The One Planet Literature Series: Prose

Angels of the Wild

The One Planet Literature Series

1. Flee, Mama Flee – David Mulwa

2. Seven Shades of Dusk – Kwamboka Oyaro

3. Angels of the Wild – Ng’ang’a Mbugua

4. The Daredevil Rider – Henry Munene

5. The Ridges Across River Kaiti – Wambua wa Kawive

6. From the Heart of my Mother – Ken Wasudi

7. The High Road – Jennie Marima

8. Just this Once – Jennie Marima

9. Little Heroes – Ian McKenzie-Vincent

10. A Spider’s Web – Samuel Wachira

11. The Climate of Change – Ian McKenzie-Vincent

12. Leading Light – Kithusi Mulonzya

Angels

Wild

Ng’ang’a Mbugua

OnePLANET

of the

Published by

One Planet Publishing & Media Services Limited

PO Box 5649 – 00506, Nairobi, Kenya

Email: info@oneplanetpublishing.com

Website: www.oneplanetpublishing.com

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

First published 2015

Reprinted 2022

or transmied in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any informaon

storage and retrieval system, without the prior wrien permission

of One Planet Publishing & Media Services Limited.

Enquiries concerning reproducon may be sent to the Publishing

Department, One Planet Publishing & Media Services Limited, at

the address above.

ISBN 978 9966 068 21 7

Cover illustraon by Robert Kambo

Printed by

Prinng Services Ltd

PO Box 32197 – 00600, Nairobi, Kenya

Dedication

To the memory of Karanja

the oldest black rhino in Masai Mara

who died of old age

on Christmas eve, 2014.

Although many years had come and gone, Birgen had never

forgotten the strange dream that he had had as a young boy,

barely ten years old.

In it, he was standing in the plains of Narok, looking after

his grandfather’s cattle and goats as they grazed leisurely.

The plains stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing

into the dark blue hills and forests that marked the border

between Kenya and Tanzania. The grass was a bright green

and shimmered in the afternoon sun which shone so bright it

could have blinded him had he dared to look up to the skies.

He walked to a nearby acacia tree and sat in its shade.

In the distance, he saw a giant object gliding in the clear

blue sky. At first, he thought it was an aeroplane but as it flew

nearer, he noticed that it was indeed a bird. It was the biggest

bird he had ever seen. Instead of flying on to wherever it was

going, the giant bird started flapping its wings, flying towards

him.

Birgen rose to his feet. He was not a coward. He clutched

his wand tightly in his right hand, ready to fight off the bird if

it dared attack him or his grandfather’s livestock. He had read

the story of David in school and admired the way the young

herdsman had fought off a bear that had dared to attack his

Chapter One

flock. That story always filled him with courage. It was what

flashed through his mind when he saw the bird flying towards

him, its long neck thrust forward, its spindle-thin legs flat

against its belly and its wings spread out magnificently to

capture the wind under their sails.

The bird came to a sudden stop not far from where he was

standing. Its pink plumage shone in the sun. It had long, thin

flanks for legs and Birgen worried that it would wobble like a

drunken man if it attempted to take one step towards him. It

had a long white beak that bent at an angle towards its tip, just

like the flamingoes that he had seen at Lake Nakuru where his

uncle, his father’s younger brother, was a warden. However,

the bird was too big compared to others he had seen before.

“I come as a friend,” the bird said, to Birgen’s shock.

He had never before heard an animal talk, let alone a wild

bird.

“What do you want?” he asked, raising his voice. He

wanted to appear brave even when confronted by a strange

creature that could talk and listen.

“I want to give you a ride. Your animals will be safe,” the

bird said to him as it turned its back to Birgen.

“Hop onto my back,” the bird said. The words were both

an invitation and a command. Birgen thought about it and

it occurred to him that he had nothing to lose. The animals

knew their way home even if he got lost.

“Do not be afraid,” the bird said in a raspy voice. “We will

not be long and you will not be lost.”

On a whim, Birgen hopped onto the bird’s back and it took

a few quick steps before soaring into the air. It was a windy

day. Birgen’s eyes started to water and he had to blink rapidly

to clear away the tears. He was holding tightly onto the bird’s

breast, so he could not use any of his hands to wipe his eyes

dry.

“Just take it easy,” the bird told him as it headed south

towards the Masai Mara Game Reserve.

Birgen had always seen tourist vehicles being driven

towards the park and had always wanted to board one if only

to witness what it was that the white people with cameras

and wide-brimmed hats were going to see inside the park.

However, he was always afraid of asking his grandfather for

permission.

His father, who used to buy fruits and vegetables in

Nairobi which he later sold to the tourist resorts inside the

Masai Mara, had died when his vehicle encountered flash

floods on the way to Nairobi. It had not rained for days and

he had not expected to find a huge river running across the

road. Unfortunately for him, it had rained in Ntulele and no

one had warned him because that day there were few cars on

the road. By the time he saw the brown water roaring across

the road as he sped down a valley, it was too late for him to

stop. His van plunged into the water and he and the cargo he

was carrying were washed away. His body was found three

days later, more than ten kilometres from the main road.

Birgen’s mother had trouble accepting the family tragedy

and spent many days in her house mourning. Eventually,

Birgen could no longer stand it and he went to live with his

grandfather. When he was not going to school, he would

look after his grandfather’s cattle and goats but his curiosity

about what used to happen in the game reserve never left

him. He never could, however, gather the courage to ask his

grandfather.

“I want to show you something,” the bird said to him,

jolting him from his reverie. They were now flying high in the

sky. The view below was magnificent. The roads that looked

so foreboding, with their heavy trucks and speeding buses,

now looked like black strings at the ground level. The homes

had been reduced to specks whose tin roofs shimmered like

little pieces of foil.

Soon, they were flying over the game reserve. Birgen could

see some of the wild animals grazing. There were antelopes

which huddled close together, their beige and chocolate

bodies camouflaging them in the grasslands. Then he saw

zebras and buffaloes. The latter looked like cows. They were

all dark in colour and it was difficult to tell one from the other.

The zebras looked bright and beautiful in their stripes.

Then he noticed three lionesses crouching not too far from

an uneasy zebra.

“That is the way of life in the park,” the bird said to him,

sensing his anxiety. “Of course, everyone has to work for their

lunch and as you can see they are narrowing down on the

injured zebra because it is easy prey.”

Of course, Birgen knew that lions were carnivorous and

ate other animals for their sustenance. However, he had not

seen lionesses hunting before. They looked so confident. It

was one thing to be the hunter, but it was something else to be

the prey. This made Birgen pity the wounded zebra.

“Free movie,” the bird said, gliding lower so that Birgen

could get a better view of the action below.

Like a flash of lightning, the three lionesses sped towards

the limping zebra and pounced on it. All the other animals

nearby fled in different directions, creating a cacophony of

colours and sounds. Unfortunately for the limping zebra, it

was too late to run. It tried to fight off the lionesses but to no

avail. They were too strong, too swift and too hungry to be

deterred.

One of them lunged at the zebra’s neck while another

perched on its back, digging its teeth into the flesh. The third

grabbed the zebra’s nose and, together, they took the helpless

herbivore down.

“That is what God and nature intended,” the bird said to

Birgen before soaring higher up into the sky. “If the lionesses

did not do that, they and their families would starve to death.”

The bird soared on, heading towards Kenya’s border

with Tanzania. The vegetation was growing thicker and the

animals bigger. Soon, Birgen could spot the occasional giraffe

and, once in a while, a herd of elephants feasting on the soft

branches of old trees.

Birgen’s eyes spotted some movement in the trees and he

squinted to get a better look. It was a group of men! ‘What are

they doing there?’ he wondered. They were so far and so deep

into the forest that each stood out like a sore thumb.

“This is what we do not like,” the bird said to Birgen. Its

voice had changed. There was anger, bitterness and outrage

in it.

Birgen watched the men below. There were four of them.

Three were carrying long rifles. One was carrying a power

saw.

The men inched their way towards a large elephant which

was grazing behind a herd that had marched on a little too

quickly. Then Birgen saw the men spread out in a C formation

with the elephant in the centre.

A shot rang out. From up in the sky, Birgen heard it all

too clearly. A few seconds later, the elephant trumpeted

desperately as it started going round and round as though it

had suddenly become dizzy.

Another shot rang out and the big mammal fell onto the

ground with a thud. The other elephants in the family started

running in panic, not knowing what to do. Their trumpeting

filled the air.

The large elephant struggled for dear life but the bullets

had sapped away all its strength. The men moved quickly, just

as the lionesses had done minutes before. The man with the

power saw turned it on and started cutting away the elephant’s

tusks.

“They are removing its teeth,” the bird said bitterly. “Just

imagine what it would feel like if someone were to use a power

saw to remove your teeth.”

There were tears in Birgen’s eyes. They were not tears

caused by the wind. They were tears of sorrow. It was the

saddest thing he had ever witnessed.

“Why are they doing that?” he asked.

“Money,” the bird said. “They do not care even one bit

about the life of the elephant,” the bird’s voice faltered.

Birgen could feel his whole body shaking with indignation.

“You must help us,” the bird said sorrowfully. “This must

stop before all the elephants are killed.”

With those words, the bird soared again into the sky and

started flying back northwards. There was silence. Only the

wind was howling, but it was a haunted howl. The natural

world was in mourning. The load of that sorrow weighed

heavily on Birgen’s shoulders as he and the bird glided back

towards his flock.

From a distance, he could see them transfixed, their heads

bent towards the soft green grass.

The bird hovered over them briefly before gliding towards

a lone thorn tree, where it touched down clumsily.

“I have to go now,” the bird said, suppressing a sob.

“Please tell me your name before you go,” Birgen pleaded.

Sorrow weighed heavily on his heart.

“They call me Angel of the Wild,” the bird said before

running for a few yards and then lifting off into the sky.

It was then that Birgen woke up with a start.

Lake View estate was one of the quietest and cleanest suburbs

of Nakuru town. The brick houses, painted in brilliant white,

formed neat rows every way you looked at them. The white

walls contrasted sharply with the red tile roofs. All the houses

were connected to each other and to the main highway by a

series of tarmac roads on which children of all ages could be

seen riding their bikes, on any given day, during the school

holidays and on weekends.

Birgen’s uncle, Tomson, lived in one of those houses.

Birgen knew the door number by heart; B7. It was one of his

favourite places, and not just because the house was tastefully

furnished with green couches in the sitting room, a dining

table on one end and a large television on a cabinet on the

other end.

Every time he went visiting during school holidays, his

uncle, a warden at the Lake Nakuru National Park, would

put all manner of fruits, food and drinks in the refrigerator

for Birgen to indulge in. What was more, there was a friendly

lady called Mariana who came to clean the house two or three

times a week and she did not mind taking Birgen for walks to

the nearby shopping centre. She would tell him many stories

Chapter Two

about the people they met and the jobs they did. Birgen found

her stories fascinating. At the end of their walks, she would

take him to a quiet restaurant called The Sun Downer where

she would buy him a cup of hot chocolate. It was the best hot

chocolate in the world, Birgen thought, as he sipped the drink

and listened to the soft music playing on KBC radio at dusk.

Despite these pleasures, what he liked most about his

uncle’s house was that he had a room all to himself. At night,

he would draw the curtains, close the door and switch off

the light. Before he dozed off, he would think about his life

and his family and the many things he wanted to do when he

grew up.

Although his late father had been a respected trader and his

uncle a warden, Birgen was instead fascinated by engines. He

was curious to learn how machines worked. Even the simple

act of switching off the light in his room filled him with many

questions. How were the wires connected? How come the

electricity never caused a fire? Why were there nights when

all the lights went out, only to come back as suddenly as they

had disappeared? He would have loved to understand such

intricacies.

Birgen’s room was not pitch dark like the manyatta he lived

in back in Narok. The glow from the light from the streets

outside bathed the room in a golden hue. In the dim light and

the soft silence, he could imagine himself building the biggest

machine in the world. The machine would hum as it produced

bottles of soda one night, or radios the next. He could imagine

hundreds of people working in various departments, making

sure the machine never stopped humming and the products

were churned out with clockwork precision. When such

thoughts occupied him, he would not know when he drifted

off to slumberland. For him, that land was more real than the

one he actually lived in.

Once in a while, Tomson, or Uncle Toms as Birgen liked to

call him, would drive home in a green Kenya Wildlife Service

Land Cruiser and ask Birgen to go with him for a drive. He

would take him inside the park during his inspection tours.

Birgen enjoyed those tours immensely because Uncle Toms

told him many stories about the wild animals and plants that

were found there.

Before winding up their trip, his uncle would take him to

a hill overlooking the lake that is famous for its flamingoes

and would show him the land that the park covered. Its

boundary was unmistakable because the park was ringed

by an electric fence to separate it from the nearby estates,

including Lake View.

What struck Birgen the most was that the area within the

electric fence was pristine, like a paradise. There were many

trees clustered in different areas, providing canopies that

shielded the wild animals from adverse weather elements,

including the hot January sun and the heavy rains that

pounded the region in April, August and December. The

air there was cool, the atmosphere peaceful. Everything was

orderly. The area right outside the fence had been converted

into farms. There, the hills were without vegetation. Deep

gulleys ran down the slopes, no doubt indicating that every

time it rained the rain water carried away the soil. Birgen

could see that even the crops looked unhealthy. After all, the

best soil had been washed down the slopes.

One day, he asked Uncle Toms, “Where does that soil go?”

Uncle Toms did not look too happy.

“Much of it is deposited at the bottom of the lake. This is

bad because it makes the lake shallow. If the lake is shallow,

the flamingoes have difficulty finding food and laying eggs.

Of course, everyone else is affected because even those who

till the land get poor yields.”

Birgen could not help but wonder if there was something

that could be done but he was afraid to ask the question. He

did not like bothering his uncle with too many questions, so

he kept quiet.

He looked at the small river which snaked its way past the

estate into the park. Its water was an unsightly grey and along

its riverbed, people planted a wide variety of vegetables.

“I never buy them,” Uncle Toms said as he followed

Birgen’s gaze. “The farmers use polluted water to grow them.”

Uncle Toms’s biggest responsibility was to ensure that

the wild animals in the national park were safe and that no

one from the neighbouring estates harmed them. In the same

way, he also ensured that the animals neither left the park nor

attacked people or their crops.

He had been provided with a walkie talkie and every time

he heard a report that an animal had crossed over from the

park to the residential areas, it was his duty to ensure that the

animal returned to the park unharmed. This was not always

easy because if it was a snake, for instance, people would hit it

with stones and sticks out of fear. Some of the more malicious

ones would skin it, with the hope of finding a buyer for the

hide because they had been told that there were businessmen

who used the hide to make expensive shoes.

“By the way,” Uncle Toms asked Birgen one day, “did you

know that the moccasin is a species of snake?”

Of course, Birgen had no idea. All he knew was that the

moccasin was a type of shoe that had no laces. They were

Uncle Toms’s favourite shoes.

“So you wear snakes to work?” Birgen had asked light-

heartedly.

His uncle laughed.

