Scarred Lions

by Fanie Viljoen

  I heard the shower being turned on. Water rushing.

  My dreams were restless, haunted with worry.

  It started to rain sometime during the night. But by the time Themba got up it had cleared again. Five o’ clock. What is he doing up that early, I wondered sleepily. I stayed in bed and listened to him moving about the house. He left without saying a word.

  I must have dozed off again.

  When I finally got up, I helped myself to an apple for breakfast. I found a hi-fi tucked away in a cabinet in a corner and put a CD on. Bloc Party. I got into the shower and jumped around under the water, dancing to one of the tracks. Where is home? always got me in a good mood.

  As I got dressed I heard the excited voice of André outside the house. I went to open up the front door.

  ‘Have you heard?’ he said as he came bustling in. ‘Simoshile’s dad was bitten by a lion last night! Lwazi, you know?’

  ‘Is Lwazi Simoshile’s dad?’ I asked, but then it struck me: that’s not what caused André’s excitement. ‘Bitten by a lion?’

  ‘Yeah, how cool is that!’ André’s bright blue eyes shone.

  ‘Not cool at all … Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s fine. They took him to the hospital last night. He’ll be back again later today. Knowing him, he’d rather have them cut off his arm than stay in hospital.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘I know Lwazi and your dad took some tourists on a night safari. And that they met with a lion. Themba went to help.’

  ‘Their Land Rover got stuck in mud. My dad was still busy trying to get it out when Lwazi spotted this lone male lion wandering around the bush. He had the searchlight pinned on him. The people took photos and that’s when it happened …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know anything further. I overheard Dad telling Mum all of this when he came back. He closed their bedroom door just as the story got exciting.’

  ‘André!’

  ‘Sorry, I also want to know what happened.’

  ‘So the blood on Themba’s clothes … it was Lwazi’s?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. I’m sure he bled a lot.’

  At least I know something now, I thought.

  ‘So, what are we doing today?’ asked André.

  ‘I’m staying right here,’ I said. ‘I’m not going out if there is a man-eating lion running about.’

  ‘Jeez, you’re weird,’ grinned Andre. ‘This game reserve is so big, what’s the chance of you meeting up with him? Anyway, lions are most dangerous at night. By day they mostly laze about in the shadows of the candle-pod acacias. That’s why they call it the House of the Lion.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re so scared.’

  Still I hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Buyi! Trust me, it’s okay!’

  ‘All right then.’

  ‘We’ll get something to eat first, in Mama’s kitchen. Then off we’ll go.’

  Stepping outside the house I got a whiff of last night’s rain. It mixed with the other spicy scents the bush conjured up. Walking back to the main building of the resort, André explained to me how the game reserve was divided up into three camps: Izolo, Namhlanje and Kusasa. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. The Big Five roamed about in two of them: Izolo and Namhlanje.

  ‘That’s the biggest African animals, right?’ I tried to sound informed.

  ‘Actually no,’ said André. ‘The Big Five is an old hunting term for the most dangerous animals to hunt: lions, leopards, elephants, buffalo and black rhinos.’

  So much for my superior knowledge!

  ‘And you have them all here?’

  ‘Yip!’

  ‘The other camp’s animals are less dangerous. But you still have to be careful. Respect them, and they will respect you, that’s what my dad always says.’ André strode on fast. ‘Oh, and you never know when you might come across an elephant in the Kusasa camp. There isn’t much that would stop an elephant once he gets it into his head to wander across to the other side of the fence …’

  My eyes must have widened, because André suddenly burst out laughing.

  I couldn’t tell if he was only teasing me, or not.

  ‘My boys!’ cried Mama Unahti, taking us in her arms in one great sweep. Hugging us.

  André seemed to enjoy this. He was probably used to this by now. I still felt a bit uneasy. He grinned, sensing my discomfort.

  ‘Have you had any breakfast yet?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on us, expectantly. She had on a large, colourful dress again, this time decorated with geometric shapes.

  ‘I had some at home,’ smiled André, ‘but I won’t say no to a plate of your maize porridge. You know I’m always hungry.’

