For the hard men of Matabeleland who were trying to make a living out of cattle, the lion that came out of Wankie National Park and across from the Botswana border were the cause of much anxiety. Unchecked, they could wreak havoc with the herds, and when profit margins were small a ravenous pride could spell financial disaster.
In that very predicament were two brothers who were running cattle near the frontier post of Pandamatenga on the border of Botswana and Zimbabwe. They were Afrikaners and fine examples of that particular breed of man: well over six feet tall and immensely strong. Afrikaans was their first language. They loved to fight and drink beer, and the game of rugby was the stuff of passion. But their sporting prowess was constrained by their being so far from civilization. Like most of their sort, they took pride in being unafraid, no matter what the danger, and were inclined to be a little contemptuous of the blacks who served them. They were not mean or cruel, to be sure, but rather convinced of their own superiority. The black man was there to serve in a menial way, while the important or dangerous tasks were for their account. On a social level there was little or no interaction.
Their personal manservant-cum-gofer-cum-tracker was a long-suffering, middle-age part-Bushman by the name of Kephas. Little over five feet tall and slightly built, he was dwarfed by his masters. With a face like a dry prune, small slits for eyes, nose impossibly flat against his face, and the yellow skin of the San people of the Kalahari, he was an unlovely looking fellow. But he was loyal to his masters and of an uncomplaining, even reverential, disposition. That suited Jan and Willem, who both expected and received unquestioning obedience. Kephas simply went with the flow, did what he was told, and stayed out of the way of the big Afrikaners when he was not wanted. His abiding weakness was the brandy that he craved and that was his nemesis.
Kephas was living proof that old Paramount Chief Khama’s initial fears were well founded. When the first white adventurers came trekking into his territory, Khama was happy to grant them passage, but he implored them not to ply his people with the “spirits of the white man.” His pleas went largely ignored, and the impact of alcohol on the Tswana people was significant.
Unlike his masters, who were blessed with awesome constitutions that enabled them to imbibe vast amounts of alcohol, Kephas seemed to become intoxicated on mere sight of the stuff. A small dollop sent him sprawling. Under the influence of drink, he was the subject of much mirth amongst the brothers and their companions, for whom he would never fail to produce a show. The brothers would let him go until he fell down and then put him to bed close to where he had fallen, often tossing him into the back of the truck for the night.
Upon a time a lone lion made an ostentatious appearance on the ranch. Attacking under cover of the night, it sought more than a full belly. Cunning and voracious, this lion found the defenseless domestic bovines a fine form of entertainment after a lifetime of facing up to the challenges presented by buffalo, eland, and other wild game. The big cat slaughtered them in large numbers, cutting a swath through both beasts and profits that had the brothers reeling in anger. And as fast as it appeared, the lion was gone again, leaving a trail of rotting beef for the vultures and hyenas. Sometimes it was absent for a week, sometimes for a month; there was no pattern. But it was a smart, solitary operator that never overstayed its welcome. Over a period of more than a year it took a devastating toll, and the brothers were desperate to be rid of it.
They offered rewards to the local tribes for information on the lion’s whereabouts. Night after cold night baits were made up of various offerings, from impala to cattle, and the brothers sat nearby in ready ambush. They tried high-tech methods, including setting up speakers to belt out roars indicating an intrusive male competitor. Nothing worked. Eventually extra men were deployed to patrol the ranch’s boundaries each day looking for fresh spoor. In that way the brothers hoped to spot the cat the moment it crossed onto their land, but somehow the wily old male continued to elude them. The frustration mounted, as did the expense.
Jan and Willem were men of the veld, unmarried, and not much at home in urban surroundings. Neither had ever been on an aircraft, the cinema was a rare event, and the theatre unheard of. The ranch was their life and soul, and they rarely left it. But the upcoming wedding of a close family friend in the Dutch Reformed Church Hall in Bulawayo was an occasion not to be missed. Furthermore, both were well aware that the beautiful Marie Steyn would be there. Tall and tanned, with large, soft lips, blue eyes, and long dark hair, she was the stuff of dreams. She was the young, unmarried daughter of a wealthy Bulawayo businessman, and the mere thought of her made the two nervous with excitement.
