later, as he climbed back inside, it was Mr
Malik’s turn to whisper something. After Mr Lakshmi had made the necessary
sartorial adjustments, Mr Malik tried again.
‘Everybody ready?’ he repeated.
‘Righty-ho. We’re on safari.’
At these magic words the coach driver pulled
the handle to close the door and released the big black brake lever. The coach crept
slowly out of the car park of the Asadi Club into the Nairobi morning traffic.
‘What about your daughter,
Malik?’ said Mr Patel fromthe second row of seats. ‘I
thought you said she was coming with that fiancé of hers?’
‘Petula – they – will be coming
tomorrow,’ said Mr Malik. ‘Salman couldn’t get the day off, but
he’ll be flying in from Dubai on the early flight. She’s fetching him from
the airport and they’ll drive straight up.’
To travel from Nairobi to Meru there is
little choice but to take the Thika road, known to generations of Kenyan drivers as
Pothole Alley. Some potholes have now been there so long they have acquired affectionate
nicknames – the Big Splash and Lake Victoria come to mind. Very occasionally they are
filled in – if, for example, the President leaves Nairobi on one of his five-yearly
‘meet-the-people’ tours – but their location can still be identified,
sometimes years later, by the way the traffic parts round an apparently smooth piece of
road as the drivers automatically swerve aside to avoid the phantom pothole.
The going was good until just past Ruiru,
where the coach had to squeeze past a broken-down truck right in the middle of the road.
A few miles further on they came across an accident between two matatus. It seemed that
at least a hundred people were sitting and standing beside the road – thank goodness,
thought Mr Malik, that none of them seemed hurt. So it wasn’t until eleven
o’clock that the bus finally passed through the small town of Thika and crossed
the Chania Falls.
Mr Patel leaned over A. B. Gopez to point at
the still-swollen waters of the Thika River surging over the rocks below the bridge.
‘It’s still there, you
know.’
‘It? There? What?’
‘The gun, the one that Broughton
used.’
Mr Gopez turned to Mr Malik in the seat in
front.
‘Malik, old chap, remind me – what was
that score last night?’
‘Patel forty-one, Gopez forty-two. I
say, look. Isn’t that a hippo?’
‘So it is,’ said Mr Patel,
gazing down at the water below. ‘One down, four to go.’
‘Now what are you talking
about?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘The big five, of course, A.B.
Elephant, rhino, hippo, lion and leopard.’
‘Hippo? I’ve told you before,
hippos are not one of the big five. Buffalo.’
‘So you did, so you did. But still,
hippos kill more people.’
‘What do you mean, kill more
people?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘That’s what they do. In
boats.’
‘How, may I ask, do you get a
hippopotamus into a boat?’
It was Mr Patel’s turn to roll his
eyes.
‘Hippos in water, A.B.
People
in boats. The things swim underneath and tip them over. Then – chomp. Happens all the
time, apparently. I read something about it in the
Evening News
just the other
day.’
‘Malik, would you mind telling Patel
here that he’s spouting balderdash? He seems deaf to my voice.’
Mr Malik, it has to be said, had not been
following his friends’ conversation with all due diligence, his thoughts not being
on murders or hippos but on the surprise he had planned for the safari. If everything
had gone accordingto plan, Benjamin should have it up and ready at the
campsite by now.
‘Hmm? What did you say,
A.B.?’
‘What would you say was the most
dangerous animal in Africa?’
‘Er … lions?’
‘No, no, Malik. Your lion, it is
generally accepted, is at heart a cowardly beast. Think harder.’
‘Zebra!’
This ejaculation was uttered by neither Mr
Patel nor Mr Malik but by young
Malik’s turn to whisper something. After Mr Lakshmi had made the necessary
sartorial adjustments, Mr Malik tried again.
‘Everybody ready?’ he repeated.
‘Righty-ho. We’re on safari.’
At these magic words the coach driver pulled
the handle to close the door and released the big black brake lever. The coach crept
slowly out of the car park of the Asadi Club into the Nairobi morning traffic.
‘What about your daughter,
Malik?’ said Mr Patel fromthe second row of seats. ‘I
thought you said she was coming with that fiancé of hers?’
‘Petula – they – will be coming
tomorrow,’ said Mr Malik. ‘Salman couldn’t get the day off, but
he’ll be flying in from Dubai on the early flight. She’s fetching him from
the airport and they’ll drive straight up.’
To travel from Nairobi to Meru there is
little choice but to take the Thika road, known to generations of Kenyan drivers as
Pothole Alley. Some potholes have now been there so long they have acquired affectionate
nicknames – the Big Splash and Lake Victoria come to mind. Very occasionally they are
filled in – if, for example, the President leaves Nairobi on one of his five-yearly
‘meet-the-people’ tours – but their location can still be identified,
sometimes years later, by the way the traffic parts round an apparently smooth piece of
road as the drivers automatically swerve aside to avoid the phantom pothole.
The going was good until just past Ruiru,
where the coach had to squeeze past a broken-down truck right in the middle of the road.
A few miles further on they came across an accident between two matatus. It seemed that
at least a hundred people were sitting and standing beside the road – thank goodness,
thought Mr Malik, that none of them seemed hurt. So it wasn’t until eleven
o’clock that the bus finally passed through the small town of Thika and crossed
the Chania Falls.
Mr Patel leaned over A. B. Gopez to point at
the still-swollen waters of the Thika River surging over the rocks below the bridge.
‘It’s still there, you
know.’
‘It? There? What?’
‘The gun, the one that Broughton
used.’
Mr Gopez turned to Mr Malik in the seat in
front.
‘Malik, old chap, remind me – what was
that score last night?’
‘Patel forty-one, Gopez forty-two. I
say, look. Isn’t that a hippo?’
‘So it is,’ said Mr Patel,
gazing down at the water below. ‘One down, four to go.’
‘Now what are you talking
about?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘The big five, of course, A.B.
Elephant, rhino, hippo, lion and leopard.’
‘Hippo? I’ve told you before,
hippos are not one of the big five. Buffalo.’
‘So you did, so you did. But still,
hippos kill more people.’
‘What do you mean, kill more
people?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘That’s what they do. In
boats.’
‘How, may I ask, do you get a
hippopotamus into a boat?’
It was Mr Patel’s turn to roll his
eyes.
‘Hippos in water, A.B.
People
in boats. The things swim underneath and tip them over. Then – chomp. Happens all the
time, apparently. I read something about it in the
Evening News
just the other
day.’
‘Malik, would you mind telling Patel
here that he’s spouting balderdash? He seems deaf to my voice.’
Mr Malik, it has to be said, had not been
following his friends’ conversation with all due diligence, his thoughts not being
on murders or hippos but on the surprise he had planned for the safari. If everything
had gone accordingto plan, Benjamin should have it up and ready at the
campsite by now.
‘Hmm? What did you say,
A.B.?’
‘What would you say was the most
dangerous animal in Africa?’
‘Er … lions?’
‘No, no, Malik. Your lion, it is
generally accepted, is at heart a cowardly beast. Think harder.’
‘Zebra!’
This ejaculation was uttered by neither Mr
Patel nor Mr Malik but by young
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