  ‘Oh, you are growing up my boy, that’s why!’ Mama Unahti waved her hands through the air. ‘And you, Buyi? Did your dad prepare you some breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Uh … no, Mama.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He went out very early. I … I had an apple, though.’

  ‘An apple?’ she cried, slamming her hands together. ‘That is not enough! I’ll have to talk to that man. He should know that he’s got a responsibility now.’ She seemed quite annoyed. ‘Ungakhathazeki. Never mind.’ She indicated for us to follow her. ‘I’ve got some steamy porridge on the stove.’

  Kitchen workers scattered about as Mama Unahti entered the kitchen. Some of them, I think, merely tried to look busy. Were they scared of this loving woman?

  Yes!

  ‘Why is this counter top so filthy?’ she cried in a high voice. ‘Clean up! Clean up! Put away that milk. It will turn sour in minutes in this heat.’

  She moved through the kitchen, her eyes noticing every little thing. ‘There are dirty dishes in the wash basin. Where’s the dish washer? Is he having a smoke break again? I’ll break something very precious of his if I see another dirty cup in my kitchen! Hurry up! Phuthuma!’

  Mama Unahti reached for two clean plates and spoons. There was a big silver pot on the stove. She opened the lid and clouds of steam billowed to the roof. Taking a large ladle, she scooped out two heaps of white stuff.

  My eyes widened. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Ngiyabonga, Mama!’ said André as he took the plate, his eyes gleaming.

  ‘Gi-ya-bo-a’ I tried. The sound was strange on my tongue, sounding quite stupid.

  ‘Ah, the boy is starting to speak isiZulu!’ cried Mama. All the kitchen helpers looked at me and cheered. Now I felt even more stupid.

  ‘Ngi-ya-bon-ga!’ said Mama, leaning over towards me and saying the word slowly.

  ‘Ngi-ya-bon-ga!’ I repeated.

  ‘That’s better! Thokoleza ukudla! That means enjoy your meal.’

  ‘Tho-ko-leza u-kud-la …’ I practised, as I followed André to the dining room.

  I was still wondering how on earth I was going to eat this stuff Mama called porridge. André didn’t seem to have that problem. He dropped a pat of butter on top of the porridge, then some sugar. As he watched it melt down into the warm porridge, I did the same. Later we added some fresh milk and mixed it all up.

  My first bite … It was sweet and creamy. Almost sticky, but not quite. Full of flavour. Very strange, but good. I was surprised. Before I knew it my plate was empty. André had finished his too. We took the plates back to the kitchen.

  ‘Ngiyabonga, Mama!’ I said, seeing the satisfied look in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 11

  Simoshile was still with her dad at the hospital. Armed only with water bottles, André and I began strolling down the dust road. He knew the way, I just followed.

  Like a shining balloon the sun was moving higher against the crisp blue sky. I could already feel its hot rays burning down, stinging my neck.

  ‘Where do you go to school?’ I asked André.

  ‘Do we have to talk about that now?’ he groaned. ‘I’m trying hard to forget about the S word.’

  ‘Okay,’ I shrugged.
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  ‘It’s holiday, I don’t even want to think about school. Ah! There; you made me say the word!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I grinned.

  ‘Might as well tell you now. We, that’s Simoshile and I, attend school in Bela-Bela. It’s a High School. We’re in grade nine. A bus picks us up every morning and brings us back in the afternoon after sport practice.’

  ‘Sport practice?’

  ‘Rugby in winter and cricket or athletics in summer.’

  ‘You play rugby?’

  ‘Yes, I’m left wing. Fastest boy in our grade.’ His eyes glimmered with pride. ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t like sport much. I like watching boxing. And soccer.’

  ‘And what grade are you in?’

  ‘In England we don’t call it grades. I’m in year nine, which I guess is pretty much the same.’

  ‘I can’t wait to finish my Matric …’ sighed André.

  ‘Matric?’ I asked.

  ‘Last year of school.’

  ‘Oh, we call it A levels.’

