The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild by Lawrence Anthony (the ebook reader txt) 📕

scratchy with worry. The Security Police had contacted her, trying to get hold of me, and the news they gave her was enough to terrify any mum. Police informers had infiltrated the homestead of a powerful local induna of an adjoining tribe who controlled an area to the east of Thula Thula and had learnt that assassins had been hired to kill me.

It had to be the cabal. In fact, according to police information, the rogue induna had openly said that if I was bumped off, he and his followers would be able to seize the tribal trust land. Even though it legally belonged to five different clans and I was just the coordinator of the project, they believed that without me involved they could then stake their own claim and torpedo the project. The scenario was reminiscent of the circumstances which led to the murder of conservationist George Adamson of Born Free fame in Kenya many years ago. He was killed by tribesmen who wanted the Kora reserve, where he worked with lions, to be cattle land.

The police even had the names of the assassins, but said they could not act as their information was only hearsay. However, it came from sufficiently reliable sources to be credible, hence the warning.

I know, and love, Zulu culture. It’s part of my daily life. But I also know that if a person does not confront a problem instantly, it can balloon out of all proportion. Fierce blood feuds still flourish today for reasons no one remembers. There was no way around it; this threat had to be confronted head-on, and quickly. I had to pay the induna an early visit.

A good friend and extremely courageous old man, ObieMthethwa, deemed it was too dangerous for me to go to the headman’s kraal alone and volunteered to accompany me. Obie was a senior councillor to the Mthethwa clan, one of the most powerful Zulu tribes and well respected in the area. He and I had become good friends over the years and his presence would be invaluable.

I told Obie the names of the assassins fingered by the police. He knew them by reputation. ‘Tsotsis,’ he said spitting on the ground, using the Zulu pejorative for thugs. That afternoon we drove over rutted tracks deep into rural Zululand to the headman’s home.

It was a picturesque village with traditional round thatched huts neatly set out on top of a hill. People were finishing their daily chores, herd boys bringing in cattle, mothers calling in children, everyone preparing for the night. The smell of the evening meals wafted across the village.

We were made to wait almost an hour and it was dark before being summoned into the kraal. This was an ominous sign and I took much comfort from the fact that Obie was with me. Then we were escorted to the isishayamteto, the largest thatch and clay hut, traditionally used for important business.

Shadows pulsed on the walls from a single candle flame which illuminated the room’s simple furnishings, a table and a few flimsy wooden chairs. I noticed immediately the induna was alone. This was extremely unusual as advisers or councillors always accompanied him. We had seen some of them outside while we waited.

Where were they now? What was it he didn’t want them to hear?

Then, as is Zulu protocol, we began asking about each other’s health, the health of immediate families, and the weather. While all this was going on, I manoeuvred the back of my chair against the wall so no one could sneakbehind me. I wanted to face whatever danger came at me head-first.

Eventually the induna asked the nature of our visit. Speaking in Zulu, I explained that the police had told me there was a contract out on my life and the hitmen hired to do the killing came from the induna’s tribe.

‘Hau!’ he exclaimed. ‘It cannot be my people. They hold you in esteem, Mkhulu. You are the man who is going to bring them jobs with the new game reserve. Why would my people want to kill you?’

‘I know that is true. But the police say their information is also true. They say it is not all of your people that want to kill me – just a gang of tsotsis. They believe that if they kill me, they can grab the land for themselves.’ I paused for an instant and stared directly at him. ‘But we both know that it is not my land. It belongs to other tribes as well, and killing me will not make it someone else’s land.’

Again the headman appeared astonished and I was starting to wonder if perhaps the police information was off-target. He was either innocent or a virtuoso liar.

At that moment we heard a car pull up outside, followed by the traditional shout of identification. About ten minutes later four men walked in. They had come to report to their induna. He told them to sit and they squatted on the floor on their haunches, keeping their heads lower than their boss’s as a token of respect.

As they settled down Obie grabbed my arm and whispered in English: ‘These are the killers – these are the tsotsis whose names the police gave us.’

At first they did not recognize Obie and me in the dim light. But as their eyes grew accustomed to the shadows the sudden startled looks on their faces betrayed them.

I was wearing a bulky bush jacket and in my pocket was a cocked 9-mm pistol. My hand slid around the butt. Igently thumbed off the safety catch and pointed it through the jacket straight at the closest man’s belly.

Obie leaned forward, grabbed my arm hard again and whispered, ‘This is very dangerous. We have to get out. Now!’

But there was no way out. I looked directly at the induna, hand tight on my gun.

‘The police have given me the names of the men out to kill me. Those names are the same as these four men.’ I pointed at