an african story

for england, the war began in september, 1939. the people on the island knew about it

at once and began to prepare themselves. in farther places the people heard about it a few minutes

afterwards, and they too began to prepare themselves.

and in east africa, in kenya colony, there was a young man who was a white hunter, who

loved the plains and the valleys and the cool nights on the slopes of kilimanjaro. he too heard

about the war and began to prepare himself. he made his way over the country to nairobi, and he

reported to the raf and asked that they make him a pilot. they took him in and he began his

training at nairobi airport, flying in little tiger moths and doing well with his flying.

after five weeks he nearly got court-martialled because he took his plane up and instead of

practising spins and stall-turns as he had been ordered to do, he flew off in the direction of nakuru

to look at the wild animals on the plain. on the way, he thought he saw a sable antelope, and

because these are rare animals, he became excited and flew down low to get a better view. he was

looking down at the antelope out of the left side of the cockpit, and because of this he did not see

the giraffe on the other side. the leading edge of the starboard wing struck the neck of the giraffe

just below the head and cut clean through it. he was flying as low as that. there was damage to

the wing, but he managed to get back to nairobi, and as i said, he was nearly court-martialled,

because you cannot explain away a thing like that by saying you hit a large bird, not when there

are pieces of giraffe skin and giraffe hair sticking to the wing and the stays.

after six weeks he was allowed to make his first solo cross-country flight, and he flew off from

nairobi to a place called eldoret, which is a little town eight thousand feet up in the highlands.

but again he was unlucky. this time he had engine failure on the way, due to water in the fuel

tanks. he kept his head and made a beautiful forced landing without damaging the aircraft, not far

from a little shack which stood alone on the highland plain with no other habitation in sight. that

is lonely country up there.

he walked over to the shack, and there he found an old man, living alone, with nothing but a

small patch of sweet potatoes, some brown chickens and a black cow.

the old man was kind to him. he gave him food and milk and a place to sleep, and the pilot stayed

with him for two days and two nights, until a rescue plane from nairobi spotted his aircraft on the

ground, landed beside it, found out what was wrong, went away and came back with clean petrol

which enabled him to take off and return.

but during his stay, the old man, who was lonely and had seen no one for many months, was

glad of his company and of the opportunity to talk. he talked much and the pilot listened. he

talked of the lonely life, of the lions that came in the night, of the rogue elephant that lived over

the hill in the west, of the hotness of the days and of the silence that came with the cold at

midnight.

on the second night he talked about himself. he told a long, strange story, and as he told it, it

seemed to the pilot that the old man was lifting a great weight off his shoulders in the telling.

when he had finished, he said that he had never told that to anyone before, and that he would

never tell it to anyone again, but the story was so strange that the pilot wrote it down on paper as

soon as he got back to nairobi. he wrote it not in the old man’s words, but in his own words,

painting it as a picture with the old man as a character in the picture, because that was the best way

to do it. he had never written a story before, and so naturally there were mistakes. he did not

know any of the tricks with words which writers use, which they have to use just as painters have

to use tricks with paint, but when he had finished writing, when he put down his pencil and went

over to the airmen’s canteen for a pint of beer, he left behind him a rare and powerful tale.

we found it in his suitcase two weeks later when we were going through his belongings after he

had been killed in training, and because he seemed to have no relatives, and because he was my

friend, i took the manuscript and looked after it for him.

this is what he wrote.

the old man came out of the door into the bright sunshine, and for a moment he stood leaning on

his stick, looking around him, blinking at the strong light. he stood with his head on one side,

looking up, listening for the noise which he thought he had heard.

he was small and thick and well over seventy years old, although he looked nearer eighty-five,

because rheumatism had tied his body into knots. his face was covered with grey hair, and when

he moved his mouth, he moved it only on one side of his face. on his head, whether indoors or

out, he wore a dirty white topee.

he stood quite still in the bright sunshine, screwing up his eyes, listening for the noise.