There was little discussion between the two about her, however. It was an issue over which competition loomed, and neither was happy discussing the subject. Each held his cards close to his chest, but there was no doubt that they would both be going all out to make an impression. On the Friday evening before the journey, they took their smart shoes out to be shined, and trousers and jackets were removed from closets to be cleaned and carefully pressed by Kephas. Before bed, all the necessary apparel was laid out beautifully for morning. Departure would be before dawn.
The fact that the phantom cattle killer had just paid them another costly visit and had once again disappeared back into the vastness would not be allowed to spoil their fun. There was no point in crying over spilt milk: He had come, had his way, and had gone, and one could only hope he would not be back for a while. It was time to dispense with their distress, enjoy their trip to town, and who knows, maybe one of them would be lucky enough to dance with the beautiful Marie Steyn.
Five A.M. saw them up and in the shower. Sunday-best suits got a final brush and finest neckties were carefully knotted. Only when absolutely certain that all dress details had been attended to did they approach the vehicle. Jan was particularly fastidious. He combed his hair several times until he thought it looked right and then drenched himself with his best aftershave. Glancing quickly at Willem, he assured himself he was doubtless the better looking of the two and surely a favorite in the race for the hand of Marie Steyn. On the sly he had been practicing his dancing steps and felt his rhythm was well honed. Aware that his bulk rendered him less than nimble, he would make up for that with sheer panache. He could scarcely wait to kick his heels in the air and strut his stuff. When satisfied that all was in order, he walked jauntily to the car. Brother Willem was waiting somewhat impatiently.
“Good grief, Jan. Did you shower in that aftershave?”
Jan smiled confidently. “Smells beautiful, doesn’t it?”
Jan was quietly pleased that his brother had noticed the powerful aroma. He lowered himself gently into the passenger seat and stole a quick glance in the mirror to see that all was still in good order, then sat back well pleased. He looked at Willem and satisfied himself again that he was almost certainly the better catch. Willem took his place behind the wheel after placing a rifle in its gun bag behind the seat.
It was freezing outside, but Kephas, as usual, took his place in the open in the back of the truck. They fired up the diesel engine on the Toyota and let it run awhile. Jan listened to the smooth, reassuring growl of the motor and felt real excitement at the thought of what pleasures lay ahead. Marie apart, it would be good to see old friends and catch up on events. He switched the heater on and enjoyed the warmth that blew into the cab; some Elvis Presley music provided soothing sound. They set off in the dark, but the frost on the grass made it clear to the brothers that the cold was such that it was asking too much to leave the long-suffering Kephas in the back.
“Hey, Willem, the poor muntu is going to freeze out there.”
The two thought awhile.
“Ja, man, put the poor guy inside the car till it warms up,” said Willem.
This was unusual, but the brothers were in a frivolous mood; it was time to be kind. The vehicle came to a halt, and the scrawny little man was summoned into the front of the truck where, like a rag doll, he was roughly positioned between the two big ranchers.
“Ja, Kephas, just sit here and shut up till it gets warmer. Then you can go back to your place.”
“OK, Baas,” he replied meekly. He sat there silent and stone faced, his features compressed into a wrinkled frown. A few gray whiskers hung untidily from his jutted jaw. Jan wedged himself hard against the door, not wanting Kephas to sully his suit or pollute his aroma.
The truck droned on through the sandveld, the music played, and Kephas stared ahead contentedly, not saying a word. The first light of dawn sent streaks of golden light slicing through the trees, and the occasional impala sprang into view, breaking the monotony. Taking in the view, Kephas let his mind wander. He was thinking how he would use all the money in his pocket to buy brandy as soon as his masters left him in town. Then he would get really drunk, find a whore, have some fun, and fall down and be very happy. It had been a long time.
A faint smile had settled across his face when he saw in the distance what looked like a pale log to the side of the road. Squinting in the breaking light, he looked harder. Then his eyes and mouth widened as he saw that it was a large male lion. The surprise took his breath away, and he inhaled sharply. Jan on his left was dozing, dreaming of the delights ahead, and Willem had not noticed what Kephas was seeing.