That day, he took him to a part of the park that they had

never visited before. Birgen was surprised to see an ugly

animal grazing peacefully near a trough full of water.

“It is a white rhino,” his uncle said. “Poachers kill it for its

horn, which is used to make medicine.”

The animal was not particularly attractive but Birgen was

saddened that such a peaceful-looking animal could be killed

for its horn.

“What kind of medicine?” he asked.

His uncle chuckled.

“You will understand one day,” he said. “It is a very long

story.”

Birgen was more worried by the fact that there were very

few such rhinos left in the world.

“A time will come when people will no longer see them.

They will become extinct if we don’t do something to end the

killing,” Uncle Toms said.

Birgen was surprised. How was that possible? He could

not imagine a world in which animals that had existed since

creation ceased to exist because they had all been killed.

“Where will people who need the horns for their medicine

get them if all rhinos are killed?” he asked his uncle.

“That is the big question. It is as if poachers do not care

about the future,” his uncle replied.

Birgen looked at the rhino. It had no worries at all about

what was happening around it. All it cared about was that

there was enough grass to eat and sufficient water to drink.

Looking at the horn jutting out from its face, Birgen could

not help but wonder if rhinos could be saved by dehorning

them while they were still young. He had seen his grandfather

dehorn his young bulls by tying the horns with rubber bands.

The animals did not experience any pain when the horns

eventually fell off.

“Those people who do such evil things must find another

way of making their medicine,” Birgen declared.

His uncle laughed and gently patted him on the back.

“I like the way you think,” he said. “I wish more people

would think like that. My job would become much easier.”

Birgen did not tell his uncle just then, but that day he made

up his mind that he would become a game warden so that

he could help him protect the endangered species from being

killed by poachers.

He looked at his uncle. He was a tall and well-built man. He

looked resplendent in his jungle green uniform with brown

and fawn patches and shiny black boots. The bottle green

beret was sitting at an angle, partially covering his forehead.

He almost looked stern but for the smile playing on his lips as

he stared at the rhino. Birgen could see that he was passionate

about his responsibility and he admired him for that.

As they stood there, each lost in his own thoughts, the

walkie talkie that Uncle Toms had left in the Land Cruiser

crackled. Uncle Toms would occasionally leave the radio on

his car seat but he never left his powerful G3 rifle behind, no

matter what. Even when he was feeding the calf of a zebra or

just talking to a colleague, the gun always remained firmly at

hand. That ensured that if poachers emerged from the bushes,

he would be ready to confront them.

The only time he would be without it was when he was

off-duty. At such times, he would remove the bullets from the

rifle and hand all of them over to the sergeant in charge of the

armoury, where all the weapons were kept in safe custody.

“Watchtower to Captain Tomson. Do you read me, over!”

Uncle Toms jumped and ran towards the vehicle.

“Do you read me, Captain Tomson?” the voice on the

radio repeated.

“I read you loud and clear, over!” Uncle Toms replied.

“There is a hippo that has strayed into a farm on the south

side, over.”

“I am heading in that direction right away, over.”

“Please hurry. The farmers are chasing it with pangas.

They will try to kill it and we fear it might attack someone,

over.”

“I am on my way, over and out!”

By the time he had finished speaking, he had already

started the car.

“We have to go, Birgen. Duty calls,” he shouted over the

roar of the engine.

Birgen ran to the car, opened the passenger door and

jumped in. Soon, they were driving at breakneck speed

towards the south side of the park. There had been a power

failure that day and electricity to the park had been switched

off. Therefore, it was possible for the hippo to push over the

fence and head into the farm across the park.

“Those farmers had better be careful,” Uncle Toms said,

stepping hard on the fuel pedal. “A hippo can kill a man with

just one bite.”

“But it eats grass!” Birgen said in surprise. “Why would it

kill people?”

“If you cross its path or threaten it, a hippo can be very

dangerous, but it stands no chance if it is attacked by a large

mob, especially if they are armed. Sometimes, the farmers

deliberately entice a hippo to stray into their farms because

they want to kill it and eat its meat.”

“Is that allowed?” Birgen asked.

“No,” his uncle replied. “However, they will say that it was

threatening them, so they killed it in self-defence. Nothing

can be done to them under such circumstances.”

Birgen did not say anything. He was lost in deep thought.

His uncle’s job, he realized, was much more difficult than he

had imagined.

“What if the hippo kills a person?”

“In that case, if the person dies, we have to compensate the

family. Sometimes, it takes several months. That is the law.”

From a distance, they heard gunshots.

“Those must be my colleagues,” Uncle Toms said. “They

are shooting in the air to disperse the crowds and stop them

from killing the hippo. We must hurry.”

He stepped harder on the fuel pedal.

One day, when Birgen was in Form One at Shompole High

School, his Physics teacher, Ms Valerie Lavini, told the class

that she would be taking them for that year’s Science Congress

which was to be held in Nairobi.

Birgen had no idea what a Science Congress was. He raised

his hand.

“Yes, Birgen,” Ms Lavini said, pointing at him.

“What is a Science Congress?” he asked.

Ms Lavini smiled.

“I am glad that you have asked that question. It means you

are interested.” She started explaining what it was and the

more she spoke, the more Birgen liked the idea.

“Are there students who make machines?” he asked.

“Sometimes there are,” Ms Lavini said. “It is an opportunity

to showcase your talent and your innovations.”

The idea interested Birgen. It rekindled his interest

in machines. He felt encouraged to learn that there were

students who were already experimenting on such machines

even before leaving school. He could not wait for that day.

Besides the excitement of seeing students working on

scientific experiments, Birgen was very eager to travel to

Chapter Three

Nairobi. He had never been to the capital city although he

had heard many stories about it. The most frequently told was

the one about how there were so many cars that people spent

many hours just waiting for their turn on the road. He had

also heard people say that there were many criminals there

who stole from unsuspecting visitors. However, he had not

met anyone who had personally been a victim.

“People there are rich,” his desk mate, Emmanuel Lopiding,

whispered to him when Ms Lavini turned her back to write

something on the blackboard. “They work in very nice offices

and live in very big houses with many servants.”

“Are there no poor people?” Birgen whispered back.

“Oh, there are, very many. They are more than the rich

people. They live in slums, some of which do not even have

toilets or clean water.”

“How can people live in a place without toilets?” he

whispered back. “Why don’t they go back to their villages and

become farmers?”

Birgen was not aware that he had raised his voice. He was

no longer whispering.

“What are you two boys making noise about?” Ms Lavini

asked, annoyed by the exchange between the two boys.

“I am sorry, Teacher,” Birgen said apologetically. “We

were not making noise. Lopiding is telling me that in Nairobi

there are people who live in places without toilets and without

clean water to drink.”

Ms Lavini, who had been a student at the University of

Nairobi, pondered before speaking.

“It is true,” she said. “Maybe we can have a discussion

about it. What is the best way to purify water?” she asked the

class.

All of a sudden, all the students were talking to one another

about what they did to purify water in their homes.

“Order, class, order!” Ms Lavini shouted above the din. She

had an idea. She would ask her students to work on a project

about the best way to purify water. If they came up with a

good idea, why not? She could ask the head teacher to pay for

the students to showcase their idea at the Science Congress.

She asked her students to share their experiences on how

they purified water in their homes. Birgen listened carefully

as his classmates made their contributions. Although the

ideas, which ranged from boiling water to decantation, were

suitable for small families, it occurred to Birgen that they were

not suitable for poor people living in the capital. It would be

tedious and wasteful for every family in the slums to decant

water. At any rate, he thought, if the water was polluted

by factory chemicals, some of the processes would not be

effective in purifying it.

He raised his hand again.

“You have already spoken,” Ms Lavini said, dismissing

him. “I want someone who has not spoken.” She asked

Jemima, who was the only girl sitting at the back of the class,

to contribute.

“We do not purify water at home,” Jemima said. “We get

pure water by collecting rain water.”

“My point exactly!” Birgen interjected. “Instead of all those

families purifying their own water, they should build a dam in

a place like Ntulele, collect all the rain water that kills people

there and build a big machine to pump the water. That way,

the people without water would get it and those who are killed

by floods would be saved.”

Birgen spoke passionately.

“That is a good idea,” said Ms Lavini, who did not know at

the time that Birgen’s father had drowned at Ntulele. She was

surprised when the class did not sound enthusiastic.

Unfortunately, the bell rang. The lesson had ended.

“We will continue with this discussion in the next lesson,”

she said as she arranged her books in a neat pile.

“I am sorry,” someone said from the back of the class. Ms

Lavini was confused. She did not know what was going on.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

However, no one was willing to answer her.

As she walked out of the classroom, she had more questions

than answers in her head.

On a whim, she decided to walk to the head teacher’s office.

Madam Malinda Kapedo was a patient and understanding

person. That was part of the reason she had scaled the ladder

in her career so fast despite only being in her mid-thirties.

“I wanted to find out how many classes the school can

send to the Science Congress next month,” Ms Lavini asked

the head teacher, after explaining to her what she hoped to

achieve.

Partly because of her training at the University of Nairobi

and partly because she was intrigued by the marvels of

technology, Ms Lavini was passionate about the sciences. She

had learnt how science and technology had transformed the

economies of other countries, such as America, Germany,

Brazil and Japan, and she believed that if young people were

taught to appreciate science, a time would come when Kenya

too would be an industrialized country. She hoped to make

her little contribution in that regard and always took every

opportunity, both inside and outside school, to interest young

people in innovative ideas.

Although Shompole High had a small Physics laboratory

and very few equipment, Ms Lavini was not discouraged.

She knew that progress took time and investment and was

determined to achieve small goals, one step at a time.

After listening to Ms Lavini, Madam Malinda was in

deep thought. She knew that Ms Lavini was young, idealistic

and enthusiastic about her work. Sadly, the school did not

have enough money. It was always a delicate balancing act

for Madam Malinda. She had to moderate between the

enthusiasm of her teachers and the limitation of her school’s

budget.

“I will think about it,” she said in response to Ms Lavini’s

request. “However, I would recommend that you only select

a few students who are keen about science. We can start with

a small group and then they can share their experiences with

the other students. That way, we can achieve better results.

Since the school has never participated, I would rather we

take a few students to see what other schools have done. Next

year, we can consider asking the students to do a project.”

Ms Lavini was happy with the proposal.

“That is ok,” she said. “I will give you the names two weeks

to the day of the trip. All I know is that Birgen must be among

them. Today, he was very passionate about building a dam at

Ntulele.”

“Really?” Madam Malinda asked. “You know that is where

his father drowned. What did he say?”

The news surprised Ms Lavini. Suddenly, she understood

why there had been an awkward silence in the classroom

when Birgen spoke about the dam. She told Madam Malinda

about the incident in class.

That was when Madam Malinda told her about Birgen’s

family. She explained how his father had died, and how his

mother was devastated by the incident. She told Ms Lavini

that Birgen had moved to live with his grandfather and his

uncle had offered to educate him and stay with him during

the school holidays.

It was such a sad story. Ms Lavini felt sorry for Birgen

although she also admired his courage and his willingness

to find a solution to a problem that had affected him so

personally and could affect others.

Although she did not tell Madam Malinda, her story was

not much different. Her own father, Lavini Wampole, had

been killed when she was a second year student. He was a

County Commissioner in Garissa, where he was well liked

because he had managed to bring peace and security to the

region, which had suffered from ethnic tension and terrorism

for a long time.

One early morning, however, as he was driving to work, a

grenade was hurled at his car and exploded violently, piercing

through the peace and quiet of the morning. Wampole died

on the spot.

The attack sparked off outrage across the entire country

and the people of Garissa demanded that an army camp be set

up in the town to ensure that bandits from Somalia did not

attack again.

Until then, Valerie used to call herself by her maiden name,

Mwanampoa. When her father died, however, she changed

her name to Lavini, in his memory, because they had been

good friends since she was a young girl. She even went to a

commissioner of oaths to legalize the change. However, very

few people knew why she had a man’s name. In fact, some

even thought it was a woman’s.

******

Travelling to the city was an epoch in Birgen’s life. He enjoyed

the sights on the way, including the vast plains that were

covered by ears of wheat. The golden colour of the wheat

fields, which was only occasionally broken by a green tree

here and there, was a delight to the eye. It was like a scene

from a movie.

He also enjoyed travelling on the winding road which

plunged into deep valleys before rising up steep inclines. In

some places, he saw large numbers of deer and antelopes

grazing by the side of the road, oblivious of the excitement

that they were causing in the school bus.

When the students got to the city, Birgen could not help

but marvel at the large number of cars on the smooth roads.

What is more, they were stopped at an intersection to give

way for the Governor’s motorcade, which was led by a black

Prado with a siren and flashing lights on its roof. In all, there

were six cars in the Governor’s motorcade.

They entered the city through Waiyaki Way before driving

onto University Way. Ms Lavini showed them where she had

studied when she was a university student. They drove onto

the busy Moi Avenue and, for the first time, Birgen saw more

people walking than he had seen in any other town. It was

a wonder to him that they were not colliding. At the Hilton

Hotel, they turned right and onto City Hall Way, where they

were shown the Governor’s office, after which they took a left

turn.

There, in front of them, stood the mausoleum of Mzee Jomo

Kenyatta, the founding father of the nation, who had led the

country to independence from Britain. His final resting place

was ringed by national flags. Two imposing lions sat on their

haunches near the grave while soldiers in ceremonial uniform

stood guard at strategic places, starting with the main gate. It

was a beautiful site.

“That is the National Assembly,” Ms Lavini said, pointing

to the Parliament Buildings not too far from the mausoleum.

“That is where laws are passed. As you know, we have two

chambers of Parliament.”

“Which is the other one?” asked a student whose father

was a member of the Narok County Assembly.

Everyone on the bus laughed.

“The other is the Senate. It is in the same building that

is hosting the Science Congress,” Ms Lavini said as the bus

made another turn and drove into the parking area of the

convention centre.

“There,” the teacher said, pointing directly ahead, “is

the headquarters of the Judiciary and that building over

there,” she pointed at Harambee House, “is the Office of the

President. As you can see, all three arms of government are

not too far from each other.”

Birgen was impressed. He had never been keen on politics

but seeing all those buildings so close to each other made

him feel that he was close to the heart of political power in

the country. This exhilarated him as much as the Science

Congress did.

Besides the buildings housing the arms of government,

Birgen was fascinated by other skyscrapers, of various shapes,

sizes and colours. Some appeared to have been made entirely

of glass and he wondered how that was possible. He wondered

what kinds of jobs were done in those skyscrapers.

There were many school buses from across the country.

Birgen saw the bus for Starehe Boys’ Centre as well as the

one for Alliance Boys’. He readily identified them because he

had hoped to join one of those schools after sitting his KCPE

exams. However, he had not attained the marks needed to

join the schools.

Ms Lavini gave them instructions on how they were to

conduct themselves. There were only twelve students, so she

divided them into groups of three. They were all given three

hours to walk in the exhibition hall, after which they were

to meet at the exit. No student was permitted to leave the

Kenyatta International Convention Centre grounds.