yes, there it was again. the head of the old man flicked around and he looked towards the small

wooden hut standing a hundred yards away on the pasture. this time there was no doubt about it:

the yelp of a dog, the high-pitched, sharp-piercing yelp of pain which a dog gives when he is in

great danger. twice more it came and this time the noise was more like a scream than a yelp. the

note was higher and more sharp, as though it were wrenched quickly from some small place inside

the body.

the old man turned and limped fast across the grass towards the wooden shed where judson

lived, pushed open the door and went in.

the small white dog was lying on the floor and judson was standing over it, his legs apart, his

black hair falling all over his long, red face; standing there tall and skinny, muttering to himself

and sweating through his greasy white shirt. his mouth hung open in an odd way, lifeless way, as

though his jaw was too heavy for him, and he was dribbling gently down the middle of his chin.

he stood there looking at the small white dog which was lying on the floor, and with one hand he

was slowly twisting his left ear; in the other he held a heavy bamboo.

the old man ignored judson and went down on his knees beside his dog, gently running his thin

hands over its body. the dog lay still, looking up at him with watery eyes. judson did not move.

he was watching the dog and the man.

slowly the old man got up, rising with difficulty, holding the top of his stick with both hands

and pulling himself to his feet. he looked around the room. there was a dirty rumpled mattress

lying on the floor in the far comer; there was a wooden table made of packing cases and on it a

primus stove and a chipped blue-enamelled saucepan. there were chicken feathers and mud on the

floor.

the old man saw what he wanted. it was a heavy iron bar standing against the wall near the

mattress, and he hobbled over towards it, thumping the hollow wooden floorboards with his stick

as he went. the eyes of the dog followed his movements as he limped across the room. the old

man changed his stick to his left hand, took the iron bar in his right, hobbled back to the dog and

without pausing, he lifted the bar and brought it down hard upon the animal’s head. he threw the

bar to the ground and looked up at judson, who was standing there with his legs apart, dribbling

down his chin and twitching around the corners of his eyes. he went right up to him and began to

speak. he spoke very quietly and slowly, with a terrible anger, and as he spoke he moved only one

side of his mouth.

‘you killed him,’ he said. ‘you broke his back.’

then, as the tide of anger rose and gave him strength, he found more words. he looked up and

spat them into the face of the tall judson, who twitched around the corners of his eyes and backed

away towards the wall.

‘you lousy, mean, dog-beating bastard. that was my dog. what the hell right have you got

beating my dog, tell me that. answer me, you slobbering madman. answer me.’

judson was slowly rubbing the palm of his left hand up and down on the front of his shirt, and

now the whole of his face began to twitch. without looking up, he said, ‘he wouldn’t stop licking

that old place on his paw. i couldn’t stand the noise it made. you know i can’t stand noises like

that, licking, licking, licking. i told him to stop. he looked up and wagged his tail; but then he

went on licking. i couldn’t stand it any longer, so i beat him.’

the old man did not say anything. for a moment it looked as though he were going to hit this

creature. he half raised his arm, dropped it again, spat on the floor, turned around and hobbled out

of the door into the sunshine. he went across the grass to where a black cow was standing in the

shade of a small acacia tree, chewing its cud, and the cow watched him as he came limping across

the grass from the shed. but it went on chewing, munching its cud, moving its jaws regularly,

mechanically, like a metronome in slow time. the old man came limping up and stood beside it,

stroking its neck. then he leant against its shoulder and scratched its back with the butt end of his

stick. he stood there for a long time, leaning against the cow, scratching it with his stick; and now

and again he would speak to it, speaking quiet little words, whispering them almost, like a person

telling a secret to another.

it was shady under the acacia tree, and the country around him looked lush and pleasant after

the long rains, for the grass grows green up in the highlands of kenya; and at this time of the year,

after the rains, it is as green and rich as any grass in the world. away in the north stood mount

kenya itself, with snow upon its head, with a thin white plume trailing from its summit where the

city winds made a storm and blew the white powder from the top of the mountain. down below,

upon the slopes of that same mountain there were lion and elephant, and sometimes during the

night one could hear the roar of the lions as they looked at the moon.

the days passed and judson went about his work on the farm in a silent, mechanical kind of

way, taking in the corn, digging the sweet potatoes and milking the black cow, while the old man

stayed indoors away from the fierce african sun. only in the late afternoon when the air began to

get cool and sharp, did he hobble outside, and always he went over to his black cow and spent an

hour with it under the acacia tree. one day when he came out he found judson standing beside the

cow, regarding it strangely, standing in a peculiar attitude with one foot in front of the other and

gently twisting his ear with his right hand.