“Baas, Baas daar’s ‘n leeu daar!” (Boss, Boss, there’s a lion there!) he shouted. Such was his excitement that he stuck a sharp, bony elbow into Jan’s ribs, triggering an outraged howl from the dozing Dutchman.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The large Afrikaner, snatched from his slumber, looked to punch the little yellow man who had so rudely awakened him, but he faltered when the lion filled his eyes.
“Jeezus, Willem, it’s the lion!” he roared, fists beating excitedly on the dashboard.
Willem hit the breaks, the truck skidded to a halt, and there was pandemonium as the two brothers tried to extricate themselves from the vehicle, recover the rifle from behind the seat, and get into position to fire. Ahead of them was almost certainly the beast that had been causing them so much hardship. What luck, they thought. They would arrive in town complete with lion—a sure way to get the attention of Marie Steyn.
The big men exploded out the doors, leaving the little man hunched forward and silent in the middle of the cab. The seat behind him was wrenched forward with such force that he was flung unceremoniously against the windshield as the two brothers went simultaneously for the rifle. Then an energetic tug of war ensued as the two fought over custody of the weapon.
“Give it here, Jan!”
“Bugger off—give it here. I’ll shoot.”
“No, it’s my rifle, give it here,” Willem shouted.
Eventually Jan tugged the rifle with superior force and it released, cracking the unfortunate Kephas on the head and sending the man in possession reeling backward. Jan went to work removing the weapon from the gun bag. Frantically he pulled it out, chambered a round, and turned to face the quarry. The struggle over the weapon combined with the excitement of the discovery had left him breathless, and he was shaking as he brought the rifle to bear.
His heart leaped with the sight of the crouching lion coming into view over the barrel. Almost as if driven by a force all its own, the trained and tested eye saw the familiar tip come up and rest in the crutch of the foresight. With that, a sausagelike finger tightened around the trigger and a bullet left the chamber, headed toward the lion’s chest. The shooter felt the familiar, therapeutic feel of the .375 jumping back into his shoulder. There was a thud, the lion spun, roared angrily through bared teeth, and sped off the road into the trees as the rifleman went to work the bolt and fire again. But he could not extract the spent cartridge. Panic set in, and he tugged at it.
“Bliksem this thing, Willem. It’s jammed. I can’t get the case out!” he shouted.
“Quick, Jan, shoot,” his brother yelled.
Willem stood dumbfounded and powerless at the other side of the vehicle, watching his brother wrestle with the action. There was another roar, and to his great dismay he saw an angry lion charging at speed out of the trees directly toward them. Kephas, with uncharacteristic determination and speed, slammed both cab doors shut on sight of the charging beast and locked them.
His masters were now on the outside, but he was alone within, very safe and very warm. He settled down to watch the drama unfold. He turned up Elvis a bit to drown out the shouting. In the midst of the tumult he cast his mind back to his last encounter with lions. There and then he had decided he’d had enough of those animals, and nothing would now entice him out of the vehicle to assist his masters.
Just two months before Willem had shot an elephant that was raiding crops in the Tribal Trust Land. The meat had to be recovered, so Kephas had been ordered out with tractor and trailer and a gang of boys to butcher the carcass and return with the hide and meat. Merrily he set off to the scene of the kill and directed the gang to work. As driver he was in a position of authority, and he dozed while the rest tackled the messy task. Some hours later the skin was off and huge chunks of meat were being hacked free.
Piece by piece they were heaved onto the trailer until there was a full load, whereupon the little Bushman fired up the tractor and started down the road to the farmhouse. There the meat would be cut into strips before being dried for biltong. Lurching down the track without a care in the world, and savoring the smell of fresh meat, knowing that his gut would be full of elephant for a long time to come, he felt that life was, indeed, good.
After he had driven some distance, above the noise of the engine there came an unlikely crack. His senses pricked, and his daydreams were suspended. When he felt a soft thump to the rear, he thought it must be the wheels digging into softer sand. His eyes swept the road immediately below and to the side of his tractor; then he strained to observe farther to the rear. He could see nothing amiss at the wheels, and all looked to be in good order higher up as well.
