PENCIL

I am with Pencil at his home, not far from either Chomkuwu Dam or Guma Kopje, close to Ruware’s eastern boundary. The Old Man is sitting silently cross-legged on a low wooden stool, still waking from his midday siesta. His siestas are much longer these days and he takes much longer to wake, never really surfacing until after his first mug of tea, which I am now crouched over pouring, from battered, soot blackened kettle. After stirring heaped tablespoons of sugar into equally battered tin mugs of strong steaming tea, I hand the Old Man his and settle down to blow my own. Usually I can’t wait for the Old Man to wake up and begin talking. Now however, I am somewhat nervous. I have real purpose this afternoon, my visit prompted by something other than mere socializing. I am the bearer of an issue that needs addressing, and an issue I’m certain the Old Man is not interested in addressing. I wait patiently for him to wake, knowing better than to jump the gun. The Old Man wakes in his own time, as he does everything else.

“The rains have been good,” says the Old Man. “The spirits are pleased, though I cannot see how these days. Yes, the rains have been unusually good.”
He immediately lapses back into silence but he has surfaced, his comments indicating so.
“The rains have been good,” I agree, “unusually good.”
“The cattle and crops shall thrive, so to the bush and wild animals, so it is good.”
“Yes,” I agree again, “it is good.”
The rains dominate for a while and we do not move anywhere close to the direction I wish to take, but I know better than to push the Old Man. Time is a central factor in his life and for everything there is a time. Now is the time to discuss the rains – usual time. My first subject broaching opportunity arrives later, when the sun is already dropping in the west, once we have discussed any number of topics, from the rains to errant youth, cattle, crops, fishing and more. Although it is certainly an opportunity, nothing comes of it, because the Old Man takes off spontaneously into the past again, where he wants to be.
The issue needing address is that many people feel Pencil should move to Chehondo permanently, where he is closer to others and to our family, where there is a support base and vehicles, and where he has a secondary home. The Old Man appears to be sinking fast these days and it is not right for a person as old as he to stay so far out in the bush, so far from medical attention. I have been chosen to run the suggestion by him, by my parents and almost everyone else at Chehondo. I am considered to be the only person who has even a slight chance of getting off lightly, without being verbally ripped to shreds. It is already known that it is not a suggestion the Old Man shall entertain, even before said suggesting takes place. In any case, the subject does not really surface that day, for no sooner have I started moving when the Old Man sidesteps, taking us far off and away, on another vivid and exciting adventure deep into the past.

The Old Man has been silent for a while and my opportunity has arrived, at least I believe it to be so.
“Sekuru,” I say, and he nods, signalling that he is listening.
“Sekuru, why did you choose this place to build your home, so far from everyone else, so isolated? And, when and how did you come to settle here? I have often heard you say that you grew up and lived for a time close to Eulongwa, many miles distant.”
I am trying to steer the Old Man in a particular direction, whilst doing a bit of buttering in the process, ripening his mood for easier plucking. How far I miss by is yet to be appreciated. Casting his second mug’s tea dregs onto the ground, the Old Man picks up his walking stick from the ground by his side and levers himself off the stool, slower than before, with more creaking than before.
“Handei Nyamtuta.” “Let’s go Dungbeetle,” he says. “Handei pa chikowa.” “Let’s go down to the river. There I shall tell you a story about this place and how I came to live here.”
We leave the circle of huts behind us, entering the mopani. The Old Man and I, walking through the mopani together, down to the river – as it should be.
Mopani trees and screeching Christmas beetles give way to entangled riverine and the invigorating scent of fresh bush pronutro. This scent is exuded from a bush I know only as the pronutro bush.* I inhale deeply as does Pencil. This is the Lowveld’s purest aroma, one that should always be fully inhaled and fully appreciated. The pronutro smell is one that every lowvelder knows well, and yearns for. Well I do at least, and so does the Old Man. As we approach the little chikowa, a bushbuck ram barks and breaks from cover, about forty yards off. Bounding a short distance through the long grass, the buck stops and turns back, as though it cannot believe its senses and feels the need to double-check. I see that it is a mature ram, dark and coarse with thick horn bases and worn tips. Few animals are as impressive as a mature bushbuck ram. The buck barks again and turns tail, double-checked and positive now.

*Actually called the potato bush, I have since discovered. I cannot see why it is called the potato bush however, as it smells nothing like potato.

“Itsoma huru.” “A big buck,” says the Old Man.
We continue on our way down to the stream, the Old Man leading that way.

