Blood at Shimba Hills

The dusky, warm air blows on my face as my wife, Seema, and Mangara our cook, travel to Simba Hill game reserve, 32 sandy miles south of Mombasa. Its 34 degrees C outside and I can smell sweetcorn char-grilling as we approach the main gate. Only 6:24pm and already the giant orange-slice of sun is beginning to slide out of the sky.

“Jambo” says the guard as he guides us towards our tent. Darkness comes suddenly and the noise intensifies, crickets, the anguished yawn of an elephant. I swat a mosquito. The heavy sound of a lion rumbles through everything. This is real.

The tent is thick with kerosene as the guard lights up our room.

“Oh my god what the hell is that?” Seema and I jump as one. Next to our bed is a statue of a Masai warrior. He must be 6ft 6”, his slender neck is full of rings. A long spear is welded to one hand, in the other, he holds a zebra skin shield. Does he look real! I shiver. His eyes seem to follow me.

“Seema, I really need to eat something.”

After showering, we go in search of supper. Mangara excels. After a lively Talapia fish curry and a few bottles of the local Tusker beer, I’m enjoying myself. “I love animals, I love Africa.”

“Come on you,” smiles Seema,” back to the tent.”

Outside, the darkness throbs, lions crackle in the undergrowth and, within metres, hyenas chatter hungrily. Mosquitos are everywhere, hovering around the outside lamp.

I sit on the bed. A musky scent mingles with the kerosene. “Smells like rotten meat,” I say.

“Don’t be silly, I’m tired, let’s sleep.”

It’s very warm, clammy, and I can feel no breeze from the fan rotating noisily above the bed. As I turn to get underneath my sheet, I stare straight into the Masai warrior’s face.

For a moment, I am certain that he really is there, in human form.

“Stop it.” I say to myself. “It’s a statue.”

As I try to settle, I see his eyes roll from left to right. My breathing stops and I feel like I’m sliding out from the bed. I am absolutely still but my body glistens with sweat. I can’t move. He is going to kill me.

Am I awake? I rub my eyes and have another look at him. He, it, is a statue with painted eyes.

That sense of utter helplessness compels me to stare at the Masai. I try to speak but cannot. I close my eyes, open them and again his follow mine, a dark, vivid warning that he is going to kill me with his spear. Seema is fast asleep. I’m paralysed. Something is about to happen. I can’t scream.

I see another Masai and another, and another, all spread out in front of me. I close my eyes, and do not open them. There’s a tugging, pulling at my sheets, and when I look, I see ten Masai staring at me. Again, I try to scream, but my jaw locks. They disappear and I feel a spasm in my left foot. I blink. Again they appear, laughing, saying something in Swahili, “manjinga” – cursed idiot.

I try to stand but pass out. The shadows pound with pictures of a lion mauling a man or a man killing an animal, back and forth.

Weak, confused, I am helpless to do anything.

The images disappear leaving only an awareness of my foot and of how very damp it feels. The Masai is in the corner, eyes focussed and straight. It is impossible to work out whether I’m falling asleep or waking up.

Its 6:00am, rays of sunshine make slits of light in the heavy air of the tent. My bed sheet has the look of a butcher’s apron. I scrutinise my foot, it is a rainbow of bloody reds.

“I was assaulted last night. He, that, that statue...” I launch into the full story. At first I am full of conviction but the powerful imprint fades as suddenly as daylight and Seema laughs. A huge spider beetle scurries over the floor.

“Think that might have cut your toe?” She bandages the cut.

The Masai is still in the same place and nothing seems to have changed.

Going for breakfast, I pass a Masai. He is the double of the statue in our tent. I stare. He stares back with a familiar, vivid menace.

“Seema,… it’s the Masai from the tent. How did it get out?”

“Don’t be silly, how can a statue ‘get out’? You can’t go around mistaking people for statues!”

“Why is there a statue of a Masai in my bedroom?” I ask the duty breakfast manager.

“Well well, valued guests rarely show any interest,” he sniffs. I stare at him and he continues quietly, “It was carved in honour of Elisah Tamei, a 19 year old Masai herdsman, who 12 years ago saved a family from a lion attack. Here, in the same spot as our camp, as your tent. The Lion mauled him and he was killed instantly.”

“But I’ve just passed him. He’s working here.”

“You are mistaken. The boy died. A statue was carved to mark his bravery. It was placed in the tent.” The manager looks at my bandage. “That foot okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just a bite, a spider beetle...”

“The man the Masai saved, he also cut his left foot,”

I say nothing. I am unnerved and impatient to get back to the tent.

I am looking at the statue. I can see new blood on his spear.

I say to my wife, “I saw the ghost of Elisah Tamei last night.”

“You did have 7 tusker lagers.”

“Darling, listen to me, we have to leave. We have to leave now!”

As we exit the game reserve I look into my rear view mirror and see, sitting next to Mangara, the face of the Masai Statue.

I slowly begin to twist my hand in a tail spin. The Jeep cashes into the solid trunk of a mango. Unripe fruit bangs on the bonnet.

I am back in the tent. Did I ever leave? I have no idea what will happen next but I pray it won’t.

The main photo above, “Olarro Conservancy, Maasai Mara, Kenya” is copyright (c) 2015 Ninara and made available under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 license