But through the corner of his eye, he fleetingly caught a flash of beige atop the load of meat. He thought about it and decided that in all likelihood a branch that had fallen onto the meat. He wanted to leave it at that, but try as he might, he was unable to dismiss the image from his mind. Something told him all was not well.
Instinct advised him to check. He twisted his head around fully to get a better view and was greeted by a sight that triggered unimaginable fright. Three lionesses had quietly boarded the meat train and were making the most of a movable feast. Two were busy gorging themselves, but the third, belly full, had moved to the front of the trailer. Her eyes met Kephas’s squarely. The look was one of outright insolence, and Kephas expected her to pounce at any moment. He wanted to scream, but there was no air in his throat. His legs started to shake, sweat burst from his pores, his stomach churned, and his heart raced.
Dull with fear, he dared not take his eyes off the terrifying beast while he instinctively, but only semi-intentionally, floored the accelerator. Panic overwhelmed him. The engine’s roar did not escape his notice, nor did the sudden acceleration, but the large, yellow, mesmerizing eyes had his full attention . . . until he hit the tree. The collision sent him flying over the engine. Without stopping he gathered his balance and leaped into the tree that had ended his journey. In moments he was at the top, settled as far from harm’s way as possible. He looked down at the spectacle he had recently fled on the ground.
The tractor had stalled against the tree. The two lionesses, oblivious to him, continued to feed, but the third, obviously incensed by his reckless driving, looked longingly upward at him. Shaking with fear and wanting to scream, he felt the tears well into his eyes at the thought of being eaten alive. Then, to his great relief, the cat seemed to lose interest. It went back to its meals on wheels.
Kephas spent the entire afternoon trapped in the tree while the lions, pausing intermittently to study the man shaking high above, gorged themselves. His prayers for help went unanswered, and when darkness came the lions were still there, too heavy with stolen flesh to move. The longest night of his life followed as he clung to the branches—and life itself. To his great relief, however, when the sun finally arrived to lighten the morning the brutes were gone. But he took no chances until salvation—in the form of Willem—arrived. Adding insult to his misery, he was berated by his employer for the botched mission. Only when he managed to prove his story by showing the tracks was he believed and excused.
Now, safely in the cab, he could think of few things on earth that could impel him to leave it. If his employers were to perish, well, that would have to be the way the dice rolled. They were big boys who could look after themselves. The doors were locked, he was secure, and as long as he was making the decisions, that was how things would remain.
Meanwhile, the lion was hurtling closer. Willem, using brute strength driven by fear, wrenched the handle right off the door in a bid to open it, leaving a gaping hole to show for his efforts. The door was now irreversibly closed to him. The little Bushman, however, would have nothing to do with either brother. He sat looking resolutely ahead, as if they did not exist.
Screaming obscenities, Willem turned and fled in his Sunday best for a tree, and with no time to be choosy he launched his large frame with astonishing athleticism into a young mopane. The tree bent like a pole-vaulter’s staff, but he clung on for dear life. The sapling recovered and ever so slowly drew him up into the air. But his perch there was a tenuous one, and extremely uncomfortable. He could find no purchase for his feet and had to wrap his legs around the trunk while clinging for dear life.
His bright red tie fluttered in his face, and as he looked down past his well-shined shoes he could see the little Bushman sitting comfortable, immobile, and oblivious. He could swear there was a smirk on the man’s face, and he resolved to kill him by slow strangulation in the event he survived.
Brother Jan, realizing he was out of time and out of firepower, needed another plan fast. Despite his screams, he was unable to elicit any response from the transfixed Kephas, who sat utterly unmoved. He vaulted into the back of the open truck but had scarcely found time to look behind him when he saw the great beast preparing to pounce. He yelled and sprang out, landing in the road, flattened his body against the dirt, and burrowed under the vehicle.
The vehicle was positioned with the wheels in the tracks of the dirt road. Between the tracks was the “middleman”—the upraised center. Despite his size and girth he wedged himself into the center between the gearbox and the ground, so as to be as far from the sides of the vehicle as possible. The heat from the engine and gearbox made him immediately uncomfortable, but that problem seemed to evaporate when the lion took up a position alongside the car and looked to follow.