Sprawled in lush shaded grass on the riverbank, the faint scent of pronutro reaching us occasionally on the breeze, I listen to how the Old Man came to live in this place, not far from either Chomkuwu Dam or Guma Hill. It is a most impressionable tale for a young man. For anyone actually, as will soon be appreciated. Sprawled in lush grass on the riverbank reliving; the unfamiliar sound of water flowing below, gurgling over rocks into a small pool nearby. Now and then an invisible barbel snout breaks the pool’s surface, glooping languidly above the quietness.
“It is true that I was born and lived for many years at Eulongwa, until a few years after Maware first arrived here in fact,” says the Old Man. “If I remember correctly, it was around the time of Hitler’s war that I declared this place my new home and made the move. I actually had no choice in the matter, as I was instructed to do so by the spirits, after receiving a stern warning from them – a demonstration of their great powers and of my own weak mortality.”
The Old Man is up and away, and I go with him eagerly on the journey back in time. To a world that once existed in this place, during the time of Hitler’s war.
“There were many lions in those days and, as I have told you on many occasions, my life revolved around hunting and shooting those lions. I was still a young man then and full of youthful bravado. I had never held a rifle before I began working for Maware, and the power I discovered in that weapon filled me with more than bravado, it made me arrogant. After I had been taught the workings of a rifle, and had shot a number of lions and leopards, I walked tall, somehow believing I was invincible. I became well known for my ability as a lion slayer and was looked up to by all people, more so than ever before. Had I been more experienced, I would have accepted the attention in dignified fashion. But back then I was very self-assured – hot-headed and arrogant in fact. Yes, I was most arrogant in those days. Anyway, one day the spirits brought me down to size in an instant, making me fully aware of my failings as a man.
“This dam (Chomkuwu), nor any of the others, had been built by then, and this stretch of the river was slightly different in those days. The bed was wider then, more pronounced and less snakelike with fewer bends. That bend for example, was never there before. It has been crafted since, by the damming upstream. And the bush here was a little less dense then. I know this for certain for it was on this very ground that the incident occurred. And it was a most frightening incident indeed – an experience that had a profound effect on my whole life’s outlook, and one that remains stamped clearly on my mind to this day, and forevermore.
“I had been tracking three lions since early morning, from an area close to Chehondo, where they had killed and consumed a cow the previous night. Maware was extremely irritated by the loss of this particular cow and he instructed me to follow and not give up, to locate and shoot the lions. Naturally I took up the trail with enthusiasm.
“I had been tracking the lions since early morning, and came upon them when the sun was at its hottest, at this place, in this thick bush. I knew from the start that I was following a large male and two females, from their tracks obviously. I knew also, as I entered the riverine, that it was not an ideal place to engage lions. Should they be lying up in the heavy bush, which I knew was highly probable. Anyway, with the sound of Maware’s voice still fresh in my mind and fuelled with confidence, I continued forward. Not long after, on this very spot, I came up on the lions.
“I never saw the male lion and to this day do not know if he was present when the action took place. I was somewhere close to that clump of bush on the right when I saw the first lioness. She and the other female had obviously been resting in the grass over there, when they sensed me. The first lioness stood and walked across my front, head turned and focused eyes boring into me, tail swishing angrily. Stalking off annoyed and stiff legged, but supremely assured. I had hunted the area extensively by that time and these lions were some that had so far managed to elude me. They were experienced and confident lions that were not used to being at a disadvantage. And the lioness I saw was plainly irritated. Although I knew that she was not alone, I did not take the time to pinpoint her companions, deciding to put her down first. She did not move quickly and I did not rush the shot, but I hit her badly, although I didn’t realize it initially. At the shot, the lioness grunted and disappeared into the grass. And the second lioness broke cover, making away from me. I shot her as well – twice, and she went down. Then, as I fumbled in my pocket for more ammunition, the first lioness came streaking through the grass towards me. Silently and with deadly intent, low to the ground, from just over there.
“From that moment, instinct took over and I was no longer in conscious control of my actions. I had only a single round remaining in the rifle, though fortunately it was already chambered. Before I had properly shouldered the rifle, the lioness was on to me, in an absolute killing frenzy.
“I don’t remember squeezing the trigger, but squeeze it I did, braining the lioness at point blank range. As I fired, instinct propelled me aside, but the massive cat still crashed into me with incredible force, knocking me senseless and literally dying on top of me. As she died, the lioness clawed my body horribly. I have the scars to this day. Bleeding and battered, I managed to wriggle out from under her dead body and stumble off blindly, in complete shock. I found my rifle and fumblingly reloaded, before staggering off, away from here.

“I shall never forget that incident with the lioness. It made an enormous impression on me and I learned a very valuable lesson that day. It was actually a very unusual happening for a badly hit lion will normally make off, consolidating a short distance away and waiting in ambush for the hunter. The fact that that particular lioness almost immediately initiated a charge was strange indeed. Some time later I spoke to the ancestors and discovered reason. I was told that Mware (God) does not tolerate arrogance and that no man is indestructible. On that day I realized my shortcomings as a human being and as a lion hunter. As you now see, I have lived to a grand old age. I shall forever be grateful for the lesson I learned that day and, shortly after receiving explanation, vowed to build my house close to this place; as a constant reminder of my previously misguided approach to life, and of that near death experience with the lioness. That is why I live here – to honour the gift of life, and to remember the lesson forever. Let us return Dungbeetle, it is getting late.”

As golden twilight fades to grey and we walk slowly back to Pencil’s home, I ponder the story I have just heard. And I decide not to speak to the Old Man about moving to Chehondo. What seemed important earlier in the afternoon somehow seems so insignificant now. I now realize why the Old Man lives in this isolated place close to Chomkuwu Dam and Guma Gomo, and why he will never move. Bowlegged and stooped with age, the legendary lion hunter walks by my side.

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