Lost In Africa

By Stuart Ford

On safari, James' family is ambushed and his wife and stepdaughter kidnapped. James pursues them, helped by an ex-special forces soldier and a Masai warrior. The adrenalin-pumping chase takes them through the dark heart of Africa. The story tells of the romance of the Dark Continent's colonial history and the grim, realities of modern Africa. It is an epic sweeping tale of modern family life, love, loss, and rebirth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590883884

Book preview

Prologue

James sat at his desk , penning a difficult note to his parents in painfully looped cursive. He was trying to explain how he felt, more as a justification to himself than as a missive to them. He wrote in an arcane, staccato, emotionally distant style, inherent to the English of his generation.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I wanted you to know how I feel about it all... about Africa and what happened. It is hard to really comprehend the place. You can’t treat it like anywhere else. I have to try to make you understand. Many others have written love letters to Africa. She remains unaffected by expressions of sentiment. She cares nothing for those who try to possess her. She has witnessed and suffered abuse. Man has ripped riches from her earth and harvested her plains. She has seen murder and mayhem. Africa remains impervious—proud, dark, sensual and mysterious. Empires come and go like ants at a picnic, but she remains constant. My African story is one among many, one blade of grass in the vast plains of the Serengeti. Africa is a cruel and dangerous mistress. You cannot own or control her. You cannot come to her passively; she demands engagement. She takes hold of your soul and claims it. She demands tribute but guarantees nothing in return. Africa, one word, so many emotions—cruel, intriguing, beauty and savagery. That and more, is Africa.

I can only give you a glimpse of Africa. I cannot introduce her second-hand. She demands you experience her directly. Read the books, examine the pictures; but only standing on her soil, smelling her and touching her, will she reveal her charm. Africa had always fascinated me from afar, however, I was not ready for her when she took me by the hand and unveiled her beauty. The first time I visited Africa, as you will well remember, I was coming out of the painful train wreck of a failed marriage. I was hard-hearted and bitter, yet Africa still took my breath away. I came with my preconceptions and camera. I imagined myself a great white explorer. I followed the well-worn track thinking I was the first. I expected to visit, explore, and capture my memories on film. I anticipated leaving her, having done Africa. I expected her to be another tick mark on my world travels. I almost hoped for a hardship, more travel tales to store and treasure. Africa did demand a few small tributes on my first visits to test my mettle—heat that blistered my skin, a broken rib from rafting the Zambezi white waters, and minor irritating thefts of my possessions. I experienced bluff and intimidation from a charging elephant and bowel-shaking fear from a hippo threat to my canoe. Africa threw down a host of small challenges like dust and unclean water. I played roulette with disease from the bites of tsetse flies bearing sleeping sickness and malaria-carrying mosquitoes. Africa still captured my heart. I fell into an unrequited love affair with her wide-open skies, rugged mountains, and fertile plains. The starkness of her deserts and the lushness of her jungle. The rich, vibrant tapestries of her colors. The grand scale of her sweeping landscapes. The richness and abundance of her flora and fauna. The romance of her history, and the potential in her squalor. Africa is a state of mind. It is a dizzy rush of emotions. It is more than a place; it is the appeal of a seemingly more real way of life. Africa simply gets to you like your first lover.

I visited Africa many more times over the years, forging further and harder paths towards her heart. She didn’t show me any real welcome or special treatment. She took my adoration as her due. She was merely waiting, biding her time. She did have a special experience in store for me, but she was only willing to give it up at the time of her choosing. As to what happened... rebirth and remarriage mark the story, and it starts with our belated anniversary trip. This time when I came to Africa, I was truly in love again. My connectivity with my family was unequalled; I felt fully present, aware, and receptive. I knew they were nervous about the trip, but I was so excited and happy to take them there. Proudly, I decided to show my family Africa, to let them in on my secret mistress of all these years. I had regaled them with the tales. They had patiently sat through the photographs as dutiful families do. We were going on safari. In anticipation, we shared the excitement and concerns. I counseled them on Africa’s dangers. You cannot warn people about Africa. People receive the messages but do not take them to heart. I thought I was wise to all of Africa’s tricks, but she was waiting for me in ambush. As to what happened... I’m still trying to make sense of it. I will write more as I am able to.