His pants almost filled when the beast roared, making the car shake. Then with a thud the killer dropped to its belly and peered under the car to confront the man who had attempted to destroy them. The big yellow eyes bored into Jan’s, who was consumed by terror. Sweating and trembling, he could smell the steamy, rancid breath of the lion, so fetid that it even smothered his expensive aftershave. His heart pounded against his rib cage as he tried to control his breathing. All he could do was lie there, looking at the animal that appeared determined to kill him. He prayed, and he thought briefly of Marie Steyn.
Meanwhile Willem hung from the tree and trembled with the strain of holding on, and with the fear of the consequences of a return to earth. He cursed himself for wearing a tie. Blood was streaming into his neck and his collar was strangling him, but he had no hand with which to release it.
Kephas sat still and waited. Just what his masters expected him to do was beyond him. They were all-powerful and all-knowing. What was a stupid Bushman to do? They would have to work it out. The thought of the brandy that was out there somewhere cheered him.
Concluding that it was a standoff, the lion decided to claw Jan out. With great deliberation it squeezed as close to the chassis as possible and, with its muzzle pressed against the side, moved its right paw underneath to within striking distance. Jan looked on in horror as the giant claws inched closer and then struck out at him with speed, power, and malicious intent. Kephas, seated above, felt the whole car shudder and bounce as his terrified master jackknifed beneath it.
Not knowing how long he could last under the car, the hunted man briefly considered bolting out the side, but knew that, in all likelihood, he would be quickly run down and devoured. Then a claw ripped into his sleeve, shredding that best item of clothing.
“Kephas!” The effort and energy that went into the shout was such that he thought his lungs would burst. It was not clear what he expected the Bushman to do, but there was no one else to call for.
Kephas finally looked gingerly out the window of the car and saw directly below him the lion, swatting determinedly at his master underneath. He was never normally permitted to drive the Land Cruiser, but he thought that if this carried on he would never get to town and the brandy he craved. He moved from the center to a position behind the wheel and started the motor.
Jan screamed, but he knew that his voice was drowned by the engine. He was jammed between the car and the ground and was going to get hurt if he did not move fast. He shifted to the side away from the lion, grabbed a torsion bar above his head and placed his feet on the rear axle as the vehicle surged forward. Looking at his best shoes, he saw the leather fly off the right one as friction from the wheel burned into it. Suddenly the vehicle gathered speed and the awful realization came to him that the stupid Bushman had no idea he was hanging on underneath and would probably make his next stop in Bulawayo, some four hours away.
His frantic shouts must have been heard, however, because the vehicle came to a sudden and welcome halt, allowing him to scramble out from underneath. He tried the door but, finding it still locked, punched the window with such force that he fractured a finger. Kephas looked at the fear-crazed man and realized that the lion was no longer his biggest problem. He opened the door, and the big man dived in. Dust was everywhere, and for a moment Kephas was blinded.
“Where’s Willem?” he yelled.
“He’s back there, Baas,” he answered calmly. With that Kephas found himself ejected from the driver’s seat, and the car spun around. They raced back to the scene of the crime to see the big man still hanging, scarlet faced, from his perch in the tree. He released his failing grip, tottered momentarily, and then sped for the sanctuary of the car. As he burst inside he deliberately landed atop the little Bushman with all his considerable weight, in the sanguine hope he would quickly smother him. Kephas exited and took up his original position in the back of the truck.
The brothers sat there, staring at each other, too exhausted to talk. They looked at their clothes and were astonished at the disarray they saw. Then they remembered the cause of their anguish. They looked up and out. The disabled weapon was lying in the road ahead.
“Where’s the lion?”
Looking warily around, they saw no sign of it. They drove around the vicinity, but to no avail. Then they saw its tracks and knew that it had fled, to torment them another day.
Carefully they emerged from the car and shook themselves down. Jan looked at his toes poking out from the side of his shoe, his sleeve, now shredded. His carefully crafted hair was white with sand. Then he looked at the Bushman. His face gave nothing away, but the eyes . . . the eyes were laughing.