  He nodded. His face suddenly lit up. ‘I want to be a game ranger just like my dad. And you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘You’ll have lots of time to think about it here, Engelsman.’

  ‘Engelsman?’ I frowned.

  ‘Englishman,’ he translated, smiling mischievously. I shook my head, smiling back.

  We reached a huge gate made of iron and spanned with lengths of wire. A sign next to it read: Kusasa.

  ‘This isn’t the one with the lion, is it?’ I asked carefully.

  ‘Of course not,’ said André, opening it. We slipped through. He closed it again behind us.

  Ahead of us a dirt road wound its way through the trees, shrubs and grass. Easy enough, I thought, until André stepped off the road, and into the bush.

  ‘Kom!’ he said. It sounded like ‘come’. I followed him. At places the ground was smooth, allowing us to march along without trouble, but at other places it was quite uneven. There were tufts of grass everywhere. Some sap-green, others dry and yellow. I kept my eyes on the ground, trying not to sprain an ankle.

  ‘At the rate you’re going I reckon a tortoise would overtake you,’ said André. He stood ahead of me, hands at his sides. Waiting.

  I quickened my pace.

  All around us, I could hear birds calling.

  ‘Look!’ said André. Ahead of us two birds were seemingly trying to chase another bird out of a tree. They called sharply: zwee-zwer!

  ‘The two birds with the blue-grey bodies and long orange-brown tail feathers are paradise-flycatchers. The other one with the long crooked beak is a redbilled hornbill.’

  After watching the battle for the tree a while longer, we decided to be on our way. A cool breeze picked up, momentarily bringing relief from the scorching sun.

  ‘What are all these brown things?’ I had barely said it when I realized it was the dumbest description I could give for the type of plant I had seen growing all around us. It had caught my attention because it was so different from all the others: a dark brown stem protruding from the earth, looking very much like a cigar, but about two or three times longer and thicker. Lengthy green leaves grew out of the top. To me it looked like a kind of miniature palm tree.

  ‘That’s a Bushman’s candle,’ said André. He broke one off, just above the ground. Then he lifted the top part of the plant away. The stem was made of circular bits of fibre, like tightly packed pencil shavings. There was a small indent in the middle. ‘The bushmen used to place a hard, glowing coal inside. Then they would put the top back on. The coal would keep on burning. They would carry it around with them until they had to make a fire again.’

  ‘Clever,’ I said.

  ‘You can use the leaves as well.’ He broke one off and handed it to me. ‘Try and break it.’

  I tried. It was incredibly strong.

  ‘You could twine a couple together and use it as a rope.’

  ‘Almost like Tarzan’s monkey ropes!’ I laughed.

  ‘Yeah, almost,’ he grinned. ‘Come along!’

  Walking further, André’s keen eyes seemed to survey our surroundings, darting from the ground to the trees, to the sky.

  We came across a tawny bird with a black and white breast, wandering around in the underbrush. The bird was about the size of a smallish chicken. ‘We call it a swempie in Afrikaans,’ said André softly. ‘I think it is a coqui francolin in English. Some of them are so tame you could almost touch them. Their call sounds as if they’re saying: be-quick, be-quick! The males also have a loud high-pitched crow: kek, KEKekekekekekek.’

  The bird turned its head and quickly scampered away. I laughed at André’s imitation of the birdcall, loud at first, then gradually becoming softer.

  We moved on, stopping regularly so that André could show me things.

  ‘This is a silver cluster-leaf tree.’ He picked one of the leaves. It had shiny silver hairs on the upper-side. ‘Zulus used the leaves to shine their pots. And if you chew it …’ He placed it in his mouth and chewed, indicating that I should do the same. I picked a leaf and stuffed it in my mouth, chewing only on the one side. It was almost tasteless. Then I felt it: my mouth went numb on the inside.