‘what is it now?’ said the old man as he came limping up.

‘cow won’t stop chewing,’ said judson.

‘chewing her cud,’ said the old man. ‘leave her alone.’

judson said, ‘it’s the noise, can’t you hear it? crunchy noise like she was chewing pebbles, only

she isn’t; she’s chewing grass and spit. look at her, she goes on and on crunching, crunching,

crunching, and it’s just grass and spit. noise goes right into my head.’

‘get out,’ said the old man. ‘get out of my sight.’

at dawn the old man sat, as he always did, looking out of his window, watching judson coming

across from his hut to milk the cow. he saw him coming sleepily across the field, talking to

himself as he walked, dragging his feet, making a dark green trail in the wet grass, carrying in his

hand the old four-gallon kerosene tin which he used as a milk pail. the sun was coming up over

the escarpment and making long shadows behind the man, the cow and the little acacia tree. the

old man saw judson put down the tin and he saw him fetch the box from beside the acacia tree and

settle himself upon it, ready for the milking. he saw him suddenly kneeling down, feeling the

udder of the cow with his hands and at the same time the old man noticed from where he sat that

the animal had no milk. he saw judson get up and come walking fast towards the shack. he came

and stood under the window where the old man was sitting and looked up.

‘cow’s got no milk,’ he said.

the old man leaned through the open window, placing both his hands on the sill.

‘you lousy bastard, you’ve stole it.’

‘i didn’t take it,’ said judson. ‘i bin asleep.’

‘you stole it.’ the old man was leaning farther out of the window, speaking quietly with one

side of his mouth. ‘i’ll beat the hell out of you for this,’ he said.

judson said, ‘someone stole it in the night, a native, one of the kikuyu. or maybe she’s sick.’

it seemed to the old man that he was telling the truth. ‘we’ll see,’ he said, ‘if she milks this

evening; and now for christ’s sake, get out of my sight.’

by evening the cow had a full udder and the old man watched judson draw two quarts of good

thick milk from under her.

the next morning she was empty. in the evening she was full. on the third morning she was

empty once more.

on the third night the old man went on watch. as soon as it began to get dark, he stationed

himself at the open window with an old twelve-bore shot gun lying on his lap, waiting for the thief

who came and milked his cow in the night. at first it was pitch dark and he could not see the cow

even, but soon a three-quarter moon came over the hills and it became light, almost as though it

was day time. but it was bitter cold because the highlands are seven thousand feet up, and the old

man shivered at his post and pulled his brown blanket closer around his shoulders. he could see

the cow well now, just as well as in daylight, and the little acacia tree threw a deep shadow across

the grass, for the moon was behind it.

all through the night the old man sat there watching the cow, and save when he got up once and

hobbled back into the room to fetch another blanket, his eyes never left her. the cow stood

placidly under the small tree, chewing her cud and gazing at the moon.

an hour before dawn her udder was full. the old man could see it; he had been watching it the

whole time, and although he had not seen the movement of its swelling any more than one can see

the movement of the hour hand of a watch, yet all the time he had been conscious of the filling as

the milk came down. it was an hour before dawn. the moon was low, but the light had not gone.

he could see the cow and the little tree and the greenness of the grass around the cow. suddenly

he jerked his head. he heard something. surely that was a noise he heard. yes, there it was again,

a rustling in the grass right underneath the window where he was sitting. quickly he pulled

himself up and looked over the sill on to the ground.