That year’s Science Congress was mainly sponsored by

General Electric, an American company that was involved in

making heavy equipment and machinery, including aircraft

engines.

By virtue of being the main sponsor, General Electric

occupied a large area near the entrance, so naturally Birgen

and his two friends stopped there first. There were many types

of machines on display, including machines for making other

machines. However, Birgen’s attention was caught by a small

aircraft, around which a large group of people had gathered.

“It is called a drone,” a man in a white lab coat and thick-

rimmed glasses was saying to the group. “It can be used for

gathering information in remote areas and for providing

security in a crowded place, such as a stadium when there

is a football match or an open ground during a political

rally. Usually, drones can fly without a pilot inside. They are

controlled from a remote location and that is why they are

popular with the military. Even if a drone is shot down by an

enemy, there will be no human casualties.”

The students were excited. One said he needed a drone to

monitor his teachers. That way, teachers would not catch him

in mischief. Everyone laughed at the joke.

After the presentation had ended, the group dispersed

and the man took a short break, preparing to make the same

presentation to those who would come later.

Many schools were taking part in the Science Congress.

Birgen had heard about some of them, but there were others

he did not even know existed. The students were showcasing

different ideas including how to produce light and how to

mix carbons to make products like soap. Some did not have a

particular practical application but caught the fancy of other

students.

Seeing all these presentations left Birgen bubbling with

excitement. He started thinking about the projects he could

do in future. He had no doubt in his mind that he would be

among students with presentations the following year.

Before their time elapsed, they stopped briefly at a stand

with many girls in bright purple skirts, white blouses and

purple ties. When Birgen got there, he was intrigued by their

project. The girls from Mashujaa Secondary School had used

direct current from several batteries to make an alarm system

using an intricate wiring system.

“If you pass a shadow on the path of the light, or else if

you obstruct the light, the alarm goes off like this,” one of the

girls was explaining. “This is because the object is interfering

with the flow of the light. As long as the light stream is not

interrupted, the alarm will not go off. This can be used to

secure homes because the system can raise the alarm every

time an intruder crosses the fence.”

“What if it is a small cat? Will the alarm go off?” one of the

boys in the group asked mischievously.

“The system can be calibrated here,” the girl said, unfazed

by the question. “The owner of the system can determine

what size of object can trigger the alarm.”

“Wow!” Birgen exclaimed, impressed both by the girl’s

command of language and her understanding of the subject.

When they went back to school later that evening, Birgen

used his prep time to write a letter to Uncle Toms. He explained

to him how the drone, and the light system that the Mashujaa

girls had invented, could be used to protect endangered

animals. He wrote a very long letter, easily filling both sides

of the foolscap. He would have written more perhaps, had the

bell not rung to signal that prep time was over.

Uncle Toms replied to his nephew’s letter.

Dear Birgen,

I was very happy to receive your letter last week. I am

glad to learn that you are still interested in finding more

information about how to protect endangered species from

extinction. Indeed, I have passed a copy of your letter to

our security director, Mr Justus Saliti, and from his reaction,

I could see he was excited. He could not believe that young

people, barely in their teenage years, could be so interested

in conservation.

I believe he will take a step to approach the girls from

Mashujaa Secondary School to learn more about how their

system works. The idea sounds simple yet it promises to

protect animals in a cost-effective way. He also informed me

that he would sponsor a trip for you to visit the Shaba Game

Reserve in Northern Kenya where poaching remains a major

challenge.

The Shaba Game Reserve is very well known because it

has been used to shoot many movies. As a result, many

film stars visit the park for the holidays, although they fly

in quietly so that they can enjoy their time there without

the attention of journalists and photographers. There is a

Chapter Four

chance that you might meet one of the stars when you visit.

Of course, I will be at hand to show you around. I spent a

lot of time at the park during my training and I enjoyed it

immensely. They have a large population of elephants. It is

such a pity that poaching is now a big problem there. Every

week, an elephant is killed by poachers and its tusks cut off

to be sold to ivory merchants. I wish there were drones in the

park; the problem might not be as serious.

By the way, there are private conservancies in the area

which are already using drones to protect rhinos like the one

we saw at the Lake Nakuru National Park. A conservancy is a

large piece of land that is owned by one person or a group of

people. Instead of growing crops or keeping livestock there,

they protect wild animals and then they charge tourists who

want to visit. Most conservancies have cottages and tents

where their visitors can spend time in the wilderness. I hope I

will get the chance to take you to one when we go to Shaba.

In other news, I think it is important to inform you that

I now have a girlfriend. I have proposed to her and she has

agreed to marry me. That means that when you come for the

holidays, you will have an aunt. Her name is Victoria. She is

from Uganda. I have already told her about you and she is

very eager to make your acquaintance. She is training to be

an entrepreneur so we are likely to have a serious business

person in our family. I hope you two will like each other.

That is all for now. All the best to you in your studies. Till

we meet.

PS: I have enclosed Sh 500 for your pocket money. Enjoy.

Yours truly,

Uncle Toms.

Birgen’s heart was racing as he read his uncle’s letter

during break time one Friday. He was excited to know

that a senior official at the conservation agency had read

his recommendation. He truly hoped that they would act

urgently.

However, no sooner had he read the news about his uncle’s

new girlfriend than he forgot all about rhinos and elephants.

“I am going to have an aunt!” he shouted and started

dancing.

He was very happy for his uncle. He could picture him

and his bride walking down the aisle, he in a shiny navy blue

suit and she in a white wedding gown. They looked happy

and resplendent in their wedding outfits and shiny shoes. He

hoped that he, too, would be in the bridal party to share in his

uncle’s moment of joy.

Birgen showed the letter to his desk mate, Emmanuel

Lopiding, who read it keenly.

“Lucky you,” Lopiding said, handing the letter back. “A

fully sponsored trip to the Shaba.”

“I am both happy and sad about it,” Birgen said.

“Why?” Lopiding asked.

“It is supposed to be a fun trip but poachers there are

killing elephants.”

“There is something you must understand,” Lopiding

said, sitting up. He was suddenly serious. “Elephants are bad

animals. If I could kill them, I would not hesitate.”

“Why would you say such a mean thing? Elephants don’t

bother anyone,” Birgen said.

“What do you know about elephants? Nothing. Maybe I

should sponsor a trip for you to visit us in Taita Taveta. Then

you would change your naïve point of view. Those animals

are bad.”

Lopiding was from Taita Taveta. His parents were small-

scale farmers. Their home was not very far from the Tsavo

National Park. Although they often saw many tourists driving

their vans or flying small aeroplanes into the park, for them it

was more a curse than a blessing. On many a day, especially

during the harvest season, animals would stray from the park

and into people’s farms. The colobus monkeys were the most

notorious because they would camp near the maize farms.

They would wait until everyone was asleep before raiding the

farms.

Lopiding hated them because they appeared more intent

on destroying the maize than on eating it. One would find a

half-eaten cob here and another there throughout the farm.

When he was a much younger boy, his main responsibility

was to make sure that the monkeys did not get into the farms.

Of course, the monkeys outsmarted them sometimes. Some

would keep him and other boys busy on one side of the farm

while other monkeys were having the time of their life on

another side.

Interestingly, he preferred the monkeys to the elephants.

The bigger animals were not so choosy, nor were they very

refined. What was worse, they had neither the patience nor

the fear that monkeys had. On the days they decided to rain

down on the farms, they would come in a large herd, sweeping,

destroying and eating anything in sight. They were like enemy

soldiers. They left nothing behind except their huge mounds

of dung. Lopiding could not count the number of graves of

elephant victims on the fingers of one hand. Actually, he

needed more than two hands.

“I still remember the day Katana was killed,” he told

Birgen. “He had been told by his father to spend the night near

their farm because there was a buyer who was coming from

Tanzania with a big lorry. His father was a harsh man. He

often beat Katana ruthlessly, especially when he was drunk.

Naturally, Katana feared him.

“When he was told to spend the night near the farm, he

carried a tin and a small stick. Elephants don’t like noises so if

you hit a tin drum, they become agitated and run away.

“Unfortunately for Katana that night, he was overwhelmed

by sleep. In the middle of the night, he heard the trumpet

of the elephants. They were already feasting on his father’s

maize. He started hitting his tin. Instead of the animals

running away, they ran towards him and trampled him.

“When we found his body the following morning, he had

been smashed flat onto the ground. He was unrecognizable

save for his bloodied clothes. It was one of the saddest days in

our village.

“A week later, when we gathered to bury him, many

people came for the funeral. Even the Governor, the Senator

and a number of politicians were there. They all demanded

that the park be handed over to the county government. They

argued that the national government had failed to prevent

wild animals from wandering into people’s farms. However,

you could tell that they did not care about Katana. They were

only interested in collecting taxes from the park.

“A few months after the funeral, Katana’s father was

called by the conservation agency. He was given a cheque for

two million shillings. He did not tell his wife that they had

been compensated. He just went to the bank and deposited

the cheque. When the money was ready after a few days, he

withdrew all of it, then moved to Tanzania where he quickly

remarried. Today, Katana’s mother is destitute.”

Birgen was moved by Katana’s tale. It was a tragedy for

a young boy to die so painfully. However, he still was not

satisfied with Lopiding’s story.

“Do you truly think that the elephants were solely to

blame? Don’t you think that Katana’s father was more of a

problem than the elephants?”

“Don’t defend what you don’t know!” Lopiding answered

him angrily. “That was just one story. I told it to you because

Katana was my best friend. I can tell you many other such

stories.”

“I’m not saying that the elephants did not kill them, mind

you. All I am saying is that things could have been done

differently. My uncle once told me that if you keep bees in

your farm, elephants can’t come. They also dislike pepper.”

For a moment, Lopiding was quiet. Birgen had just made a

lot of sense. However, not many farmers in Taita Taveta knew

about pepper and bees.

“We need to make such information available,” Lopiding

said. “That way more people’s lives and their crops would be

saved and they would not be so poor after all.”

Birgen could hardly wait for the August holidays to begin. The

thought of travelling to a faraway corner of the country filled

him with excitement. He imagined that the road trip would

probably take longer than a day. Would they spend the night

in Meru or Isiolo, he wondered, or would they drive through

the night until they got to their destination?

He and Uncle Toms had agreed in subsequent letters that

Birgen would proceed to his grandfather’s homestead once

schools closed and, a week later, Uncle Toms would pick him

up. They would spend about a week at the Shaba, after which

they would travel to Nakuru together. The plan suited Birgen

just fine.

To his surprise, on the day of the trip, his uncle came

with someone else. He was not the one driving the big Land

Cruiser. He was the first to get off when he got to his father’s

home.

“Birgen!” he said excitedly as the young man ran to meet

and hug him.

“Uncle Toms!” Birgen shouted back, spreading his arms

around his uncle.

It was then that he noticed that the person behind the

driver’s seat was a woman.

Chapter Five

“Is that Aunty?” Birgen asked.

The woman was in full Kenya Wildlife Service uniform.

She looked resplendent in the uniform because she was tall

and well rounded, with a small, angular, light-skinned face.

She was wearing a big smile which revealed large, perfect teeth

and a little dimple on either side of her mouth. Her long, soft

hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Birgen thought she was

beautiful and secretly hoped that she was going to be his aunt.

The woman jumped from the car and walked to where

Birgen was standing, holding his uncle’s left hand.

“You must be Birgen,” she said, extending her hand to

greet him.

“Yes, I am,” Birgen said. “We have not met before.”

“My name is Mildred,” she said with a warm smile.

The revelation that she was not his uncle’s girlfriend

disappointed him.

“Welcome to our home,” Birgen said.

Of course, his uncle had not told him that he would be

travelling to Narok with his girlfriend. He had just assumed

she was the one when he saw her alighting from the van.

Uncle Toms led the way into the main house.

His mother, Mama Moiyoi, had been expecting him. She

had asked a neighbour to help her prepare a sumptuous meal.

Mama Moiyoi was always glad to see Uncle Toms. Although

he had other brothers and sisters, he was the most diligent,

always sending money home at the end of each month and

calling to find out if all was well.

“Welcome home, Son,” she said, shaking his hand warmly.

“Your father will be joining us shortly. He has been called by

his friend Suleiman.”

They had made beef stew mixed with traditional herbs,

steamed rice, chapati, and mixed vegetables sprinkled with

fresh milk. There was also an assortment of fruits on a silver

tray. The food had been put in hot pots so it was still steaming

hot when the visitors arrived.

“Let us give thanks for the food before we eat,” Mama

Moiyoi said.

Birgen closed his eyes and his grandmother said a short

prayer in which she thanked God for giving Uncle Toms and

his visitor a safe journey and asked Him to bless the food

they were about to eat. She also prayed for those who were

destitute and those who were ailing.

“You must be hungry,” Mama Moiyoi said, looking at

Mildred and gesturing towards the food. “You are welcome.”

Uncle Toms made himself comfortable on a sofa as Mildred

made her way to the dining table at the corner. She then put

her plate on the stool nearest her, ready to eat. Laughter and

light banter filled the room.

Only Birgen did not make his way to the dining table. He

was too excited to eat. The day he had been waiting for had

come at last. All he could think about was the long journey

ahead.

He had woken up earlier than everyone else. He had taken

a cold shower and put on his best clothes, an earth brown

pair of trousers, a white T-shirt with blue and red stripes on

the right side and his black canvas shoes. It could have been

Christmas. He had then packed four sets of changing clothes

in his bag, which he eagerly zipped up before putting it on his

bed. By ten o’clock, he was ready for his journey.

Even when his grandfather, Mzee Moiyoi, told him that he

would step out for a while to see his ailing friend Suleiman,

Birgen had said, “Goodbye, Grandpa, just in case you find I

have gone.”

His grandfather, who was having trouble with one of his

legs, gave him a warm smile.

“I will be back before then,” he said. “But goodbye, Child,

just in case you leave before I am back.”

With those words, his grandfather picked his walking stick

and ambled away. Although he was still a strong man and tried

to walk without bending his back, the leg had put a strain on

him. He walked slowly but he tried his best to subdue the pain

in his shin, which had been caused by a fall he had suffered as

a young man, and had come back to haunt him.

Everyone was having a wonderful time in the house.

Birgen’s grandmother kept throwing him glances from

where she was sitting near some of the women from the

neighbourhood who had come to greet Uncle Toms. She was

aware he had not served himself food.

To placate her, Birgen walked to the tray of fruits and

picked a quarter slice of an orange. Just then, one of the calves

in the shed started bellowing.

“Birgen,” Mama Moiyoi said. “Please check if the calf has

enough water.”

He made his way to the shed. The calf had sufficient

water. It was only bellowing because it had seen Mzee Moiyoi

ambling back. Birgen abandoned it and went to receive his

grandfather.

“Uncle Toms has a visitor,” he said.

“I saw them from a distance but they did not see me,” his

grandfather replied, smiling slyly. “I see you are still here.”

Birgen stepped back as his grandfather made his way into

the house to welcome the visitors. He and Uncle Toms always

had a lot to talk about. He was interested in politics and always

asked Uncle Toms to explain to him the snippets of news that

he received through his radio.