  André smiled. ‘It’s good for toothache if there’s no dentist around. And speaking of teeth, let me show you this …’ I followed him further. We stopped at a shrub. ‘This is the Kalahari star apple or blue bush.’ He cut a stem off with his pocket knife, cleaned the bark off the end and gently started chewing on the exposed yellowish wood. Very soon he was left with a frayed bristled tip. ‘This you can use as a toothbrush. You can use the roots as well. At first your mouth will burn and turn yellow, but soon you will have shiny white teeth and fresh breath!’

  It was amazing.

  André then showed me the weeping wattle, whose leaves could be used as toilet paper. ‘Don’t confuse it with the common hook-thorn acacia, or what the Zulus call umtholo. The leaves might look the same, but they have little hooked thorns that will ensure a nasty surprise!’

  The candelabra tree was a huge succulent tree without any leaves. André scratched the plastic-like green bark with a twig. Within seconds a milky latex seeped through the bark. ‘Indigenous people used this fluid to stupefy fish.’

  ‘To help catch them?’

  ‘Yes. By hand.’

  I walked around, staring up in amazement at these plants that at first were just clumps of trees to me. Now I saw them in a different light.

  André suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, stretching out his hand and touching my shoulder. His eyes were wide with excitement. ‘Do you feel it?’

  What? I thought. Then … the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end.

  Ghoo-oo-oo.

  It was like a gust of air. My eyes widened. What the hell was that?

  ‘It’s okay. Look, there!’ whispered André. He pointed ahead.

  What I saw took my breath away.

  A gigantic giraffe came strolling by, a mere fifty feet away from us. Its long neck swaying gracefully as it walked. I could hear its hoofs pounding on the ground. Doof, doof, doof!

  Its coat shone in the light of the sun. Yellow with dark, almost square marks. Eyes black, long lashes. Horns with tufts of hair on top.

  I wanted to step back, but André put me at ease. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he whispered confidently. He certainly wasn’t afraid. ‘It’s a giraffe cow. Her horns are still covered with hair, do you see?’ I nodded. ‘The bulls’ horns are smooth from fighting each other.’

  I still remembered the numerous fights I had been in. The cut lips, sore fists. So if I was a giraffe, I thought, my horns would also be smooth by now.

  A twig snapped under my feet. The giraffe turned its head, watched us for a while with its black eyes, and then started moving away with steady, graceful strides.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said André.

  I nodded, still completely speechless.

  CHA
PTER 12

  We spent the morning in the bush, and only went back when pangs of hunger overtook us. My legs were tired, feet aching and my skin warm from the sun. I drank the last drop of water from my bottle as we walked down the dust road back to the main building.

  Mama Unahti was waiting for us. ‘Eh! And what have you two boys been up to?’

  ‘Bush school,’ said André grinning.

  ‘I hope you were careful?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mama, Buyi is in good hands.’

  She shook her head and clicked her tongue. ‘If a lion catches you, don’t you come running to me.’ We only laughed. She turned, and while making her way back into the building said, ‘Come, let me get you some fruit juice. No lunch for you today, the boss is around. He doesn’t like it when I feed non-paying customers.’

  We followed her past the reception area and the dining room where we’d had breakfast that morning. The TV was playing in the lounge, the volume turned way down. Seeing the familiar flashing images was almost like getting an instant fix. But André dragged me off.

  The kitchen was spotless. Mama Unahti poured us each a tall glass from a pitcher. It was the best juice I’d ever had. Sweet and icy cold. Somehow being bone-tired made it taste like heaven.

  ‘We should go swimming now,’ said André.

  It had been a while since I’d been to a swimming pool. Or at least that’s what I hoped he meant – swimming pool, not swimming in a river with crocodiles or something. So I asked him, just to be sure.

  ‘Of course it’s in the pool. But we could go to one of the watering holes if you like. And never mind the crocs, you should see the hippos! They kill more people in Africa than any other animal …’ Again his eyes glimmered mischievously.

  It seemed like I had somehow ended up with the most free-spirited person in Africa: a whiteboy with a love for danger.

  ‘No thanks, I think we’ll stick to the pool,’ I said, hoping that I didn’t seem like a girl’s blouse.

  A Land Rover stopped in front of the building just as we were on our way to get our bathing things. It was our dads, together with a tracker.