The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (6 page)

R
igby Croxford flew back to Africa alone. He had mixed emotions about leaving his wife in the States. In the end, she decided to attend her previously scheduled medical seminars and stay behind.

***

Rigby had been driving for two days to Mozambique and a rendezvous with Max Turner. Zimbabwe's cantankerous roads slowed them down. His men were either fixing tire punctures or nursing their geriatric vehicles.

At the same time, Turner's private jet landed in Johannesburg. Rigby's longtime hunting partner, Hansel Martin, met Turner at Jan Smuts International Airport. Turner chartered a King Air to fly to the private airstrip at the Sabu Safari Lodge on the border between Mozambique and the Kruger National Park in South Africa.

***

Sam Mabota, Rigby's African tracker, slept in the backseat. Sam emerged from under a woolen blanket and yelled to Rigby over the wind noise. “
Baba
, we traveled this road during the war.” Sam always called Rigby
Baba
, the respectful equivalent for father in his native language. “We were being chased by the Mozambican Army. Do you remember?”

“Of course I bloody well remember,” Rigby yelled back. “Let's hope the Mozambicans have forgotten. Sam, look there.” He pointed at a demolished bridge. “Isn't that the bridge we blew up?”

“It is the same bridge.” What was left of the concrete bridge had been abandoned like most broken things in Africa. The rusting remains of two army trucks lay like overturned tortoises at the bottom of the dried-up riverbed. A skinny boy tended some goats at one end of the bridge. The boy waved to them as they drove past on the newly constructed bridge.

“I miss the war. Hey Sam, it was some good times, wasn't it?”

“
Yebo.
Some days were good, but other days were not so good.”

“I suppose you're right. Christ, I'd love to give it another go. Sam, do you remember the operation into the Ngorima Lands?”

“That was a good day,” replied Sam, smiling.

“I should have never let you tie me up.” When he thought about their feeble attempt at counterterrorism, he laughed. He let Sam march him into a suspected terrorist village at gunpoint. Sam told the headsman he wanted to turn Rigby over to the local communist bigwig. His daydream ended, and he glanced back at Sam.

“I can't believe you just left me. I reckon women can be the most vicious things God ever created. Those Shona women beat the shit out of me. Not often you get to beat a white man. I'm screaming for you to save me, but you're busy talking with some
umfazi
you wanted as your fifth wife. Look at you, you think it's funny,” Rigby said, looking at Sam in the rearview mirror. Sam tried to mask his amusement, but couldn't. “If I had rescued you too early, they would have become suspicious.”

“I remember the chief sent his sons to help you guard me. As soon as we were out of sight, I got myself untied. His sons wanted me to kill you. Said they were waiting for the right time to jump you and let me go. There's no word for loyalty in Shona. I think they ended up fighting on our side.”

“It is true,
Baba
. But mostly, they were hiding.”

He downshifted to allow a troop of baboons to cross the road. “We should be at Dutchy's place anytime now. That's if these bloody tires last. His mother must have been a rhino. I reckon no man that strong can be human. He shoots a .570 nitro express, which is almost an artillery piece. Anyway, he's a damn fine professional hunter, and he knows Mozambique. More importantly, he gets on with the Renamo bandits.”

Sam closed his eyes. I forgot about the bandits, he thought. The lion hunt was the cause of a fight with his youngest wife. He remembered her lecturing him: “Mozambique is the home of devils. Bad things will happen if you go on this safari.”

“Woman, you're trying my patience.”

“I have dreamed about these things,” she said. “Tell Rigby you're too old to go. I love him as much as you do, but he wants to fight another war. I won't watch him get my husband killed. Don't tell me you're doing this for the little money he pays you.”

Twenty years ago, he would have beaten his wife for such insolence. A man becomes tolerant of a woman's words when he gets old. And he liked the feel of her smooth skin against him at night. His older wives would have been happy if he had beaten her. Men and women are not the same, he reflected, smiling.