“How is the trial at The Hague going?” he would ask.

“Do you think that woman has provided enough evidence to

convict those men?”

Uncle Toms, who was always prepared for such questions,

would tell him what the opinion shapers who wrote in the

newspapers were saying. His explanations, however, always

elicited more questions from his father and so the conversation

would linger. That day was no different. In fact, at some point,

the two walked out of the house and extended their chat to the

veranda as they sipped their tea.

Birgen could not wait for them to say goodbye. He wished

time would fly but it appeared to be dragging on.

At last, Mildred walked out of the house clutching a mobile

phone to her ear.

“Hello?” she said in her mellow voice that tickled Birgen.

“Yes,” she said after a while.

“What time?” she asked.

“That is ok. We will make it on time. Say hi to him.” Then

she hung up.

She turned towards Uncle Toms and said, “They are on

their way. They will be waiting for us at five o’clock.”

Uncle Toms looked at his watch. It was two o’clock.

“We ought to be leaving,” he replied, rubbing his knees

with both hands and turning his attention to his father.

“Father, we have to leave now,” he said. “We have a long

journey ahead of us.”

“Remember what I have told you,” his father said.

“Suleiman is selling part of his land. If you can get the money,

it would be a good investment. Go well and take good care of

the boy.”

Those were the words that Birgen had been waiting for.

He dashed into the main house, picked his bag from his bed

and, just as quickly, dashed out again. He did not even wait

for instructions from his uncle. He just put the bag in the back

of the Land Cruiser and walked over to his grandfather to bid

him farewell.

“We must get going,” Uncle Toms said. “It looks like it will

rain soon. Goodbye, Mother.”

“Thank you for the food, Mum,” Mildred said, walking

over to Mama Moiyoi and giving the elder woman her hand

to say goodbye. Birgen did the same.

“Remember to bring me something from your trip,” his

grandmother said.

“I will.”

“And be safe.”

By the time the three were driving out of the homestead,

the clouds had started to gather menacingly. A light drizzle

was already making the earth road slippery by the time they

got to the Narok–Nairobi road. By the time they reached

Suswa, more than one and a half hours later, it was falling in

torrents. Visibility had been considerably reduced. Birgen’s

thoughts drifted between memories of his father and the

adventures that awaited him in Shaba. The drumming of the

rain on the roof of the car, the steady buzz of its engine and

the warmth of the air conditioning system soon conspired to

dispatch him to dreamland.

When he woke up more than an hour later, the car was

bearing down on Uhuru Highway in Nairobi. He rubbed his

eyes to ward off the sleep. That was when he noticed that they

had just passed the Parliament Buildings, which he could

recognize from his previous visit.

“My good man,” his uncle shouted, reducing the volume of

the music in the car. “We are now in Nairobi. We are heading

to Wilson Airport. We can expect to reach our destination in

less than an hour.”

“I thought it would be a long journey,” Birgen said.

“It is,” his uncle said. “Don’t worry, however. We will

shorten it by flying.”

At first, Birgen could not believe his ears. Had his uncle

said flying?

“Are we going to take a flight?” he asked in shock.

“Of course we are. Time is precious. Mr Saliti is already

expecting us.”

Birgen did not hear everything his uncle said. His heart

was racing with excitement and trepidation. He had never

flown before. How would he feel? Was it exhilarating? Was it

scary? He did not know and he dared not ask.

They braved a traffic jam which ended abruptly when

they turned off the main road and snaked their way into the

Wilson Airport. There were many small planes, all gleaming

on the tarmac or in the hangars. Birgen had never seen so

many airplanes before and he wondered which one would be

taking him to Shaba.

Uncle Toms, who had been driving, parked the car near

one wall of a building and switched off the engine. They all

jumped out. Both Uncle Toms and Birgen reached for their

bags.

All three walked into the building and were met by a white

man who shook Uncle Toms and Mildred’s hands vigorously.

“You are half an hour early,” he said. “We can have coffee

before we take off. The weather is clear in Nairobi but I am

told it is a little cloudy over Laikipia. Not to worry, we will

make it to Shaba before sundown.”

He turned his attention to Birgen.

“Hi. You must be Birgen. Captain Richard,” he said. “But

you can call me Richie. I will be flying you to Shaba.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Birgen said with a slight stammer as

he shook Captain Richard’s hand. This was turning out to be

more of a surprise than he had bargained for.

Captain Richard signalled to a young lady who was sitting

in the lounge, reading a novel.

“Esther,” he said. “Kindly take their bags to the plane.”

The young lady in high heels, a hip-hugging purple

miniskirt and white blouse greeted them with a big, warm

smile and took both Uncle Toms and Birgen’s bags as they

headed towards the restaurant. She disappeared down a

corridor as Birgen followed the others closely.

The three talked animatedly about work as they sipped

their tea.

“I hear they have shot down three poachers in the Meru

National Park,” Captain Richard was saying. “Unfortunately,

they had already killed one of the oldest elephants in the park.

The tusks are yet to be found.”

“Oh no!” Mildred moaned. “Now the media is going to

roast us.”

“Not necessarily,” Uncle Toms said. “We have something

to show that our men on the ground were working.”

“But how will they explain the missing tusks?” she asked,

looking perturbed.

Until then, Birgen had been listening half-heartedly but he

suddenly took interest in their conversation.

“You know, the United Nations has released a damning

report linking poaching to terrorism,” Captain Richard said.

“It is already big news internationally. It is only a matter of

time before the local media pick up on the story. That is going

to be a bigger challenge but we will see how it pans out.”

Just then, the lady in high heels walked up to them.

“All is set for take-off, Captain,” she said with a smile.

Captain Richard rose to his feet.

“Time to go, gentlemen,” he said, looking at Uncle Toms

and Birgen.

That was when it dawned on Birgen that Mildred would

not be travelling with them.

“Now you have the car to yourself,” Uncle Toms said,

handing over the car keys to Mildred. “We will see you on

Thursday.”

“Enjoy your flight and your stay,” she said. “I will remain

behind and clear the bill.”

Birgen felt a stab of disappointment pierce his heart. He

wished that Mildred would accompany them. He wanted

to tell her that he would miss her but could not gather the

courage. He just stood there, looking at her.

“Goodbye, Birgen. Hope to see you again soon,” she said.

“Goodbye,” he said.

He was downcast as he joined the other two men, who were

already walking towards the check-in counter where another

lady checked their details against a computer and asked them

to proceed.

Seeing the plane waiting on the tarmac, ready to take

them to their destination, made Birgen temporarily forget his

disappointment.

“Please take the stairwell,” Captain Richard said.

He motioned to Birgen to go first.

There were about five or six other men and women in the

aircraft. The lady who had smiled at them earlier motioned

for him to take a seat towards the back where he was soon

joined by his uncle.

It was then that Birgen remembered the dream that he

had had a few years before as a boy when he dreamt that he

had ridden on the back of Angel of the Wild, the big bird. The

dream had finally come true, only in a way and at a time that

left him shocked and in awe.

“Welcome to the Shaba,” Mr Saliti said in his booming voice

with a hint of a stammer. He strode onto the runway to

welcome the tourists. He was a short, pot-bellied man with

a balding head and thick glasses. His wide nose dominated

his dark face. He was, by all appearances, a strong man and

his bulging biceps gave him the look of a wrestler. In fact, he

reminded Birgen of a rhino, only he was more insouciant.

Birgen was still exhilarated from the flight. It had been

smoother than he had expected. He had enjoyed the view

from his window seat. From far up in the sky, even the biggest

houses looked small and the areas that had been ploughed had

a distinct brown that distinguished them neatly from the areas

under vegetation. The undulating hills blended seamlessly

with the deep, lush green forests and the rivers, meandering

down the valleys, looked like silver threads winding placidly.

It was breathtaking. But so was the view of the skies and the

fluffy clouds that looked like they were within arm’s length.

Sometimes, especially when they were flying over Laikipia,

they sliced through the dark grey clouds. Then the ride was

bumpy, as though one were in a boat making its way over

rapids, or a car driving over speed bumps.

Chapter Six

Every twenty minutes or so, the lady in the purple skirt

would make her way to the cabin to ask if anyone needed a

drink. Birgen asked for Sprite and the lady brought him a cold

one in a thin green can. Once he had finished the first one,

she brought him yet another, her smile never leaving her face.

Birgen wondered if she ever got tired of smiling and what she

did to rest her facial muscles after a long day’s work.

All in all he had immensely enjoyed the trip, more so the

thrill of taking off, with the front wheels of the plane lifting

into the air as the plane rushed headlong against the wind. It

was then that he had noticed the large expanse of dirt brown

roofs and he had asked his uncle what that was.

“That is Kibera,” he had said. “It is the biggest slum in

Nairobi.”

Of course, Birgen had heard about Kibera but he had

not expected it to be so large and desolate-looking. He

remembered the argument he had had with his desk mate,

Lopiding. From his point of view in the sky, he was more

convinced than before that the problem was actually much

bigger than they had thought.

“Do those people who live there have rural areas where

they came from?” Birgen asked his uncle.

“Oh yes, they do. You think they should go back?”

“They can live better lives there than in the slum with all

the problems of sanitation, crime and congestion,” he said

philosophically.

“Most of them came to the city hoping for a better life.

Some of them have succeeded, of course, but others have not.

The important thing to know, however, is that they live there

because it enables them to support their families back home.”

Birgen pondered his uncle’s words. He thought that it

would be better if industries could be built in many parts of

the country so that those seeking jobs would not all have to

travel to Nairobi. That way, the problem of slums would be

reduced, if not eliminated altogether.

As he pondered further on those matters, the plane began

to make its way northwards, revealing more of the diversity of

the country to Birgen’s curious eyes. Soon, he had forgotten

about Kibera, as more pristine landscapes came into view,

ushering in other thoughts.

So it came as a surprise to him when Captain Richard

spoke over the loudspeaker in the cabin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now flying around Mt

Kenya. Those of you who are sitting to the right of the plane

will see its three snow-covered peaks. Today we are privileged

to see the mountain in all its splendour. It is not every day that

it reveals itself,” he said. “In about twenty minutes, we will be

landing at the Shaba airstrip. We hope you will enjoy the rest

of the flight and your holiday in the very heart of Kenya.”

The tourists craned their necks towards the right to catch a

glimpse of the mountain. Luckily for Birgen, he did not need

to move an inch. It was as though the window next to him had

been converted into a television screen and he could see the

glorious mountain shining in the evening sun in full colour. It

was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He had no idea how fast the time had flown by until he

heard the captain say, “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly fasten

your seatbelts, put your seats in an upright position and

prepare for landing.”

Captain Richard had a warm voice that filled his passengers

with gratitude and confidence.

Once again, the lady in purple came into the cabin ensuring

that everyone had fastened their seatbelts. Then she went back

to her seat. No sooner had she settled than the plane began to

descend. At first, Birgen was anxious. The plane was rattling.

Looking out the window, Birgen thought the ground was

rushing to embrace them. He gripped the armrest of his seat,

stealing a glance at his uncle. His assured confidence filled

Birgen with ease and he relaxed too, enjoying the moment.

Soon, the plane was coasting down the runway. From a

distance, Birgen could see a group of people congregating

around three white minivans, which had no doubt come to

receive the visitors.

The plane came to a stop a few metres from the group and

someone quickly rushed over to open the door, which in turn

released the stairs down. The passengers walked out to be

greeted by warm smiles against the backdrop of the setting

sun, which had turned into a bright shade of amber.

“You must be the famous Birgen,” Mr Saliti said, shaking

Birgen’s hand.

“I am. Thank you very much for the invitation,” Birgen

said.

“Don’t mention it, my good man. Don’t mention it,” Mr

Saliti said as he walked breezily on to welcome the other

visitors as they filed towards the minivans.

Once everyone was settled into the minivans, Mr Saliti

walked to the one in which Birgen and Uncle Toms had

entered. He was punching his right fist into his left palm as he

whistled a nondescript song.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going for a short game

drive and then a sundowner. After that, you will be welcomed

into our hotel. Your luggage will precede you, so you need not

worry about it,” he said and motioned to the driver to start

the tour.

When Mr Saliti mentioned the word ‘sundowner’, Birgen

remembered Mariana. He wondered what would happen to

her after Uncle Toms got married. Would she still work for

him or would she be asked to look for another job? He did not

want her to go. She had been very kind to him and she always

kept Uncle Toms’s house neat and orderly when he was away.

“What is a sundowner?” Birgen asked his uncle.

“Here, it refers to as a small welcoming party. The visitors

sit in the bush facing the setting sun. The adults are served

with champagne or any drink of their choice. It is a relaxing

moment, where one enjoys the beauty of nature.”

“There is a place that Mariana takes me called The Sun

Downer,” Birgen said, trying to broach the subject.

Uncle Toms laughed.

“I know it,” he said. “They make the best tea and play the

best music in Langa Langa. This sundowner, however, will be

a different type. It is in the open and there is no music, except

from the birds.”

“Will Mariana stay once you get married?” Birgen asked

at last.

“Of course she will, unless she chooses not to, in which

case I will accept her decision. Why do you ask?” Uncle Toms

asked.

“I like her,” he said.

His uncle gave him a mischievous smile. Birgen was a little

embarrassed.

“It is not what you think,” he said shyly.

He was saved from further embarrassment by Mr Saliti

who asked everyone to look out their windows.

“That, ladies and gentlemen, is a herd of gerenuk. The

gerenuk is a special species. They are antelopes but their necks

are very long like those of young giraffes. They walk in herds

of between 65 and 70. Only one of them is male and he walks

behind everyone else.”

The adults were excited by the information. The car was

filled with chatter. Mr Saliti was satisfied with the result. He

punched his left palm again.

The convoy of minivans made its way through the bush.

There were many animals to see, including zebras, with

brownish stripes instead of white, and oryx.

The roof of the minivan Birgen sat in was open. He asked

his uncle if he could stand and watch the animals from there.

“Why not?” Uncle Toms said.

Birgen stood and started surveying the park.

“You might need this,” Mr Saliti said, joining him. It was

a pair of binoculars. Birgen peered through the lenses and,

suddenly, everything became clearer.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. He scanned the low lying hills and

the riverbed in the distance. It was then that he noticed some

movement. Lionesses were running after an oryx.

“Oh! Oh!” he shouted.

“What is the problem?” Mr Saliti asked.

“It is the lionesses. They are running after an animal. They

have caught it! They are now struggling in the dust. They have

overpowered it. Oh! So sad!”

Everyone in the minivan was on their feet, watching the

hunt.

“Let us go that way, Laibuta,” Mr Saliti told the driver.

The lionesses were not moved by the approaching convoy.

The convoy stopped about two hundred metres from where

the lionesses had overpowered their prey. They were already

sinking their teeth into its flesh, their mouths red with blood.

The tourists were clicking their cameras, taking pictures of

the scene.

“The exciting part is over,” Mr Saliti said. “By dusk, the

hyenas will have arrived to demand their share. And after two

days, the vultures will be coming for the leftovers.”

