shoulders, his unmarred flank fur or his smooth and flexible tail. Falana rushed as best she could with splayed hindlegs to the top of the rise, her stomach swaying rhythmically beneath her. The effort made a little of the gemsbok catch in the back of her throat. She stood and forced it back down. Then she looked to the now brilliantly lit savannah. For a moment she could see nothing but the herds her mother had passed through before their meal. Then, picked out in the distance by the early morning light, she caught a glimpse of the young lion’s back amongst a scattering group of zebra. He was heading for the waterhole.

“At least that’s the last we’ll see of him,” she remarked caustically.

“Falana, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I don’t think he’s the sort of lion to give up without a fight.”

Falana looked back to her mother, closing her eyes, sighing and shaking her head.

“Oh no… that’s all I need!”

5.The Waterhole

 

Hooves pounded and rumbled. Dust billowed and swirled. Zebra scattered in alarm as Nengwalamwe swept in among them, growling and snarling angrily. The barks of the herd drowned under the lion’s roars. He rushed a couple of the stragglers, swiping ineffectively at their hindquarters as they kicked up their hooves and accelerated away. Knowing from bitter experience that the lion was not hunting did nothing to reduce their fear or their exertion.

The lion thrashed left and right as the stragglers split away from him. In a few seconds they had escaped his rage and were running; the herd splitting to either side of the waterhole. Most dropped down the slope to the left, weaving amongst the low scrub; the rest pounded over the summit of the rise. The waterhole cut into the side of the rise, it was bordered by a shallow cliff on one side and flowed into the plain on the other. During the rains it extended to a paw-shallow marsh, now, with the rains overdue, there was precious little muddy water left.

 Already the head of the surging herd was beginning to coalesce from the slopes onto the open plain beyond. Nengwalamwe slowed and stopped, his chest heaving, his mouth wide open. He stared at the zebra as they thundered away across the bare banks of the waterhole. The dust hung thick.

“You’re nothing but a load of dung beetles! Come back and be eaten!” he roared. “What is it with this place? Don’t none of you know how to behave to a lion: Falasha, Shana, the whole lot of you!” He sat back, exhaling heavily. Then, to one side, he saw a olive baboon sitting alone no more than ten lengths away, “What do you think you’re looking at bald-arse?” The baboon stared hard at him for a moment then grunted haughtily and scuttled off chattering. His arms and legs, so out of proportion to his body, reminded Nengwalamwe of his younger brother Talashi. He almost managed a smile; then it melted and he dropped down onto the earth, filling himself with memories.

The morning grew stifling, the rains were late this year and the earth was cracked and dusty. Soon the winds would come, the rains would fall in their wake. When they did, the earth would rise up into great dust storms that scoured the savannah, until the sun returned to beat down and starve the ground of water. The waterhole had dried to a shallow muddy pool. Nengwalamwe’s outburst had left him thirsty. He had lain alone for over an hour, baked by the sun as he wallowed in his memories.

He looked up, then all around. He was alone. He rose, forequarters first, placing his paws and stretching his forelegs out straight ahead. His hind rose up forming a wedge sloping down to his forepaws. He yawned and then brought his forelegs back under his body, placing his paws fore and aft almost in a line directly under his shoulders. He looked around again. As he was still alone, he opened his mouth and licked his dry lips. He blinked, dampening his eyes a little, before trotting off towards longer grass that lay between him and the waterhole.

He had gone some twenty paces when he suddenly noticed something grey sitting on the ground directly ahead. He stopped instantly and slipped down, belly to the ground, folding his legs tightly into his sides.

‘Aaaah! It’s another bald-arse,’ he thought, his mood lifting, ‘I could get a taste for baboons. They aren’t so bad, if they’re fresh.’

The baboon held a short broken stick awkwardly in his hand, his crinkled fingers gripping the thin wood stiffly. He poked at something on the ground. He blinked and recoiled, then watched as it moved forwards. He poked the ground again. Nengwalamwe silently eased half a length forward. The baboon looked up, his close-set eyes scanning from left to right over the long ridge of his nose. He turned his head round in Nengwalamwe’s direction and stared for several seconds then inexplicably turned back and poked at the ground again.