“
Baba
,
ugifuna
a smoke?”

“I thought you quit smoking, Sam.”

“I'll stop again after we finish this hunt.”

The landscape bottomed out into a savanna or a
bosveld
, as the Afrikaners call it. The Lebombo Mountains appeared out of the afternoon haze. Rigby turned onto a washboard road and then crossed a wooden bridge spanning the Limpopo River. The other trucks followed him in a serpentine conga-line procession, zigzagging around the fallen mahogany trees crisscrossing the road. Elephants had pushed the trees over to feed on the succulent seed pods.

They drove into a meadow or vle
i
populated by umbrella acacias. The land sloped gently down to a narrow tree-lined river. They heard the chuckle of moving water coming from the river. A thatch-roofed sandstone house lay nestled under a large silver terminalia tree in the center of the clearing. There were racks of spiral and sickle shaped antelope horns over the windows. Two bleached elephant skulls marked the walkway to the house. The trucks scattered some clucking chickens. The man who walked around from behind the house was almost a giant. A cape of black hair covered his shoulders and chest. His bare feet were the size of boat paddles. Jan Bosshart or Dutchy looked fiendish without incisors. His wife looked like his twin. She suckled a child riding her hip. Two more children hid behind her. Her rump could have hidden more children. Her smile was also in need of dentures. Their African house-servant covered her mouth to hide her smile as is the custom in that part of Africa. She was also barefooted. Dutchy's wife barked at the woman in Afrikaans. The woman chased, caught and rung the necks of four scrawny guinea fowl and three even skinnier chickens.

“
Hoe gaan dit met jou
?” Jan Bosshart greeted Rigby in Afrikaans.

“I am good. And your wife and children?”

“
Goed, dankie
. Come, my friend, we wash up before we eat. Christ man, it's
goed
to see you,” he thundered, putting his hand on Rigby's shoulder.

Rigby's men got out of their truck to stretch. Before they could light their cigarettes, a Jack Russell terrier exploded out of the house. The black-and-brown spotted dog made a beeline for one man and latched on to his pant leg. Two other mongrel dogs yapped and barked, but didn't bite the terrified African. He managed to free himself and climb up on the truck's roof. The enraged terrier raced around the truck trying to find a way up onto the roof.

“
Nee
, Jocko, you little shit. Leave him,” Dutchy yelled, grabbing the growling terrier by the scruff of his neck. “My friend, when was the last time you wore those pants? Don't tell me. I will tell you. You wore them on a hunt. Was it a leopard or a lion hunt?”

“It was a leopard hunt,” the man answered.

“One of you, get him another pair of britches before my Jocko kills him.” The man changed his pants from the safety of the roof. When he tossed the old pants on the ground, Jocko cocked his leg and urinated on the pants. Contented, he jumped up on the same man he had harassed demanding his affection.

“I reckon Jocko is the best hunting dog in all of Zimbabwe. The fact that he hasn't been eaten proves it. If hyenas come around at night, he hides under my bed. If it's a lion or a leopard, he won't stop barking until I let him hide under my covers. Isn't that right, Jocko, my lion killer?” Dutchy said to his dog.

“What took Jocko's ear?” Rigby asked. “A bloody puff adder bit him. I think maybe he's learned his lesson about snakes. Jocko, tell them you've had your fill with snakes.”

The dog barked and nipped at Dutchy's heels. He motioned to his wife. “Come, woman, make us something to eat. We must make our plans for the lion hunt.”

Twin campfires illuminated the Bosshart homestead that night. The Africans tended a fire down by the river. A large, black iron pot of mealy-meal simmered on an open fire. Bats swooped down to feed on the insects attracted to the light. The men were tired from the long drive, but the palm wine lifted their spirits. Soon, singing and bouts of laughter erupted. Jocko lay next to the man he had attacked. Nightfall brought out the hyenas. Their giggling carried across the river. The cackling sent Jocko scampering to his master's side.