The vehicles made their way on a dusty trail to the top of a

hill with shrubs around a clearing. In the clearing were tables

and chairs. Ten waiters dressed in beige and fawn uniforms

were waiting. Not far from them were two rangers, their rifles

at the ready.

“Here we are, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr Saliti said, leading

the way.

Everyone got off the vans. The waiters stepped forward,

holding hot white towels on silver trays. Everyone picked

one and started wiping their faces. Birgen watched them and

followed suit. Then they handed back the towels and headed

for the seats. The hill gave them a wide view of the grassland

in the park below and a good view of the golden setting sun.

“What will you have?” the waiters were asking each patron.

Birgen asked for a fruit cocktail while his uncle asked for a

glass of champagne.

After everyone was settled, the park manager, who Birgen

later learnt was also in charge of the hotel, rose to his feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Victor Odiwori. I

will be your chief host for the duration of your stay in the

Shaba. You are welcome. As you know, it was in this park

that George Adamson engaged in his experiment with lions,

releasing those that had been in captivity back into the wild.

It was also here that the film Out of Africa was shot and more

recently, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. The Shaba is also the home

of Hassan, the oldest male elephant in Kenya. So this is a

park with a rich history. Today, you too became part of that

growing history. I would like, therefore, to propose a toast.”

Everyone rose to their feet, clutching their drinks delicately.

Birgen did the same, taking his cue from Mr Odiwori.

The manager raised his glass of champagne.

“To you,” he said.

“To you too,” the visitors answered and sipped their drinks

before taking their seats.

“Now you can enjoy the sunset,” Mr Odiwori said and

retreated.

The waiters surged forward to refill empty glasses.

The three days’ holiday ended too fast for Birgen. In

between the game drives, the nature walks, the camel rides

with Samburu herdsmen and the sumptuous meals, he had

spared some time to watch movies on the beauty of Kenya;

the diversity of wildlife in various parks and the great work

that was being done by conservationists to protect the rich

heritage which was threatened by poachers, loggers and even

some farmers and property investors who were encroaching

on parks, swamps and even rivers.

It had been as much a fun-filled experience as it had been

an enlightening one.

Of course, it had also been a time to relax and indulge.

When he was weary or hot, he would find an excuse to return to

his hotel room, fill the bathtub with warm water and just relax

and listen to music. In the evening, he and his uncle would

join the other guests around a camp fire and they would enjoy

traditional dances. Sometimes, some of the visitors would join

the performers in their dances. Everyone had the time of their

life and Birgen wished it would always be like that.

On the second day, the tour guides came for them as soon

as they had had breakfast.

Chapter Seven

“The elephants are coming this way,” said Laibuta, “it is a

chance to see Hassan.”

It was not every day that the elephants marched near the

hotel. They only did so if they needed to play in the muddy

river, which was not very far away.

The news filled Birgen with anticipation. He would see an

elephant for the first time in his life, and not just one but an

entire herd, including their calves.

“Wow!” he exclaimed as he rushed to freshen up, ready for

the drive.

After about twenty minutes riding in the open topped

Land Cruiser, the group stopped at a clearing on the road.

“The elephants will be passing by any time now,” Laibuta

said. He pointed in the direction that the herd was expected to

emerge from before crossing the road.

Birgen’s heart was racing. This was going to be a big day

for him. He stood on his feet to ensure that he did not miss

anything.

Then silently, the first elephant emerged from the bush,

looked right and then left. Birgen could have sworn that their

eyes had locked because the elephant lingered, as though

undecided whether or not to charge or proceed with its

journey. Clearly, it chose the latter and started crossing the

road. Soon, other elephants followed. There were fifteen in all.

“That is Hassan,” Laibuta said, pointing at a greying bull.

“He has the largest tusks in the herd.”

Birgen stared at the giant animal. It looked so peaceful.

Its eyes, which were visible from where Birgen stood, were

almost disappearing in the wrinkles that covered its face. Its

trunk hung loosely towards the ground. When it got to the

middle of the road, it turned to face the Land Cruiser, then

shook its head vigorously. Its large ears flapped in the wind.

“That means he has seen us,” Laibuta said. Hassan lingered

a little longer before ambling away to join the rest of the herd.

“They are going to play in the water, just as families go to

play in a swimming pool,” Laibuta said and the tourists in his

vehicle smiled at the comparison.

On the last day of the visit, he and his uncle were heading

to the dining area for dinner when they met Mr Saliti who was

dressed sharply in a suit and tie and shiny moccasins to boot.

“Ah! Just the man I was looking for,” he said, extending his

hand to greet Birgen.

“Will you excuse us for a minute?” he asked Uncle Toms.

“Sure,” replied Uncle Toms. “You’ll find me in the

restaurant.”

“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Mr Saliti

said, leading Birgen towards one of the cottages in a secluded

part of the establishment. He knocked on a door and a tall,

slender man of Asian origin opened the door.

“Bwana Saliti,” the man said enthusiastically in a heavy

Chinese accent. “What a pleasure. I see you have a guest.”

“Mr Ling, this is Birgen. He is a student and one of our

special guests. And this,” he said turning to Birgen, “is Mr

Ling Ping. He is a movie star in China. He is here to learn

about the beauty of the country because he wants to make a

movie here. But he is also our ambassador for the campaign

against poaching of elephants and rhinos.”

Birgen was awed. He had never before met a film star in

person.

“Pleasure to meet you, Bwana Birgen,” Ling Ping said,

bending slightly to shake Birgen’s hand.

“I am pleased to meet you too, Mr …” said Birgen.

“Ping. Just call me Ping. Everyone else does. Have a seat.”

Ping’s room was expensively furnished with wicker chairs,

a fluffy carpet covering the entire floor, muted lights glowing

softly on the wall, a large desk with a MacIntosh computer

and a soft padded chair on one side. Until then, Birgen had

imagined that all the hotel rooms were the same. He had

never seen such luxury before.

“You like the room?” Ping asked.

“Very much. It is beautiful,” Birgen said, admiring the

large painting on one of the walls.

“Juice? Coke?” Ping asked, walking to a refrigerator with a

golden handle.

“Juice please,” Birgen stammered. He was already

overwhelmed. He was in the presence of a movie star and

was sitting in the most expensive hotel suite he had ever seen.

Even in his wildest imagination, he had no idea that such

luxury existed in the world.

“Bwana Saliti has told me about you and how keen you are

about conservation. I admire you,” Ping said, walking back

to take a seat near Birgen and handing him a drink in a large

crystal glass with a long neck.

Birgen could not believe that Ping was describing him. He

looked around. There was no one else in the room except the

three of them.

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes. I read your letter. It is very passionate. Indeed, it has

given me an idea for my next movie. I will be sharing it with

my director and once we make the film, I will invite you to

China for the premier.”

Birgen could not believe his ears. He had never imagined

himself travelling out of the country, least of all to China, the

land of a billion people. Of course, he had seen many Chinese

working on road projects in Narok but it had never occurred

to him that he would ever travel to their country. Yet, it had

all started with a simple letter to his uncle.

“I am honoured,” he said. He wished he could sound more

confident. He gulped his orange juice a little too hastily and

almost choked.

Ping was relaxed. He was holding a glass of wine from

which he sipped once in a while. He told Birgen about his

work as a goodwill ambassador for the African elephant and

how he was using his films to campaign for a ban in ivory

trade. Birgen was impressed but there were things he still did

not understand.

“How come people in your country have such a high

demand for ivory?” he asked Ping.

“You see,” Ping said, “in the past, there were many

elephants in Asia and the number of people was not so high

as it is today. In those days, having an ornament made from

ivory was a status symbol. It meant that you were a highly

respected member of the society. The bigger the ornament,

the more respected you were perceived to be. Today, things

have changed. We have more people and so few elephants in

Asia. Unfortunately, the culture has not changed. That is what

we are trying to do.”

It all made sense to Birgen. He only wished that the

campaign could be carried out with greater urgency. In one of

the movies he had watched at the hotel theatre, the narrator

had said that fifty years ago, there were more than 300,000

elephants. Now there were only about 45,000. At that rate,

Birgen had calculated, the elephant would be extinct in fifty

years. He shared that information with Ping.

“I wish we could do more,” Birgen said. “It is really

worrying. It would be sad if elephants and rhinos were to

become extinct.”

“We are doing our best,” Ping said. “That is why I came.”

Birgen felt encouraged by Ping’s words. He resolved that

he, too, would do something to play a small part in the war

against poaching. Maybe, he reckoned, if everyone took a

step, no matter how small or big, the endangered animals

would be saved.

“Are you hungry? We could grab something,” Mr Saliti said,

interrupting Birgen’s reverie. It was then that he remembered

that his uncle was waiting for him at the restaurant.

It was August, the wettest month of the year. The dirt roads

leading to the villages were muddy. Often, vehicles got stuck

in the sludge and had to be pulled out by tractors. With the

rain also came the cold, but this did not dampen the spirits of

the people of Narok, least of all Birgen.

For the first time in many years, the Safari Rally would be

passing through their town. The organizers of the rally had

even designated a spectator stage not far from where Birgen

lived with his grandparents. Everybody agreed that this was

going to be a big occasion.

The excitement was most evident among young boys.

They fashioned toy cars from scrap metal and waste rubber

from car tubes. The toys were made to look like the safari rally

cars; sturdy, with large wheels and long aerials. What’s more,

the boys had attached to the toys long wires with a steering

wheel at the top, which meant that they could run around

while ‘driving’ them.

For many parents, of course, it was a time of agony. Their

boys often stayed away from home for hours on end, playing

with their toys in the muddy roads. They would return home

at dusk, wet, muddy and often with persistent coughs from

being rained on and from too much exposure to the muddy

Chapter Eight

water. The boys, however, had none of those worries. For

them it was a time for fun and nothing was more enjoyable

than imitating their favourite rally drivers, from Baldev

Chager to Carl Tundo.

Part of the excitement arose from the fact that the town

and its environs were slowly filling up with visitors, many of

them driving fancy cars. They were always going to the shops

and sometimes into homes to buy goods, or to hire people to

work for them as they prepared for the rally.

Birgen was too young to be employed but he often went to

the town just to hear what those who had been given various

jobs were discussing. Sometimes, one of them, after having

been paid, would offer to buy him a soda and he would sit

there listening to their stories.

On the day the rally cars descended on the town, there was

a riot of colours and sounds. So many people had travelled

from far and wide to witness the event. Many of them came

from Nairobi. They were clad in big boots, big hats and

raincoats. They were friendly with everyone they met and

were more than eager to pose for pictures and selfies.

The news and other professional photographers, however,

were serious. They could easily be identified because they

moved in groups of three or four and all of them had cameras

with lenses as long as one’s arm. Young boys marvelled at the

gadgets and followed them wherever they went. Mostly, they

preferred to perch on small hills or near bends on the road or

where the section was muddy so that they could take dramatic

pictures of the roaring cars flying past, spewing water and

mud in every direction.

Baldev Chager was the first to charge into the town. The

roar of his car could be heard from many kilometres away.

There was a big shout from the crowds lining the road when

his muddy car, which was painted black and yellow with large

number 5 painted on the doors against a white background,

came into view.

“Kabras!” everyone shouted, reading the word emblazoned

on the bonnet.

Baldev waved at the crowd with a gloved hand as he flashed

past.

A goat crossed the road hastily after the rally car had

passed and everyone gave yet another shout, scaring it even

more and forcing it to scamper back in the direction it had

come.

Silence descended on the crowds. They were waiting to

hear the roar of the next car.

“No doubt Baldev will win. He is literally flying,” someone

in the crowd shouted. “There is no way the other drivers are

going to catch up with him.”

However, no sooner had he uttered the words than the

roar of the second car rent the air. Again, there was a big

shout from the crowd. Some people scampered across the

road amid shouts of “Take care! Take care!”

Birgen did not hear the shouts. A great idea had just

occurred to him in a flash. Incidentally, it had been triggered

by the words the man in the crowd had shouted. The words,

“He is literally flying” kept ringing in his mind.

He remembered the drone he had seen during the Science

Congress. He remembered the General Electric employee

saying that producing one was expensive and maintaining it

was not cheap either.

Birgen looked around. He could not see any of the boys

who had been playing with their wire toys. Of course, he

had seen them following the photographers and he started

running in the direction that they had gone.

Soon, he spotted them standing near a bridge. He went

over to them and started inspecting their cars. He saw one

that he liked. It was very big but it was sturdy.

“Hey you,” he said, calling out to the boy who was holding

the toy, “come here.”

The boy, afraid of Birgen who was much bigger, walked

timidly towards him.

“I want this car,” Birgen said to him.

“I can’t give it to you,” the boy said, retreating. “It is mine.”

“I will buy it,” Birgen said.

The boy took some time to think about the offer. If he

sold his toy, he could make another at no cost to himself.

He looked back at his friends who were looking at them in

silence, wondering what would happen next.

“For how much?” the boy asked.

“Name your price,” Birgen said.

The other boys started moving closer. They, too, were

interested in selling their toys to Birgen, only they did not say

it.

“Tell him fifty,” one of the boys said.

“Tell him one hundred,” another said.

“One hundred,” the owner of the toy said.

“Seventy,” Birgen said, holding out the money.

The boy considered the offer and kept glancing at his

friends, who were now laughing. They were so amused to see

a young man buying a toy from a mere boy.

“Take the money,” the first boy said.

“Eighty,” the owner of the toy said at last.

Birgen reached into his pocket and fished out a ten shilling

coin. He handed the entire sum to the boy who in turn handed

over the toy to him.

The deal done, Birgen picked the toy and started walking

away.

“You are meant to drive it like this,” one naughty boy said,

demonstrating his skill at maneuvering his toy, but Birgen

was not listening to him. His mind was filled with possibilities

and the only thing that dominated his thoughts then was how

he would try out the idea that had just occurred to him.

In the distance, another rally car filled the air with its roar.

“He is literally flying,” Birgen said to himself as he increased

his pace. The rain began to fall harder than before but that did

not bother him in the least.

Birgen’s history teacher, Mr Kumbuko, believed that history

was a living subject.

“What is news today,” he often told his class, “will be

history tomorrow.”

To demonstrate his belief, he started many of his lessons

with a news item, either from that day or from the week.

One day, in the first term of Form Two, he went to class

carrying a newspaper cutting.

“This week, something terrible has happened that is a

pointer to the problems that the country is facing,” he said

somberly, holding up a newspaper clipping with a large

headline which read:

Country’s oldest elephant killed by poachers.

The headline caught Birgen’s attention at once. His uncle

had told him how poachers had moved to the Tsavo National

Park, where there was a large population of elephants. After

killing the animals on the Kenyan side of the border, the

poachers then crossed into Tanzania from where the tusks

were shipped to China and sometimes India while disguised

as ripe bananas.

Chapter Nine

“Things are getting out of hand,” his uncle had told him,

sounding very worried.

The headline served to confirm his uncle’s words.

“Did it happen in the Tsavo?” Birgen asked innocently.

“No. It happened in the Shaba,” Mr Kumbuko said.

