I went over to the dining tent and told Nguili, who was tidying it up, what I wanted for breakfast. It was an egg sandwich with the egg fried firm with either ham or bacon and sliced raw onion. If there was any fruit I would have some and first I would have a bottle of Tusker beer.
G.C. and I nearly always drank beer for breakfast unless we were hunting lion. Beer before or at breakfast was a fine thing but it slowed you up, possibly a thousandth of a second. On the other hand it made things seem better sometimes when they were not too good and it was very good for you if you had stayed up too late and had gastric remorse.
Nguili opened the bottle of beer and poured a glass. He loved to pour beer and see that the foam rose just at the very last and topped the glass without spilling. He was very good-looking, almost as good-looking as a girl without being at all effeminate and G.C. used to tease him and ask him if he plucked his eyebrows. He may very well have since one of the great amusements of primitive people is to arrange and rearrange their appearance and it has nothing to do with being homosexual. But G.C. used to tease him too much, I thought, and because he was shy, friendly and very devoted, an excellent mess attendant who worshipped the hunters and fighters, we used to take him hunting with us sometimes. Everyone made fun of him a little for his wonderful surprise at and ignorance of animals. But he learned every time he was out and we all teased him lovingly. We all regarded any form of wound or disaster to one of us which was not crippling nor fatal as extremely comic and this was hard on this boy who was delicate and gentle and loving. He wanted to be a warrior and a hunter but instead he was an apprentice cook and a mess attendant. In the meantime that we lived in and were all so happy in that year, one of his great pleasures, since he was not yet allowed by tribal law to drink, was to pour beer for those who were allowed to drink it.
“Did you hear the leopard?” I asked him.
“No, Bwana, I sleep too hard.”
He went off to get the sandwich which he had called out to the cook to make and he hurried back to pour more beer.
Msembi, the other mess attendant, was tall, handsome and rough. He always wore his green mess attendant’s gown with the air of participating in a masquerade. He achieved this by the angle he wore his green skullcap and he had ways of manipulating the gown which showed that while he respected it for his service he realized it was a little comic. With Mary and I alone we did not need two men for the mess but the cook was going back to see his family shortly and take allotments to the families of the men and while he was away Msembi would cook. Like everyone but me he hated the Informer and this morning when the Informer appeared outside the mess tent and coughed discreetly he looked at me meaningfully, bowed, closing his eyes slightly, and they both went out.
“Come in, Informer,” I said. “What is the word?”
“Jambo, my brother,” the Informer said. He was closely muffled in his shawl and he removed his porkpie hat. “There is a man from beyond Laitokitok waiting to see you. He claims that his Shamba was destroyed by elephants.”
“Do you know him?”
“No, brother.”
“Leave and send him in.”
The Shamba owner came in and bowed at the door and said, “Good morning, sir.”
I saw he had the town Mau Mau style of haircut, parted on the side with the part cut out with a razor. But that could mean nothing.
“These elephants?” I asked.
“They came last night and destroyed my Shamba,” he said. “I believe it is your duty to control them. I would like you to come tonight and kill one to drive them away.”
And leave the camp unguarded and this nonsense on, I thought. “Thank you for the report on the elephants,” I said. “A plane is arriving here shortly and we will take you with us and make a reconnaissance of the damage done to your Shamba and attempt to locate the elephants. You will show us your Shamba and the exact damage done.”
“But I have never flown, sir.”
“You’ll fly today. And you will find it both interesting and instructive.”
“But I have never flown, sir. And I could be ill.”
“Sick,” I said. “Not ill. One must respect the English language. Sick is the word. But paper containers will be provided. Aren’t you interested in seeing your property from the air?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will be most interesting. It will be almost as though you had a map of your domain. You will have a knowledge of its topographical features and its contours impossible to acquire in any other way.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. I was feeling a little bit ashamed but there was the haircut and the camp had enough stuff in it to be well worth a raid in force and if Arap Meina and Ngui and I were sucked off from it on an elephant and bull story it would be easy to rush.
Then he tried once more not knowing that each time he made it a little worse.
“I do not think that I should fly, sir.”
“Look,” I said. “Every one of us here has flown or has wished to fly. It is a privilege for you to see your own country from the air. Have you never envied the birds? Have you never wished to be the eagle or even the hawk?”
“No, sir,” he said. “But today I will fly.”
Then I thought even if he is our enemy or a crook or merely wants an elephant killed for meat he has made the correct and dignified decision. I stepped out and told Arap Meina that this man was under arrest and not to inform him but guard him properly and not allow him to leave the camp nor to look into the tents and that we were taking him up in the ndege.
“He is guarded,” Arap Meina said. “Do I fly too?”
“No. You flew enough last time. Ngui flies today.”
Ngui grinned too and said, “Mzuri sana.”
“Mzuri,” Arap Meina said, and grinned. I told him I would send the Shamba owner out and I asked Ngui to go down and check on the wind sock and spook any animals off the homemade landing strip in the meadow.
Mary came out to the mess tent in her fresh bush kit that Mwindi had washed and ironed for her. She looked as new and young as the morning and noticed that I had drunk beer with or before breakfast.
“I thought you only did that when G.C. was here,” she said.
“No. Often I drink it in the morning before you’re awake. I’m not writing and it’s the only time of day it’s cold.”
“Did you find out anything about the lion from all those people who were here talking?”
“No. There’s no news of the lion. He didn’t talk in the night.”
“You did,” she said. “You were talking to some girl that wasn’t me. What was it that there was no remedy for?”
“I’m sorry I talked in my sleep.”
“You were talking in Spanish,” she said. “It was all about there being no remedy.”
“Must be no remedy then. I’m sorry I don’t remember the dream.”
“I never asked you to be faithful to me in dreams. Are we going to hunt the lion?”
“Honey, what’s the matter with you? We agreed we wouldn’t hunt the lion even if he came down. We were going to lay off him and let him get confident.”
“How do you know he won’t go away?”
“He’s smart, honey. He always moves on after he kills cattle. But he gets confident after he kills game. I’m trying to think in his head.”
“Maybe you ought to think in your own head a little.”