The mood around the other campfire was more somber as Dutchy outlined his plan for the hunt. “My friend, the lion hunting in Mozambique has changed. The old way of hanging meat from a tree to bait them no longer works.”

“What's happened to the lions?” Rigby asked.

“In Mozambique, we must use more effective methods.” Dutchy drew a map in the sand with a stick. “This is the Kruger National Game Park. It extends four hundred kilometers along the Mozambican border. For the last five years, Mozambican refugees have been crossing into South Africa. Some are cannabis smugglers, but most of them are looking for work.” He scratched lines in the sand showing the refugee border crossings, and then stuck his stick in the sand. “This is where we will find our lion. We do have a problem—these Mozambican lions have developed funny appetites.”

“What kind of funny appetites?” Rigby inquired.

“Renamo bandits poached out the buffalo and wildebeest. There was nothing left for the lions to feed on, so they started eating the refugees. In the old days, we used a tape recording of hyenas at a kill or the roars of a big male to bring them into shooting range. These lions have grown too clever to fall for our old tricks.” Dutchy sucked a chicken bone clean and handed it to Jocko. The little dog stood over it and growled at the mongrels.

“We only have two weeks to get Turner's lion. Do you think two weeks is enough time?” Rigby asked.

“
Ja
, two weeks is plenty. I scouted the river last week. The lions are as thick as flies on buffalo shit. Your client will take his lion. The trick is to avoid being eaten,” Dutchy answered and then laughed.

“Mother, show Rigby how we attract the lions,” Dutchy said, turning to his wife. Dutchy's wife turned on a tape recorder. It was a recording of a woman and a young child screaming. The sound quieted the men. Jocko started to whimper.

“It's horrible. Is that you?” Rigby asked, addressing Dutchy's wife.

“
Ja
, she's a fine actor, no? The lions cannot resist it. We must be very cautious, my friend.”

“I'll certainly drink to that.” Rigby clicked his beer bottle with Dutchy's. “Helen will skin me alive if I get myself eaten.”

***

They broke camp early the next morning. Dutchy couldn't squeeze into the cab of Rigby's truck; he grabbed Jocko and climbed into its bed. Both were sleeping by the time they reached the border. The Zimbabwean border guards demanded bribes, which Rigby refused to pay. In the end, the guards relented and waved them through.

Rigby remarked that the roads in Mozambique made the roads in Zimbabwe look like a German autobahn. Five hours after crossing the border, they came to a barricade. Four raggedly dressed Africans with AK-47s draped over their shoulders walked out of the bushes. One man was missing a hand. Dutchy jumped out of the lead truck and walked forward to greet them. As he walked by, he whispered to Rigby, “Renamo
banditos
. I know this bunch. All they want is some of our food.”

Rigby continued to smile, but eased his rifle into his lap. “Sam, if the shit starts—remember to duck.”

“The devil with one hand is their leader. Shoot him first.” Sam whispered back.

“Precisely my thoughts. Just be ready.” His voice faded so that only Sam could hear him. “And how are you today, you sneaky-looking bastards?” he said, smiling.

Their leader greeted Dutchy in his native language. “
Avuxen ku njihani
?” he inquired politely. Dutchy answered him in Portuguese. “
Ola, bom dia
.”

The bandits laughed and touched Dutchy's massive arms. Dutchy nodded to reassure Rigby. Their one-handed leader swung his weapon down and stuck his head in the window. “Hello. How are you today?” he asked, trying his best English.

“Do we have some food for them?” Dutchy yelled. “They say they have not eaten in two days.” “Dutchy, ask them about the lions.”

“
Ja
, they say there are lions at the bottom of the valley. They can hear them roaring at night. They have been sleeping in the trees like baboons. This one says we should sleep in our trucks.” Dutchy put his hand on the man's shoulder. “My friend, I think he gives us good advice.”