Story and Photographs by Neville Cole

Kwaku’s boat complained bitterly all the way back to shore. I couldn’t blame it really. The little dinghy was not usually expected to have to lug three heavy passengers around after dark. Kwaku and I, its moaning engine seemed to say, were bad enough; but this bloody great fish strapped to the side…that was over the line. I could see the lights of the Oasis glowing bigger and brighter all the time and was starting revel in the story I could tell at dinner; but Kwaku’s face was full of concern.

He pulled what looked like a rusty brick out of the lock box by the stern and looked at it solemnly for a moment as if in prayer. Finally, he pointed it to the shore and with a press of his index finger sent a beam of light out across the water.

Kwaku stared at the shore and shook his head. I followed his gaze. All I could make out were what looked like a long string of Christmas lights strung out across the horizon leading generally to the Oasis.

“What wrong, my friend?” I finally asked: “You don’t look so good.”
“Mamba,” Kwaku replied solemnly. “Crocodile.”

That’s when I realized the Christmas lights were actually dozens, maybe a hundred, pairs of eyes lined up on the shore. The shore we shortly would be landing on.

“Where did they all come from?” I asked more out of shock than curiosity.
“Mamba are always here,” Kwaku said shaking his head, “You just don’t see them so much during the day. We should not have stayed out so long. But, don’t worry, my friend, mamba stay away from the Oasis for the most part. Wolfgang likes to go down there to shoot them.”

I didn’t like that “for the most part” part. If they stay away from the Oasis, I pondered, how is it that Wolfgang can go down and shoot them? I soon got my answer. As we got closer to the Oasis the string of lights started to break up. It did appear that the strand ended a couple of hundred yards from where I could just make out Wolfgang’s boat anchored at the shore to a large rock.

We were still a hundred feet from shore when the boat lurched to sudden stop and I, caught completely unaware, toppled head first into the black water.

My heart went into overdrive as soon as I came up for air. I rushed to climb back into the boat with nothing on my mind but mambo, mambo, mambo; but Kwaku put out his grizzled hand to stop me.

“We are stuck. Our bloody great sangala has hit the bottom. Go get Wolfgang. Tell him to bring his gun.”

I staggered back in the water for a moment before my flight instinct kicked into gear, then I turned in the hip deep water and started to run for the shore. I quickly realized that the Oasis club was further from shore than it looked and then I remembered that it had been more than ten years since I had done any kind of real cardio training. I was only just out of the water and my lungs were screaming for oxygen.

I looked back to see Kwaku patrolling the shore with his torchlight. He looked like the commander of the world smallest PT boat scanning for enemy subs.

Glad to be out of the water with both legs intact, I took in a several long, deep breaths and steeled myself for the close to a mile climb to the Oasis. Once I pushed through the intense pain and shock of initial activity my body memory went back to the days when I was one of fastest milers in school. I found the rhythm of my breath, lifted my head and concentrated on breathing in for five steps and out for five. I wasn’t breaking any records but I was getting ever closer. From the shore I heard Kwaku break in to a familiar African trill. His voice was a clear call for help. I was sure they would be able to hear it at the Oasis.

Sure enough, just as I arrived at the Oasis, Wolfgang and two kitchen were already climbing into the buggy.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Wolfgang yelled. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Kwaku,” I panted. “On the boat, big fish…really big fish. He’s, ah, he’s stuck. There are…ug, crocs.”

“Get in,” Wolfgang said sternly. “Hang on, boys! Mambo steaks for dinner tonight!”

There were several glowing pairs of eye around Kwaku’s boat by the time we pulled up onto the beach. Kwaku was standing over his fish beating at the water with his lone oar. Wolfgang aimed his headlights at the boat and then, using the buggy to steady his aim, took a shot the pair of eyes closest to Kwaku.

Kwaku did not even flinch as if the bullets ricocheting off the water only a few yards away were skipping stones playful tossed in his direction. It took four, maybe six shots before the eyes slinked away.

“What the hell are you doing out there, Kwaku?” Wolfgang called as stepped out the water’s edge.

“It’s a big fish, bwana. Very big fish. She is stuck on the sand.”

“Why didn’t you untie it and come ashore, you silly fool.”

“It is the biggest sangala I have ever caught.”

“I guess so,” Wolfgang said with a sigh. “Are the crocs still around?

“One is here,” Kwaku called back, “but I think he is dead.”

“I’m sending Joseph out with a line. Get that big bastard hooked up and we’ll see if we can’t drag him in with the winch.”

Wolfgang handed the hook to a young kitchen hand who could not have been more than fifteen. I was amazed to see the wiry kid, spear at the ready, walk out into the water just minutes after the crocs had swum away. Wolfgang walked half the distance with him the stood with his gun at his shoulder ready to fire. As Joseph got to the boat, Kwaku reached down and hoisted him quickly aboard. The two of them went to straight work securing the fish to the hook as Wolfgang walked slowly back to the beach.

He looked like I always imagined Hemingway must have looked after a kill: intense but somehow melancholy, otherworldly almost. Wolfgang didn’t say a word. This was not the time to brag (there would be plenty of time for that later); instead, for now, all he wanted was to lean against the buggy and smoke a cigarette.

It took more than an hour to drag both the bloody big fish and the almost as bloody big croc to shore. As soon as they were landed, Kwaku, Joseph and the other boy set about cleaning them. Wolfgang drove back to the Oasis and later returned with a trailer loaded with ice and several crates of Tusker. Before long a small crowd of happy Turkana and most of the guests from the Oasis had gathered to join in the fun. Fires were lit and large slabs of fish and croc were soon grilling deliciously. A group of women from the village appeared as if on cue with several large bowls of rice and vegetables.

Kwaku beamed from ear to ear. Everyone agreed it was the biggest sangala any of them had ever seen pulled from the lake. Naturally, he was expected to tell everyone the tale of the day’s adventure. In the firelight I sat, with a Tusker in hand and a plate of perch and crocodile before me, listening to Kwaku recount our epic adventure in his melodious Swahili tongue. Here I was truely communing with the ancients.  This is how those brave hunters of old must have felt.

No meal ever tasted better. I couldn’t really tell what Kwaku was saying about our day on the lake, but from time to time the crowd would look to me in unison and nod in admiration so I figure he must have put in a few good words for me. My guess is I was Sancho Panza to his Quixote and that suited me just fine.