded moran warrior, one of the Masai. They each carried a seven-foot spear and a rungu, a weapon made from a single piece of wood with a massive ball at the end, the bulbous root of a certain tree. In their belts they carried knives sheathed in buffalo hide. Crisscross necklaces made of three strands of red, white, and black beads lay on their chests. They spoke their native tongue, Maasai. Masai had marked the lower half of his face and neck with ocher clay from the banks of a nearby river, which was a sign of independence and elegance. We had become good friends over time. They were proud to be chosen to accompany Zamba and me.