then he saw it. a large black snake, a mamba, eight feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, was

gliding through the wet grass, heading straight for the cow and going fast. its small pear-shaped

head was raised slightly off the ground and the movement of its body against the wetness made a

clear hissing sound like gas escaping from a jet. he raised his gun to shoot. almost at once he

lowered it again, why he did not know, and he sat there not moving, watching the mamba as it

approached the cow, listening to the noise it made as it went, watching it come up close to the cow

and waiting for it to strike.

but it did not strike. it lifted its head and for a moment let it sway gently back and forth; then it

raised the front part of its black body into the air under the udder of the cow, gently took one of

the thick teats into its mouth and began to drink.

the cow did not move. there was no noise anywhere, and the body of the mamba curved

gracefully up from the ground and hung under the udder of the cow. black snake and black cow

were clearly visible out there in the moonlight.

for half an hour the old man watched the mamba taking the milk of the cow. he saw the gentle

pulsing of its black body as it drew the liquid out of the udder and he saw it, after a time, change

from one teat to another, until at last there was no longer any milk left. then the mamba gently

lowered itself to the ground and slid back through the grass in the direction whence it came. once

more it made a clear hissing noise as it went, and once more it passed underneath the window

where the old man sat, leaving a thin dark trail in the wet grass where it had gone. then it

disappeared behind the shack.

slowly the moon went down behind the ridge of mount kenya. almost at the same time the sun

rose up out of the escarpment in the east and judson came out of his hut with the four-gallon

kerosene tin in his hand, walking sleepily towards the cow, dragging his feet in the heavy dew as

he went. the old man watched him coming and waited. judson bent down and felt the udder with

his hand and as he did so, the old man shouted at him. judson jumped at the sound of the old

man’s voice.

‘it’s gone again,’ said the old man.

judson said, ‘yes, cow’s empty.’

‘i think,’ said the old man slowly, ‘i think that it was a kikuyu boy. i was dozing a bit and only

woke up as he was making off. i couldn’t shoot because the cow was in the way. he made off

behind the cow. i’ll wait for him tonight. i’ll get him tonight,’ he added.

judson did not answer. he picked up his four-gallon tin and walked back to his hut.

that night the old man sat up again by the window watching the cow. for him there was this

time a certain pleasure in the anticipation of what he was going to see. he knew that he would see

the mamba again, but he wanted to make quite certain. and so, when the great black snake slid

across the grass towards the cow an hour before sunrise, the old man leaned over the window sill

and followed the movements of the mamba as it approached the cow. he saw it wait for a moment

under the belly of the animal, letting its head sway slowly backwards and forwards half a dozen

times before finally raising its body from the ground to take the teat of the cow into its mouth. he

saw it drink the milk for half an hour, until there was none left, and he saw it lower its body and

slide smoothly back behind the shack whence it came. and while he watched these things, the old

man began laughing quietly with one side of his mouth.

then the sun rose up from behind the hills, and judson came out of his hut with the four-gallon

tin in his hand, but this time he went straight to the window of the shack where the old man was

sitting wrapped up in his blankets.

‘what happened?’ said judson.

the old man looked down at him from his window. ‘nothing,’ he said. ‘nothing happened. i

dozed off again and the bastard came and took it while i was asleep. listen, judson,’ he added,

‘we got to catch this boy, otherwise you’ll be going short of milk, not that that would do you any

harm. but we got to catch him. i can’t shoot because he’s too clever; the cow’s always in the way.

you’ll have to get him.’

‘me get him? how?’

the old man spoke very slowly. ‘i think,’ he said, ‘i think you must hide beside the cow, right

beside the cow. that is the only way you can catch him.’

judson was rumpling his hair with his left hand.

‘today,’ continued the old man, ‘you will dig a shallow trench right beside the cow. if you lie

in it and if i cover you over with hay and grass, the thief won’t notice you until he’s right

alongside.’

‘he may have a knife,’ judson said.