“Interestingly, the park has one of the highest number of

game rangers in the country.”

“That is not possible,” Birgen said, sounding agitated.

“The newspaper must have made a mistake. Hassan cannot

be dead.”

Mr Kumbuko was surprised at Birgen’s vehemence.

“Why do you say that, Birgen?” he asked.

“Because I have been there, Teacher, and I have seen

the elephant. His name is Hassan and he is such a peaceful

creature,” Birgen said.

“It is unfortunate, but it has happened. Indeed, the

newspaper identifies the elephant as Hassan. It says that the

government had ordered that he be protected as a national

treasure. Clearly, that was not done.”

“That is bad news even for tourism,” Birgen said. “There

were many people, including celebrities from all over the

world who go to Shaba to make movies and to see Hassan. All

that is lost now.”

When Birgen said this, Lopiding laughed.

“What is so funny, Lopiding?” Mr Kumbuko asked.

“He met a Chinese film star there,” Lopiding said with a

chuckle.

“Oh, really?” asked Mr Kumbuko.

“I did, Teacher, but I also found out that the park is one of

the most secure in the country,” Birgen said.

“We cannot deny the facts, Birgen. The news is on all our

local television channels.”

Birgen was in shock. He remembered the conversation he

had had with Mr Saliti and Ping about protecting wild animals

and the calm majesty with which Hassan had crossed the road

right in front of his eyes. Maybe someone was out to sabotage

the good work that was being done at the Shaba and soil the

park’s international reputation.

“As I was saying, Kenya’s oldest elephant has been killed.

Do you know what that means?”

There was silence in the class. The teacher gave them some

time to think about it. No one spoke.

“When an elephant is old,” he said, “its tusks are very long.

That means they will fetch more money.”

“It is a sign of prestige,” Birgen said, sounding even more

agitated than before.

“Please explain, Birgen,” Mr Kumbuko said.

“Ping told me that in Asia and the Middle East, you are

more respected if you have a bigger ivory ornament than

anyone else. That is why bigger tusks are more expensive than

smaller ones.”

“That is very useful information,” Mr Kumbuko said. “It

shows that culture has a far-reaching influence on history,

which brings us to our topic for today. We are going to look

at how trade routes in East Africa led to urbanization. As

you know, trade in ivory was among the earliest forms of

commerce in the region.”

The teacher’s words registered vaguely in Birgen’s mind.

He was thinking about Shaba, his uncle and Mr Saliti. How

could Mr Saliti allow such a treasure to be killed? Did someone

fail to do their duty? Where were the wardens he had seen

with big rifles when the elephant was killed?

There were too many questions for which he did not have

answers. He wished his uncle were around so that he could

ask him those questions. He wished he could contact Ping and

tell him to hurry up with his film and also show it in Kenya

so that more people would learn about the evils of poaching.

If he could fly back to Shaba, he would confront Mr Saliti to

protest and demand an explanation. What had happened did

not make any sense to him. It was unacceptable.

He remembered the project that he was secretly working

on and resolved that he would finish it as soon as he went

back to Narok for the April holidays. He could not sit back

and watch as elephants were killed, knowing that he could do

something to stop the slaughter.

Birgen was lost in his own thoughts for the rest of the

lesson. When the teacher left and Lopiding tried to talk to

him, Birgen snapped.

“You said you support the killing of elephants!” he shouted

at him.

“I did not say that!” Lopiding shouted back. “All I said is

that they must be stopped from killing people.”

“What is the difference?” Birgen asked angrily.

“You must calm down if you want to find a solution that

benefits everybody. Otherwise it will be pointless arguing

with you,” Lopiding said.

They were still arguing when Ms Lavini walked in.

“What is all the noise about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Birgen said.

“They want to kill each other because of elephants!”

someone shouted from the back of the classroom.

“That is not true!” Lopiding shouted back.

“Can we all calm down now? We have work to do. Today

we are going to talk about how electricity is transmitted,” Ms

Lavini said, turning to write something on the chalk board.

Birgen sat up, suddenly interested in the topic. That was one

of the questions that had bothered him the most in the recent

past. If he could understand how electricity worked, a big

weight would be lifted off his shoulders.

The news of Mr Saliti’s arrest came as a shock to Birgen. It was

as though someone had unexpectedly struck a blow against

his diaphragm. In fact, he would not have known about it

had Uncle Toms not sent him a letter after he himself had

been questioned by officers from the Directorate of Criminal

Investigations.

The letter read:

Dear Birgen,

This is to let you know that Saliti has been arrested in

connection with the death of Hassan. Apparently, Odiwori,

the manager, intercepted some communication between Saliti

and the man called Ping, whom you told me you had met

during our visit. According to emails exchanged between the

two, Saliti was to ensure that Hassan’s tusks were delivered

in Nairobi, upon which time Ping would make arrangements

to get them out of the country.

From what we have been told, Ping was travelling on a

forged diplomatic passport and was not even a movie star,

as he had claimed. From the investigations, it would appear

that his work was to scout for areas with large elephant

populations. According to the police, he travelled to Tanzania

and later South Africa after leaving Kenya. The local police

Chapter Ten

have asked Interpol to help them arrest him. That is why the

news is now being kept from the media. If the information

leaks, Ping and other suspects might disappear into thin air

and will never be made to face justice for their crimes.

I don’t know if you remember the air hostess we travelled

with on the day we visited Shaba, the one who was always

smiling. She, too, has been arrested. As you saw that day,

she was the one in charge of cargo at the airline. Somehow,

she got mixed up in Saliti’s dirty business and was used to

hide the tusks in the plane.

I have also been questioned by detectives, although my

conscience is clear. I am appalled that Saliti took advantage

of us, especially you, by pretending that he was interested in

your conservation ideas while all the time he was using such

knowledge to evade the law and to frustrate conservation

work. It so sad that a man as accomplished and as senior

as he could have been involved in such a horrendous crime.

Interestingly, he had just bought a fleet of tourist vans

using his company. That was one of the things that gave him

away. There was no way he could have afforded to buy ten

vans from his salary without taking a bank loan. When the

emails were intercepted, the police investigated further and

discovered that he had a company that was buying tour vans

in cash.

Actually, the reason I was called for questioning had to do

with the trip we took to the Shaba. According to the airline

records, Saliti paid our fare from his own pocket. Questions

are being asked over whether I was involved. You know, I am

one of the best sharpshooters on our force. It is disheartening

to think that investigators believe I could be responsible for

the death of Hassan.

I am only writing to you as a caution. Please be careful,

just in case the police or even Saliti try to contact you. Also

destroy this letter as soon as you read it and do not show it

to anyone, not even to your best friend.

Let us hope for the best.

Your Uncle,

Toms.

Birgen read the letter over and over again. He could hardly

believe what he was seeing. It all sounded like a bad dream.

He wished that he could wake up and it would all be over. But

the sun was high up in the sky. His schoolmates were all over,

engaging in their usual mundane tasks, yet he was deep in the

throes of untold torment.

He felt cheated. How could he allow himself to be fooled

by the two men? He had even believed the lie that he would

be invited for the premier of a movie in China. How gullible

could he have been? Why did he not see that it was all just

smoke and mirrors? Nothing was real. It was all a show whose

aim was sinister and whose results were death and destruction.

What about all the luxury that he had seen in Ping’s

cottage? Birgen had assumed that the money came from his

acting because he was a superstar. Needless to say, he had

put on quite the performance, having lied so well about his

celebrity status and how he would talk to his director to bring

a crew to the Shaba. So all that time, he was using a coded

language for his crimes? The crew had come and killed an

elephant. Now the police were on their case.

Birgen did not know what to do. He wished he could obey

his uncle’s instructions and destroy the letter, but something

inside him said this would be the wrong thing to do. Suppose

his uncle did not mean what he said? Suppose he was trying to

tell him something that was also coded? Was his uncle trying

to warn him that the police would be coming to interrogate

him?

He remembered Mr Kumbuko’s words: “Today’s news is

tomorrow’s history”.

He folded the letter and put it in his shirt pocket, then

walked towards the staffroom.

“I need some advice, Teacher,” he said when he saw Mr

Kumbuko sitting in his corner, marking some exercise books.

“Don’t tell me that you are having trouble with the girls,”

the teacher said in jest.

“It is not girl trouble, sir,” Birgen said. He wished he could

tell him that this was much much more than girl trouble. He

was dealing with an international crime here, not matters of

the heart.

“Shoot,” Mr Kumbuko said.

Birgen hesitated. He did not want the other teachers to

hear what he had to say.

“It is a little personal, Teacher,” Birgen said.

Reluctantly, Mr Kumbuko rose from his desk and together,

the two walked out of the staff room.

When they were alone, Birgen removed the letter from his

pocket and handed it to his teacher.

“I got this from my uncle and I do not know what to do

with it,” he said, his hand shaking and his voice quavering

with fear.

Mr Kumbuko took the letter, unfolded it and started

reading it. He stiffened more with every sentence that he read.

His face darkened.

“This is bad,” he said, shaking the letter in the air. “This,

my friend, is very bad.”

“What should I do, Teacher?”

Birgen was worried. From the way Mr Kumbuko spoke,

it was clearly evident that Birgen had succeeded in getting

himself in a lot of trouble.

“Do not mention this to anyone,” Mr Kumbuko said. “Let

me keep the letter. If the police come, just tell them everything

you know and tell them nothing but the truth.”

“Yes, sir,” Birgen said.

“Now go back to class, and not a word to anybody. Not

even Lopiding.”

******

As sure as the sun rises in the East, the detectives from the

Directorate of Criminal Investigations came to the school on

a hot Monday afternoon. The air had been thick and still as

though the elements knew that something monumental was

about to happen. However, it was not too keen to share its

secret with the rest of the school community.

Ms Lavini was taking Birgen’s class through a further

lesson on electricity when the principal, Madam Malinda,

knocked on the door. It was unusual for anyone at Shompole

to interrupt a class in session. And so Madam Malinda’s

appearance could mean only one thing: trouble.

Birgen’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth went dry.

Madam Malinda consulted with Ms Lavini in low tones.

The latter looked in Lopiding’s direction, a darkened

expression clouding her otherwise sunny features.

“Lopiding, the Principal would like to talk to you,” she

said.

Confused, Lopiding rose uncertainly from his desk and

walked out of the class. As soon as he had closed the door

behind him, a wave of chatter swept through the classroom.

“Someone is going to get six of the best,” Milly said with a

chuckle. Some of the other students laughed. Birgen did not.

He had not been expecting Lopiding to be the one to leave the

room. What could his friend possibly have done to merit an

appearance at ‘The Hague’ as they called Madam Malinda’s

office.

Ms Lavini had gone and the English teacher, Mr Wainaina,

was halfway through his lesson when Lopiding breezed

in, looking agitated. He glowered at his deskmate with an

intensity that could have bored holes right through him.

“It is the police,” he hissed at Birgen. “It is you they want.

They are waiting for you.”

The worst had come to pass. Birgen wished that a giant

fish would fly into his classroom, swallow him whole and

vomit him in the Indian Ocean. He started sweating. Before

he could reach the door, there was another knock. Madam

Malinda was back.

“Come,” she said, pointing a finger with a sharp red nail in

Birgen’s direction, without waiting to consult Mr Wainaina.

There was uproar in the class as Birgen walked out. Madam

Malinda opened the door again.

“One more word from you guys and you will spend the

rest of the afternoon uprooting the trees in the farm,” she

warned sternly.

By now, curiosity was getting the better of the students.

They started bombarding Lopiding with questions. Mr

Wainaina was having difficulty controlling the unruly youths

who were demanding answers.

“Okay, people, let us get this over with,” he said. “Lopiding,

what is happening?”

“The police are here,” Lopiding said.

“What do they want?” the teacher asked, as anxious as his

students.

“It seems Birgen is mixed up with terrorists and poachers,”

Lopiding said, dropping the bombshell unceremoniously.

“Terrorists?” the class shouted.

“They wanted to know what I know. They are saying that

Birgen’s uncle shot the elephant that Mr Kumbuko was telling

us about the other day.”

A deathly silence descended on the youngsters. One could

have heard an ant crawling on the floor.

“What has that got to do with us?” Milly asked.

“Birgen travelled to the game park with his uncle, who is a

game warden, just days before the elephant was killed.”

“Did you tell them that he had nothing to do with it?”

someone else asked.

“We should chase the police out of our school. They can

take their investigations elsewhere,” another one shouted,

banging her desk with her fist.

“Easy, people. Take it easy,” Mr Wainaina said, trying to

calm down the class. “There must be a rational explanation

for it all. No one has been arrested.”

“We demand to know! We demand to know!” the students

shouted. Soon, the whole school was in a riot.

The students streamed out of their classes, shouting and

punching the air with their clenched fists as they marched

towards the principal’s office.

The detectives, hearing the noise, dashed from Madam

Malinda’s office, where they were questioning Birgen in

Mr Kumbuko’s presence. When they saw how agitated the

students were, they drew their guns and started firing in the

air.

In panic, the students started screaming and running in all

directions, some falling and being trampled on by the others

as they fled, fearing for their lives. Some of the bigger boys

started throwing stones at the officers. More shots rang out as

the three policemen in plain clothes ran towards their car and

sped off, their guns trained on the rioting students. Soon, they

were gone. But despite their hurry, one of the officers ensured

that he had pocketed the letter that Uncle Toms had written

to Birgen.

After the officers had left, it took the teachers more than

two hours to restore peace in the school. By that time, some

classroom windows had been shattered by flying stones and

some of the Form Four students had attempted to loot from

the kitchen during the confusion. One Form Three student

was even found by a security guard running towards the

dormitories carrying a can full of petrol. Madam Malinda

immediately suspended him and told him to return after two

weeks, accompanied by his parents.

After the unrest—which came to be known in the school as

‘The Poaching Riots’—Birgen wished that time would just

melt and bring the school year to a swift end.

He had not known peace since that day. In fact, everyone

started calling him “Poachers”. Although it made him

something of a celebrity among the older students, he felt that

the nickname was tinged with a hint of malice, which he did

not at all like. Unfortunately for him, the more he resisted

the name, the more it stuck. At some point, he just gave up,

accepted his new identity and even appeared to revel in the

notoriety that it implied.

Besides getting a break from the daily reminder of the

fracas, which Birgen wished would become history sooner

rather than later, he had two missions that he wanted to

accomplish during the Christmas holidays.

First on his mind, of course, was finishing the project

that he had started. That term’s lessons with Ms Lavini about

how electricity was generated and transmitted had fired

his imagination. He could not wait to return to his secret

experiment. He had some ideas in mind and he was itching to

try them out although he knew that required quite some time.

Chapter Eleven

Because he was busy with school and did not want his friends

to know what he was up to just yet, he decided to wait until

the holidays.

The other thing that made him look forward to the

holidays was meeting his potential aunt. Uncle Toms had

mentioned in earlier conversations that he would introduce

her to his family in December to set the stage for a wedding

in June of the following year. Besides Birgen, Uncle Toms had

not shared the surprise with anyone else in the family, not

even his mother, who was always asking him when he would

get her a granddaughter.