‘Not a stupid one! Why me? Why? Come on bald-arse, you must have seen me.’ He slipped forwards again. He was now within striking distance. It would be a quick kill: the baboon had nowhere to run. The bank of the waterhole lay no more than four lengths beyond the monkey. On the closest bank the ground rose and the sandy gravel formed a sheer cliff a couple of metres high. To either side the ground sloped down gently but offered little cover.

Baboons are exceptionally agile and, for prey, remarkably intelligent… well perhaps not. They are not fast and lack endurance. A lone baboon, split from the protection of the numbers of its troupe, stands little chance in a straight chase against a lion on the flat. Nengwalamwe could taste him already.

Nengwalamwe’s patience ran out and he sprang. The ground flashed beneath him as his spine bent and flexed, springing strength down his legs as he burst from cover. He covered the first lengths without a touch of pad on the ground.

The baboon dropped the stick and flashed his head round to the blur of fur and eyes - and smiled. In an instant he swung away from the lion towards the bank of the waterhole.

‘What?’ thought Nengwalamwe as he covered the fifth and sixth lengths. ‘Where’s he going?’ He expected the monkey to scramble to a halt at the edge and dart away, probably to the left, down the slope. Instead, without any hesitation, the baboon leapt off the bank and dropped from sight. Nengwalamwe tried to slow down; pulling his head back in panic, but the bank came under him terrifyingly quickly. He could do nothing but launch himself over the edge.

The lone tree that sheltered hidden below the gravel bank at the edge of the waterhole had never grown tall. It was still young but bushy, fed by the near continuous supply of water seeping through the thick mud bottom of the waterhole. It had suffered much over its few years. It was used to abuse. The drinking herbivores nibbled and pulled at it, playing, even jumping and leaping from its branches. Nothing could have prepared it for being landed on by a fully-grown lion.

Nengwalamwe crashed belly first, his eyes tightly shut. His legs slipped and scraped neatly around the tree’s bushy branches. Its hard twigs dug painfully into his belly and loins. His tail thrashed desperately, he was as helpless as the day he was born. The tree, while just strong enough to hold his weight was pliable enough to offer no pawhold; he was ungracefully, painfully stuck.

He lay in the breezeless still of the morning sun. For a while he could not work out what had happened. The ground had simply disappeared and been replaced by a thousand hard points that inexplicably held him from the mud below. He didn’t understand how he could be so far from the ground and yet no fall any farther. Before he could fathom what force could do this a movement caught his eye. He looked to the bank where the ground fell, meeting the water gently. A baboon stood at the water’s edge - that same stinking bald-arsed baboon.

The baboon stooped down, scooped up a handful of brown-clouded water and lifted it to his mouth and slurped it noisily. As he drank he looked warily back at Nengwalamwe. He reached for another gulp of water. He dropped his head down a little on hunched shoulders, but never taken his eyes off the beached lion.

“YOU!” Nengwalamwe called furiously. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinkin’. What’s it look like?”

“You got me up here, you can get me down!” roared Nengwalamwe, his eyes aflame with rage.

“How? Come on? What do’ya think I am huh?”

The tree shook violently as the lion roared again, “GET ME DOWN NOW!!”

“Kay, kay, cool it big boy, the whole darn world don’t need know you’re stuck up there.” The baboon flicked his wet fingers at Nengwalamwe. A sharp bark rose up out of the distance. The baboon suddenly grew tense and looked around anxiously. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “keep it down. I’ll think of sometin’. Just hang out bro.” He turned round to face across the pond as another bark reached him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll think of sometin’ quick.”

“You had better! Well? What are you going to do bald-arse?”

“I told ya, I’m thinking, what do you think I am? An elepha… yeah, that’ what I need. Yeah....”

The baboon lurched off, Nengwalamwe called after him, “Where do you think you’re going? Come back here and get me down!” He thrashed his tail again. The baboon stopped and looked back with fear in his eyes.

“Calm down. How am I meant to save

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