‘no, he won’t have a knife. you take your stick. that’s all you’ll need.’

judson said, ‘yes, i’ll take my stick. when he comes, i’ll jump up and beat him with my stick.’

then suddenly he seemed to remember something. what about her chewing?’ he said. ‘couldn’t

stand her chewing all night, crunching and crunching, crunching spit and grass like it was pebbles.

couldn’t stand that all night,’ and he began twisting again at his left ear with his hand.

‘you’ll do as you’re bloody well told,’ said the old man.

that day judson dug his trench beside the cow which was to be tethered to the small acacia tree

so that she could not wander about the field. then, as evening came and as he was preparing to lie

down in the trench for the night, the old man came to the door of his shack and said, ‘no point in

doing anything until early morning. they won’t come till the cow’s full. come in here and wait;

it’s warmer than your filthy little hut.’

judson had never been invited into the old man’s shack before. he followed him in, happy that

he would not have to lie all night in the trench. there was a candle burning in the room. it was

stuck into the neck of a beer bottle and the bottle was on the table.

‘make some tea,’ said the old man, pointing to the primus stove standing on the floor. judson lit

the stove and made tea. the two of them sat down on a couple of wooden boxes and began to

drink. the old man drank his hot and made loud sucking noises as he drank. judson kept blowing

on his, sipping it cautiously and watching the old man over the top of his cup. the old man went

on sucking away at his tea until suddenly judson said, ‘stop.’ he said it quietly, plaintively

almost, and as he said it he began to twitch around the comers of his eyes and around his mouth.

‘what?’ said the old man.

judson said. that noise, that sucking noise you’re making.’

the old man put down his cup and regarded the other quietly for a few moments, then he said,

‘how many dogs you killed in your time, judson?’

there was no answer.

‘i said how many? how many dogs?’

judson began picking the tea leaves out of his cup and sticking them on to the back of his left

hand. the old man was leaning forward on his box.

‘how many dogs, judson?’

judson began to hurry with his tea leaves. he jabbed his fingers into his empty cup, picked out a

tea leaf, pressed it quickly on to the back of his hand and quickly went back for another. when

there were not many left and he did not find one immediately, he bent over and peered closely into

the cup, trying to find the ones that remained. the back of the hand which held the cup was

covered with wet black tea leaves.

‘judson!’ the old man shouted, and one side of his mouth opened and shut like a pair of tongs.

the candle flame flickered and became still again.

then quietly and very slowly, coaxingly, as someone to a child. ‘in all your life, how many

dogs has it been?’

judson said, ‘why should i tell you?’ he did not look up. he was picking the tea leaves off the

back of his hand one by one and returning them to the cup.

‘i want to know, judson.’ the old man was speaking very gently. ‘i’m getting keen about this

too. let’s talk about it and make some plans for more fun.’

judson looked up. a ball of saliva rolled down his chin, hung for a moment in the air, snapped

and fell to the floor.

‘i only kill ’em because of a noise.’

‘how often’ve you done it? i’d love to know how often.’

‘lots of times long ago.’

‘how? tell me how you used to do it. what did you like best?’

no answer.

‘tell me, judson. i’d love to know.’

‘i don’t see why i should. it’s a secret.’

‘i won’t tell. i swear i won’t tell.’

‘well, if you’ll promise.’ judson shifted his seat closer and spoke in a whisper. ‘once i waited

till one was sleeping, then i got a big stone and dropped it on his head.’

the old man got up and poured himself a cup of tea. ‘you didn’t kill mine like that.’

‘i didn’t have time. the noise was so bad, the licking, and i just had to do it quick.’

‘you didn’t even kill him.’

‘i stopped the noise.’

the old man went over to the door and looked out. it was dark. the moon had not yet risen, but

the night was clear and cold with many stars. in the east there was a little paleness in the sky, and

as he watched, the paleness grew and it changed from a paleness into a brightness, spreading over

the sky so that the light was reflected and held by the small drops of dew upon the grass along the

highlands; and slowly, the moon rose up over the hills. the old man turned and said, ‘better get

ready. never know; they might come early tonight.’

judson got up and the two of them went outside. judson lay down in the shallow trench beside

the cow and the old man covered him over with grass, so that only his head peeped out above the

ground. ‘i shall be watching, too,’ he said, ‘from the window. if i give a shout, jump up and catch

him.’

he hobbled back to the shack, went upstairs, wrapped himself in blankets and took up his

position by the window. it was early still. the moon was nearly full and it was climbing. it shone

upon the snow on the summit of mount kenya.

after an hour the old man shouted out of the window:

‘are you still awake, judson?’