Unknown to him, the drama that had come to characterize

his life, was far from over.

About six weeks after ‘The Poaching Riots’, Birgen received

a letter that had the words ‘Republic of Kenya’ emblazoned in

bold on a large brown envelope. He had no idea what was

inside. It was only after he opened that he realized that he had

been summoned to court.

The letter read:

To Whom it May Concern

REF: TOBIAS BIRGEN

This is to inform you that the above-named has been

summoned as a prosecution witness in the case of ‘The

Republic of Kenya vs Benjamin Saliti and six others in the

High Court of Nairobi on 10

December at 9:00am.

The letter went on to give details about the court room

where the case would be heard and the name of the judge.

It also listed the other individuals who were standing trial

alongside Mr Saliti.

What pleased Birgen at once was that his uncle’s name

was not on the list of suspects. He had been worried that

Uncle Toms would be accused of having killed the elephant.

However, the thought of appearing before a judge filled him

with panic.

What would Mr Saliti say if he saw him testifying against

him? If he could order a protected elephant to be killed, how

about an orphaned teenager?

However, the more he thought about it, the more he was

convinced that testifying was the best decision to make. First,

he reckoned, he would get his revenge on Mr Saliti for having

put him in danger of being in collision with the law. Secondly,

he would be doing justice to the memory of Hassan. If Mr

Saliti were found guilty and jailed, other poachers would be

afraid and attacks against elephants would be reduced. It

was even possible that the person who would succeed him

as Director of Security at the conservation agency would be

an honest person who would take the campaign to protect

endangered species seriously.

After reading the letter several times, Birgen immediately

decided to share the information with Uncle Toms. He was

overjoyed to know that his uncle would not be arrested or

taken to court as a suspect. That would have been devastating.

He remembered all the work that his uncle had done trying to

protect wild animals in the Lake Nakuru National Park from

being harmed or from harming people who lived and farmed

nearby.

As he was writing his letter, it occurred to him that that

was the same spirit that was needed in other places where the

conflict between wild animals and communities was rife. If

there were more people like Uncle Toms ensuring that the

balance was maintained, people like Lopiding would not be

so hostile towards elephants. But it also occurred to him that

the farmers who were always growing maize and other crops

that attracted elephants, needed to be educated to change to

new crops so that the temptation for the animals to raid their

farms would be reduced. Alternatively, they could form a

cooperative, pool their resources together and build a tourist

hotel, just as the community in the Shaba had done. That way,

tourists could go to watch the animals and the community

would not mind if the elephants kept coming back.

The thought made him laugh because he could imagine

Lopiding as a tour guide dressed in khaki uniform, beige

safari boots and a green, brimmed hat with the image of an

elephant on the crown, asking the tourists under his charge to

wake up early so that he could show them where the elephants

would pass on their way to play in the river.

******

When Birgen’s mother heard that her son had accepted to

testify in a case against poachers, she travelled from her home

in Ololulung’a to Narok to ask Mzee Moiyoi why he was

allowing a child to risk his life by giving evidence in a case

involving dangerous criminals.

She had meant to confront Mzee Moiyoi but when she got

to her father-in-law’s homestead she found a large gathering.

There were many women in colourful, flowing dresses which

contrasted sharply with the traditional Maasai attire that their

hosts were wearing. Most of the men were wearing suits while

a few were wearing Kitenge shirts. A few of the elderly guests

and neighbours were clad in shukas. Everyone was in a festive

mood.

At first, Birgen’s mother, Regina, did not understand what

was going on.

When her mother-in-law saw her walking into the

homestead, she dropped everything she was doing and ran to

welcome her home.

“My daughter, my daughter,” she said, shedding tears of

joy as she embraced Birgen’s mother.

The two women clung to each other, their emotions

running high.

Birgen’s mother had not expected such a rousing welcome.

She had not visited her in-laws since her husband’s death. Not

that there was any bad blood between them. Indeed, she loved

them but the death of her husband had robbed her of all joy,

thrusting her into a long period of mourning. Her in-laws

were elderly and Mzee Moiyoi had trouble with one of his

legs, which made it difficult for him to walk. As such, they too

could not visit her.

“Where is our child?” Mama Moiyoi asked at last, enquiring

about Birgen’s younger sister, Matilda.

“I did not come with her, Mother. She is looking after the

homestead. I did not know you had visitors,” Regina said.

“Welcome home. Today our son is going to show us the

girl that he wants to marry. That is why all these people are

here. Come and say hello to them.”

Mama Moiyoi held Regina by the hand.

“This is my daughter,” she told everybody as she introduced

her daughter-in-law to the gathered relatives.

Regina forgot all about her troubles. She was glad to see

so many of the relatives that she had not seen in a long time.

Every one of them hugged her and many shed tears of joy.

They were so happy to see her in good health and with a

smile on her face. She was asked so many questions that she

sometimes forgot to answer some of them.

Soon, they heard the unmistakable purring of an

approaching vehicle.

“That must be Tomson,” someone in the crowd said.

All the people rose to their feet and walked towards the

gate to welcome the visitors.

Uncle Toms was the first to alight, followed by Birgen.

Then Uncle Toms went round to the passenger side and

opened the door for Victoria.

Although he had travelled with her from Nakuru, Birgen

had not stopped admiring Victoria’s easy-flowing dress which

was the colour of the sky. She looked tall and elegant. Seeing

so many people gathered to welcome her lit up her face.

Uncle Toms was leading the way. When he saw Regina, he

stopped in shock.

“My sister!” he exclaimed joyfully. “You came!” He rushed

forward and hugged Regina. Birgen was still in shock at seeing

his mother. She had put on more weight since the last time he

had seen her. And she had made her hair into beautiful braids.

“Mother!” he said.

“Birgen!” she answered back. Tears were streaming down

her cheeks. She held out her arms and Birgen ran towards her

with abandon.

For a moment, they forgot about the world around

them. They did not see the women leading Victoria into the

homestead. What mattered to Birgen most at that moment

was that his mother had ended her many years of mourning.

They were going to be happy again, just as they had been

when he was a little boy and the two of them would be left at

home as his father travelled to Nairobi for business.

William Wellington Wefwafwa was a famous dramatist in his

youth. As a student at Kakamega High School, he had won

numerous awards for lead actor during the National Schools

and Colleges Drama Festivals.

He studied law at the University of Nairobi where he

expanded his acting prowess by taking part in television

dramas. However, he also learnt that he could turn the

courtroom into a stage, with himself playing the leading role

of bringing the bad guys to justice. That was when, while he

was still a student, he made up his mind that he would become

a prosecutor after obtaining his law degree.

While his friends sought to be hired by the most successful

law firms in the city, Wefwafwa walked into the Attorney-

General’s Chambers and asked for an appointment with the

Director of Public Prosecutions.

“I want to be a prosecutor,” he said after a formal

introduction.

“You do understand, I hope, that you will never become a

rich man from working as a prosecutor,” the DPP told him.

“I understand that perfectly, sir, but I still want the job,” he

said. “At any rate, I can invest my income in other ways that

can generate wealth over time.”

Chapter Twelve

The DPP was impressed by his confidence.

“Give me three weeks, then come back. I will have a letter

for you. If you do not find me, ask for Beryl Kamwende, my

deputy. She will be happy to assist you. Congratulations and

all the best to you.”

Wefwafwa could not believe his luck. He had landed an

opportunity to pursue his dream job without breaking much

of a sweat. Although it would be a whole year before he was

given his first case, he used every visit to the courtroom to learn

the tricks of the trade; to make acquaintances with the judges,

observe the witnesses and, most of all, observe the behaviour

of the suspects. He became so good at his observations that he

could tell which case could be won and which one would be

lost long before the judges made their rulings.

He would have remained a relatively unknown figure

outside the corridors of justice were it not for an accidental

occurrence.

A Cabinet Secretary had been arrested for corruption. The

allegation was that he had embezzled one hundred million

shillings of taxpayers’ money by paying for computers which

were never delivered.

The DPP himself was to handle the high profile case. But

the day before it began, he was involved in a road accident

that caused widespread protests because the public believed

that the road accident had been an attempt to stop him from

prosecuting the case.

His deputy, Kamwende, who would have taken over the

case, had travelled to Australia for a conference on how to

prosecute international crimes like money laundering and

piracy. She would have needed at least two days to cancel her

trip and travel back to Kenya.

The DPP called Wefwafwa from the hospital and asked

him to hold briefs for him.

“I will take over once I leave hospital,” he said.

Wefwafwa could not believe what he had just been told.

He had been totally unprepared for the case. He asked for the

file from the DPP’s private office and studied it all night. By

the time he entered the packed courtroom, his eyes were red

for lack of sleep. If one could use pegs to keep the eyelids from

closing, Wefwafwa would have done so.

Fortunately for him, the judge was late by ten minutes on

account of a heavy traffic jam on the way from her house in

Kileleshwa. By the time the trial began, Wefwafwa had taken

a short nap. He was ready for the stage when the court clerk

signalled the arrival of the judge.

“Are we ready to proceed?” she asked once she had settled

in.

“We are, Your Ladyship,” Wefwafwa said.

“And the defence team?” she asked, looking at the lawyer

representing the accused.

“Your Ladyship,” the lawyer said, rising to his feet, “you

may be aware of the circumstances that have befallen our

learned friend, the DPP. In view of that, Your Ladyship, I

would like to request the court to set my client free on bail

while we wait for him to be discharged from the hospital.”

The judge wrote furiously in her book before turning to

Wefwafwa.

“What do you have to say to that?” she said, looking at

Wefwafwa.

“With all due respect to the defence team and

notwithstanding that the DPP is indisposed, Your Ladyship,

the prosecution is ready to proceed with the case.”

“I think we should start with the introductions. Some of

you are strangers to my court,” the judge said, making no

attempt to hide the fact that she was referring to Wefwafwa.

Wefwafwa chuckled.

“Much obliged, Your Ladyship. My name is William

Wellington Wefwafwa. I will be prosecuting this case on

behalf of the Republic of Kenya.”

Wefwafwa’s introduction caused a stir in the public gallery.

“Silence in court,” the judge ordered, striking her gavel

sternly.

“Defence team?” she said.

“Your Ladyship, I am no stranger to this honourable court.

My name is Senior Counsel Magambo wa Magambo. I will

be representing the Cabinet Secretary for Enterprise Affairs,

Your Ladyship, and I intend to demonstrate from the outset

that we have the wrong man in the dock …”

“Mr Magambo,” the judge warned, “if you could restrict

yourself to the introduction please …”

“Much obliged, Your Ladyship,” Mr Magambo said

pompously. He was a well-known criminal lawyer with many

years of practice under his belt. He knew every judge on a

first name basis on account of the fact that he played golf and

shared drinks with them in their free time. He had secured

many victories for his clients, many of whom were rich and

influential. He did not expect this case to be different.

On that day, however, and on subsequent ones, he was not

prepared for the surprises that awaited him. The final blow

came when Wefwafwa secured a conviction in a record two

weeks. Ten days later, the Cabinet Secretary was sentenced

to a five-year jail term. And on the day he was to begin his

sentence, Wefwafwa obtained a court order authorizing the

government to sell the convict’s assets to recover the money

he had stolen.

The news made headlines in all major newspapers.

“Major victory in war on graft,” the Daily Nation declared.

“Shock as Cabinet Secretary jailed,” the Standard screamed.

All the newspapers used large pictures of Wefwafwa

smiling and Magambo wa Magambo looking displeased in his

expensive, pin-striped suit.

On the day the headlines hit the newsstands, the Cabinet

Secretary suffered a heart attack and had to be taken to the

Aga Khan Hospital.

That was how Wefwafwa had made his grand entry into

the murky world of fighting crime.

Every time lawyers heard that he would be prosecuting

their clients, they would warn the suspects to beware of heart

attacks. With time, it became a running joke in the corridors

of justice.

It was with such a solid reputation behind him that

WWW—as he was now called—took over as the prosecutor

in the case between the Republic of Kenya vs Benjamin Saliti

and six others.

Three judges were hearing the case—two men and one

woman.

Every day of the trial, journalists, conservationists and the

public jammed the court room. Some of them wanted to see

Wefwafwa in action while others, especially the activists, had

openly taken sides and were rooting for a conviction.

About two months into the trial, Wefwafwa announced

that he would be calling his last witness. That was the day

Birgen found himself on the witness stand, where he took an

oath to tell the court the truth and nothing but the truth. He

was looking at his mother, his uncle and his aunt who were

sitting in the public gallery.

Most of the questions that Wefwafwa asked him were

straightforward and Birgen had no problem answering them.

All he was required to do was answer them truthfully and tell

the court what had happened between him, Saliti and Ping.

The questioning did not take long; it lasted about twenty

minutes.

“Does the defence have any questions for the witness?”

one of the judges asked.

“Yes, My Lords and Your Ladyship,” said a tall, slender

man that Birgen did not recognize.

“Young man, you said your name is Birgen?” the lawyer

asked.

“Yes, your honour,” Birgen said.

“Do you remember something called ‘The Poaching

Riots?’”

“Yes, your honour.”

“Can you tell this honourable court how you instigated the

riots?” he asked.

“Your honour, I did not instigate the riots. The students

were …”

“Mr Birgen, are you telling this court that you did not

incite your friends in school to riot and attack police officers

who had come to interrogate you?”

“Your honour, I did not incite them.”

Birgen was already feeling intimidated and he started to

stammer. A thin bead of sweat snaked its way down the side

of his neck before disappearing into his collar.

“Is it true that my client, Mr Saliti, paid for your air ticket

to the Shaba?”

“That is true, your honour.”

“And now you have been paid by the police, whom you

betrayed before, to give a false witness against my client?”

“Objection!” Wefwafwa interjected, jumping to his feet.

“Sustained,” one of the judges said.

The lawyer whipped out a letter from one of the many files

on his desk.

“Mr Birgen, is this forged letter familiar to you?” he asked

contemptuously.

“Objection!” Wefwafwa shouted, getting irritated.

“Refrain from asking leading questions, Mr Itusi!” the lady

judge admonished.

“Are you familiar with this letter?” the lawyer rephrased

his question.

“Yes, I am. It was written by my uncle,” Birgen said,

shaken. He had forgotten all about it. Unbeknown to him, it

had been filed as one of the exhibits.

“This uncle of yours handles guns, doesn’t he?” Mr Itusi

persisted.

“Yes, he does. He is a game ranger.”

“Game ranger indeed, Mr Birgen.”

Birgen did not speak.

“What is your question, Mr Itusi?” the chief judge asked.

“Is your uncle a friend of my client’s?” the lawyer asked.

Before Birgen could answer, the lady judge interjected

again.

“How is that going to help your client’s case, Mr Itusi?”

For a moment, the lawyer turned his attention away from

Birgen.

“Your Ladyship, this witness here is perpetrating a

fraud. His uncle is a purported game ranger. He has access

to weapons that can kill elephants. He also knows where

those elephants are and can walk to any park without being

questioned. He has received favours from my client in the

past, Your Ladyship. However, he is not in the dock with my

client, Your Ladyship. My question is material to this case.”

Having said that, the lawyer retreated, fingering his tie as

the judges took more notes.

“Please answer the question,” the judge said, pointing her

pen at Birgen.

“I don’t know if they are friends. They work together,” he

answered, looking at the judge.

“Mr Birgen,” the lawyer went on, “is it true that my client

was interested in your conservation ideas, including your

suggestion that he could use drones to protect elephants and

rhinos?”

“Yes, up to a …”

“That is all, My Lords and Your Ladyship.”

The lawyer turned his back towards Birgen and walked

back to his seat.

The judges were still writing in their books.

Birgen was at a loss. The lawyer had trapped him. He was

the last witness and his last answer could have been interpreted

to mean that Mr Saliti was being framed.

He wished he could run out of the courtroom.

What if he had let down the prosecutor? What if they lost

the case?

The chief judge struck the bench with her gavel.

“Now that we have heard from the witnesses, when the

court resumes, we will hear final submissions from both the

prosecution and the defence. The court will now adjourn for

fourteen days, during which the suspects will be remanded

into the custody of Kamiti Maximum Security Prison. Court

is adjourned.”

Everyone rose to their feet as the judges left the courtroom.

Orderlies swiftly walked towards the dock, handcuffed the

suspects and led them towards the basement cells. Newspaper

photographers started taking pictures of Saliti as soon as

the judges walked out. Saliti tried to shield his face but the

orderlies restrained him.

“You will pay for this with your life,” Saliti hissed as he

walked past Birgen. His eyes were glowering with hatred.

Standing there on the witness stand, Birgen had no way of

knowing that Saliti was merely making an idle threat. Within

three months, his case would be closed and the man who

had betrayed him, the nation and the shared natural heritage

entrusted to his care would spend the next twenty years of his

life rotting in jail.

Victoria was the most expressive woman that Birgen had

ever met. She could hardly engage in conversation without

moving her hands to demonstrate the point she wanted

to make. Every so often, especially when she was talking to

Uncle Toms, she would raise her hand whenever she felt that

she had made an important point and he would give her a

resounding high-five. It was hilarious to watch them talking.

Their conversations were always animated and it was easy to

see that both of them were happy in each other’s company.

One day, while Birgen was home alone and working on

his project, Victoria arrived unannounced. Birgen had been

sitting on the veranda, his tools spread out around him. His

uncle had not told him that Victoria would be visiting so it

was a surprise to see her walking towards their house, carrying

a polythene bag with the word ‘Nakumatt’ emblazoned on its

side in large blue letters.

“Hi Birgen! Did I interrupt something?” Victoria asked,

surveying the work that had littered the veranda. She put the

shopping bag down, reached in and handed Birgen a small

container of strawberry yoghurt. She knew it was his favourite.

“Hi Aunty,” Birgen said. “Thank you very much for the

yoghurt.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Oh, and what do we have here?” she asked, kneeling down

to examine the large toy fitted with various gadgets. It looked

like something that was meant for an exploration expedition

to Mars.

“It is a machine for catching poachers,” Birgen said. He

was a little embarrassed that the gadget, which was far from

finished, could be assigned such a grand project. At any rate,

that was the first time that anyone other than himself had seen

the project.

“This, here, is a camera. It is meant to record movement

and send the information to a remote location. That way,

rangers with a computer can see the images and detect

threats. The vehicle is powered by batteries, so it will be easy

to maintain. It goes like this.” He took a remote control and

started maneuvering the gadget in various directions.

Victoria marvelled at the gadget as Birgen manipulated it

in different ways.

“Is this not simply great?” she exclaimed, clapping her

hands with delight. “I will help you register the patent, just in

case someone decides to reproduce it on a commercial scale.”

She raised her right hand and Birgen had no choice but to

give her a high-five, the way Uncle Toms did.

“What is a patent?” Birgen asked. It was his turn to be

curious.

“When you develop a product, your ideas are protected by

law. That way, if someone decides to make a similar product,

you have to give him permission or he has to pay you for the

work that you have done,” she said.

“But this is something I am doing just for fun. I do not

intend to sell it to anyone,” Birgen said.

“My dear, you never know. I like the idea. Someone else

might come along and decide to sell it. You will lose nothing

if your idea is patented. You lose everything if it is not,” she

said.

Her argument was so compelling that Birgen found it hard

to resist. He decided to go along with the idea.

“What do I need to do?” he asked.

“The first thing is to give me a sketch showing what your

invention looks like and how it works. Then leave the rest to

me,” Victoria said. She was holding the impressive toy in her

hand. It was much heavier than she had anticipated.

“Where did you get the frame?” she asked, examining the

intricate system of wires and rubber bands that made the

main structure.

“I bought it from a boy in Narok,” Birgen said.

“How much did it cost you?” Victoria asked.

“Only eighty shillings. I could have got it for free if I had

wanted,” he answered.

“You see, you see?” Victoria exclaimed. “That is what I am

trying to tell you. Now if the boy had a patent for the design,

he could have made much more money. This is great. This is

simply great.”

Victoria admired the work. Of course, it could be improved

but that would come with time. She was more interested in

the idea itself.

“You will need to give it a name,” she said thoughtfully.

“It is called Angel of the Wild,” Birgen said without

hesitation.

“Very interesting,” Victoria said, laughing at the curious

choice of the name. “Why did you settle on that name?”

“It is a long story,” Birgen said. He told her about the

dream he had had as a young boy some years back and about

the drone that he had seen during the Science Congress. He

explained how it had inspired the idea to make one that could

be driven rather than flown because it would be cheaper

than a drone. He also told her about how he was upset by

the poachers who targeted elephants and rhinos and how he

hoped that he could do something to stop them.

As he spoke, Victoria was thinking about the idea that

she would write about for her class project. Her lecturer had

asked her and the other college students to find an idea that

had not yet been written about for their project. They were to

trace the idea from its conception and review its progress over

six months. Then they would analyse the idea to see if it was

a success or not.

She liked what Birgen had told her, especially how the

concept had been inspired by a dream. As far as she was

concerned, the project that she would write about was right

there in front of her.

******

When schools re-opened in January, Birgen carried his

project to school. As was routine, teachers at Shompole would

inspect each student’s bags to ensure that they did not carry

contraband to school.

Birgen’s bags were inspected by Mr Kumbuko. When the

teacher saw the gadget, he was curious.

“What is this, Birgen?” he asked, getting the gadget from

Birgen’s bag. When the other students saw it, they started

laughing at Birgen.

“Look who has brought his younger brother’s toy

to school?” asked a Form Four boy who was laughing

uncontrollably. Birgen was embarrassed by all the unwanted

attention.

“It is a project for my Science class,” Birgen said.

“I will have to confiscate it until I am satisfied with your

explanation,” Mr Kumbuko said. “Let me know when you

need it.”

In truth, Mr Kumbuko was intrigued. He suspected that

Birgen had something up his sleeve and he wanted to find

out what it was. From his observation, he had come to the

conclusion that there was much more to Birgen than met the

eye.

Birgen had no objections with Mr Kumbuko keeping his

project. He had come to trust his teacher despite his having

given uncle Toms’s letter to the detectives. As he had come

to learn later, that was what had saved his uncle from being

charged alongside Mr Saliti.

Mr Kumbuko’s decision to keep the gadget turned out

to be a blessing in disguise. Later that evening, a Form Four

student who had laughed at Birgen sought him out during

dinner and demanded to be given the toy.

“Teacher Kumbuko confiscated it,” Birgen had said but

the boy would not believe him. After dinner, he insisted on

inspecting Birgen’s bags. When he realized that the toy was

not there, he took the two-litre bottle of orange juice that

Victoria had bought for him.

100

Ms Lavini went to class in high spirits.

“I have some good news and some bad news,” she said.

“Which one should I start with?”

“The good news!” everyone replied.

“Alright then,” she said with a smile. “The good news is

that this year, Madam Malinda has approved our budget to

make a presentation at the Science Congress.”

To Birgen, this was the best news of the year. At last, he

thought, he would get a chance to showcase his project.

“And what is the bad news?” he asked in trepidation.

“The bad news is that we have to come up with an idea

within ten days if we are to qualify.”

All the students started scratching their heads. Although

they had enjoyed their last trip to the Science Congress, they

had nothing prepared. Ten days was a very short time.

Silence descended on the classroom.

“What will we do?” Ms Lavini asked expectantly.

No one had an answer to her question.

“Will we let the chance go, just like that? And you know

what, the school with the best idea this year will get laboratory

equipment worth a hundred thousand shillings among other

Chapter Fourteen

101

prizes. As you know, our school badly needs equipment but

we must take the first step of courage even if we do not win.”

Her impassioned plea moved the classroom. Everyone was

thinking hard but no one came up with any idea.

At last, Birgen raised his hand.

“I have an idea,” he said. The relief in the entire classroom

was evident. Everyone shouted and clapped for him.

“Well done, ‘Poachers’,” said Milly.

“Tell us about it,” Ms Lavini said, encouraged.

“May I make a presentation during the next class?” he

asked.

“That is very okay. So you will be the teacher the next time

we have a double lesson, and I will be one of your students,”

she said.

By the next double lesson, Birgen had collected his project

from Mr Kumbuko and entrusted it to the lab assistant, since

all double lessons were usually conducted in the laboratory.

He reached under the table and put the gadget where

everybody could see.

A roar of disappointment swept through the class.

“Give him a chance,” Ms Lavini pleaded.

When the class had quieted down, Birgen started his

presentation, remembering how the girls from Mashujaa

Secondary School had done theirs with such confidence. That

was what inspired him as he explained how the gadget worked

and what it could do. The shouts of disappointment were

replaced by the rapt silence of people who were intrigued.

102

“Now I can take questions and suggestions,” Birgen said

at last.

“Before we ask questions or make comments, I would like

us all to first appreciate Birgen for the work he has done,” Ms

Lavini said. She was clearly impressed.

Lopiding was the first to make a comment.

“If that gadget is going to use ordinary batteries, it is not

likely to be very effective because someone will need to keep

replacing them. I suggest we remove the batteries and replace

them with a small solar panel so that the gadget can use solar

power to generate its own electricity. If we do that, the vehicle

will also be lighter and easier to manoeuvre,” he said, gaining

confidence with each sentence.

“Is that not a great idea?” asked Ms Lavini.

“It is. We will work on it together,” Birgen said.

Milly’s hand went up.

“I suggest we also turn the gadget into a wi-fi hotspot. That

way, it will be able to send images in real time to a control

and command centre. That way, it will be more effective in

catching poachers in real time.”

The applause that greeted her suggestion was deafening.

“You should have been a boy,” said Auma.

Everyone laughed.

“Any other suggestion?” Ms Lavini asked.

“We have a neighbour whose lights can detect people

walking by,” Auma said, to everyone’s consternation. No

one dared to interrupt her this time round. “I don’t know,

103

maybe we can borrow that idea and see if we can have a light

with a motion sensor. That means it can send a signal when

the gadget senses people in the forest. I am not sure … just

thinking.”

Everyone was in shock. No one had heard Auma speak at

length about anything until then. They did not know how to

react.

Ms Lavini was the first to break the silence.

“From what I am hearing, we have accepted the project.

We are actually suggesting improvements on it. Shall I take it,

then, that this will be our project this year?”

The answer was a unanimous and resounding “Yes”.

“In that case, we need to start working on the improvements

immediately,” Ms Lavini said.

******

Unlike in the previous year when the group from Shompole

had only spent an afternoon at the Science Congress, they

spent three days in Nairobi when they became participants.

The venue and the sponsors had not changed. Since

accommodation in the city was expensive, the boys were

hosted at Starehe Boys Centre while the girls were at Starehe

Girls Centre. Every morning, the bus would drive from the

girls’ school to pick the boys, after which the whole group

would proceed to KICC where they would spend the day

explaining to visitors how their innovation worked.

It was an exciting time for everyone. Various schools

had come up with different ideas and judges were clearly

104

impressed with the level of innovation among the students,

even those from upcountry schools.

The word must have spread because by the third day, the

number of visitors increased dramatically. The congress even

got a mention in the newspapers and on prime time TV news.

Although the first two days were fun-filled for Birgen

and his friends, the same could not be said for the third. By

afternoon, they were getting anxious. The school with the

most innovative idea would be named later that evening.

As the clock ticked, so did their anxiety increase. Infact

all the students were growing restless. Tempers flared and

teachers had to intervene to restrain their students.

By the time the doors were closing to the public at five

o’clock, one could register the tension on a sensoring machine

if there was such a thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice on the public address

system said. “Teachers and students from the participating

schools are kindly requested to congregate in the plenary

hall for the closing and award ceremony which is set to start

in about fifteen minutes. Kindly take your seats before the

ceremony starts. Thank you and good evening.”

There was near pandemonium as the students rushed to

the plenary hall to take up seats in the best positions available.

Those who were not fast enough had to be settle for the seats

at the back.

There was a great deal of noise as the chair of the judges

made her remarks. Very few people heard what she said. The

students tried their best to drown her comments so she could

105

cut them short. They were interested only in knowing which

school would be triumphant.

At last, the Chief Executive Officer of General Electric rose

to his feet. Suddenly, the hall was quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we have all been

waiting for has come. However, I would like to say one or two

things before we name this year’s winning school.

“We had very strong entries this year compared to previous

years. If this trend continues, I believe that we will have an

innovation with far-reaching industrial applications in three

to five years.

“This year, we have three shortlisted contenders and I will

speak about them in no particular order.”

The hall was dead silent.

“One of them is an idea with far-reaching health

implications. There is a school that has devised a trap which

imitates the sound that a male anopheles mosquito makes

when it wants to attract a female to mate.”

On hearing this, a group of girls in the front row jumped

from their seats and started ululating but were booed to

silence.

“What that means,” the CEO went on, “is that we could

actually win the war against malaria if this innovation is

adopted. It also means that there is no reason why malaria

should remain a leading killer going forward.

“The other idea which we found exciting and which has

huge commercial prospects for us at General Electric is Angel

of the Wild, a toy that can be used to fight poaching. Indeed,

our engineers have said that this idea could also be translated

106

into a computer game to teach school children worldwide

about conservation.”

The team from Shompole jumped from their seats and

started celebrating. They, too, were booed into silence.

“This is a gadget that has huge security, entertainment and

educational possibilities and we will be contacting the school

to explore the possibility of working together on this.”

Birgen remembered what his aunt had told him when she

found him working on the project during the holidays. Her

words had come to pass.

“The third idea, ladies and gentlemen …” Birgen did not

hear the rest of the words. He was too excited. What had

started as a simple idea was on the verge of being adopted by

a leading industrial company in the world. It would not only

be used for the purpose that he had intended but also as a toy

and an educational tool. He could not believe it.

“And the winner tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is … the

mosquito trap by Mashujaa Secondary School.”

Birgen joined the rest of the gathering in giving the

winners a thunderous applause and a standing ovation. He

was smiling from ear to ear. He knew that he and his friends

were also winners and that their dreams were valid.

The End