‘yes,’ he answered, ‘i’m awake.’

‘don’t go to sleep,’ said the old man. ‘whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.’

‘cow’s crunching all the time,’ said judson.

‘good, and i’ll shoot you if you get up now,’ said the old man.

‘you’ll shoot me?’

‘i said i’ll shoot you if you get up now.’

a gentle sobbing noise came up from where judson lay, a strange gasping sound as though a

child was trying not to cry, and in the middle of it, judson’s voice, ‘i’ve got to move; please let me

move. this crunching.’

‘if you get up,’ said the old man, ‘i’ll shoot you in the belly.’

for another hour or so the sobbing continued, then quite suddenly it stopped.

just before four o’clock it began to get very cold and the old man huddled deeper into his

blankets and shouted, ‘are you cold out there, judson? are you cold?’

‘yes,’ came the answer. ‘so cold. but i don’t mind because cow’s not crunching any more.

she’s asleep.’

the old man said, ‘what are you going to do with the thief when you catch him?’

‘i don’t know.’

‘will you kill him?’

a pause.

‘i don’t know. i’ll just go for him.’

‘i’ll watch,’ said the old man. ‘it ought to be fun.’ he was leaning out of the window with his

arms resting on the sill.

then he heard the hiss under the window sill, and looked over and saw the black mamba,

sliding through the grass towards the cow, going fast and holding its head just a little above the

ground as it went.

when the mamba was five yards away, the old man shouted. he cupped his hands to his mouth

and shouted, ‘here he comes, judson; here he comes. go and get him.’

judson lifted his head quickly and looked up. as he did so he saw the mamba and the mamba

saw him. there was a second, or perhaps two, when the snake stopped, drew back and raised the

front part of its body in the air. then the stroke. just a flash of black and a slight thump as it took

him in the chest. judson screamed, a long, high-pitched scream which did not rise nor fall, but

held its note until gradually it faded into nothingness and there was silence. now he was standing

up, ripping open his shirt, feeling for the place in his chest, whimpering quietly, moaning and

breathing hard with his mouth wide open. and all the while the old man sat quietly at the open

window, leaning forward and never taking his eyes away from the one below.

everything comes very quick when one is bitten by a black mamba, and almost at once the

poison began to work. it threw him to the ground, where he lay humping his back and rolling

around on the grass. he no longer made any noise. it was all very quiet, as though a man of great

strength was wrestling with a giant whom one could not see, and it was as though the giant was

twisting him and not letting him get up, stretching his arms through the fork of his legs and

pushing his knees up under his chin.

then he began pulling up the grass with his hands and soon after that he lay on his back kicking

gently with his legs. but he didn’t last very long. he gave a quick wriggle, humped his back again,

turning over as he did it, then he lay on the ground quite still, lying on his stomach with his right

knee drawn up underneath his chest and his hands stretched out above his head.

still the old man sat by the window, and even after it was all over, he stayed where he was and

did not stir. there was a movement in the shadow under the acacia tree and the mamba came

forward slowly towards the cow. it came forward a little, stopped, raised its head, waited, lowered

its head, and slid forward again right under the belly of the animal. it raised itself into the air and

took one of the brown teats in its mouth and began to drink. the old man sat watching the mamba

taking the milk of the cow, and once again he saw the gentle pulsing of its body as it drew the

liquid out of the udder.

while the snake was still drinking, the old man got up and moved away from the window.

‘you can have his share,’ he said quietly. ‘we don’t mind you having his share,’ and as he

spoke he glanced back and saw again the black body of the mamba curving upward from the

ground, joining with the belly of the cow.

‘yes,’ he said again, ‘we don’t mind your having his share.’