Your loving son, James

Part One

James

Kenya

One

James—Nairobi

We touched down in Nairobi after a long flight from Heathrow. I had slept little and fitfully on the flight down. I was excited to be coming back. I was nervous that my family wouldn’t love Africa like I did. The Air Kenya flight had been uneventful. We had gotten excited, poring through the in-flight magazines, staring at the photographs with pleasure. We enjoyed talking to the flight crew in their colorful and traditional garb. We struggled to read the Swahili signs and instructions. What little I had of the language was limited to conversational needs—hello, thank you, please, lion, and such. The basic needs. Pidgin English had always gotten me through. It is the arrogance of the Westerner to expect others to make the effort.

We landed like an uncoordinated stork, bumping along the runway. I saw the gleam of excitement and anticipation in the girls’ eyes. These women were the beautiful stars at the center of my universe. Emma, my wife, relaxed and confident: blonde, green-eyed and small boned, with an elfin, turned-up nose and a wide-eyed wonder. She was a woman of ineffable energy, who absorbed the world hungrily. She was a mass of can-do excitement, untiringly curious, daring, and complex. Her dark moods were few, and her laughter came easily. Emma was originally American. She had lived in England so long and had two English husbands, so she seemed less American than most teenage English do. Her accent was still there, faint, and muddled. It had transmuted over time into a mid-Atlantic drawl, not quite new world and not quite of the old. She mixed slang and jargon from both. I was sure she had forgotten the origins of many phrases she used. She had lost the brashness of her upbringing but retained the energy. She had absorbed the old world sensibilities but not the petty snobbishness. Emma still carried a US passport, a point I had argued with her about several times. She was simple in her reasoning; her roots were her roots. She could not deny them, nor did she want to do so. We occasionally struggled in sharing terms of reference; her childhood memories and experiences were so different from mine. Where I saw the world through muted eyes, she saw color. She brought the teenage energy of her country; I brought the heritage. Sometimes we missed each other’s nuances, but together we were a formidable team—new world and old, energy and sagacity, confidence and restraint. A constant conflict, yet a constant source of strength.

My gaze traveled to my step-daughter, Samantha. She was still Sammie to me even though she preferred Samantha now. It sounded more grown up. Samantha was her mother in miniature. From her father’s side, she had inherited the fine porcelain skin reserved for the English. Sammie was the future, a hybrid of both cultures. She was also at the cusp of womanhood, irrespective of nationalistic heritage, a much more powerful force. At thirteen, the gawkiness of childhood was rapidly loosing the battle with a pose of maturity. Emma and I had been married a little over five years. This trip was our belated anniversary present to each other. I had known Sammie since she was seven. I had seen Sammie grow from a mass of scabs, smiles, and tangled blonde hair into this almost-woman child.

I had held back this trip until I thought Sammie old enough to experience Africa fully. I held her care in my responsibility. I had promised her safe return to her father, Grant. He and I had a serious talk about the security issues involved in this trip. He was concerned but trusted my judgment to make sure Sammie remained safe. Her father and I had had reached a truce of understanding over the years. In a different situation, we would have been close friends. In the cauldron of this post-nuclear family, we circled warily. We maintained cordiality and shared parental responsibilities. I liked him, but there would always be an air of reserve in our relationship. We still both loved the same women—mother and daughter, ex-wife and child. We shared the onus of their care, me for now and the future, and him for their treasured past. I took my responsibility for Sammie’s safety seriously. Sammie was so used to our mixed up family that she just took comfort from having two fathers that treasured her. His passing of the trust to me on this trip was another burden of care I carried.

We struggled off the airplane into the terminal. We were traveling in low season, and the heat and humidity slapped us with a fetid wave. It was hot and steamy. I smelt Africa again; that distinctive combination of dust, musky sweat, humidity and heat. Sweat instantly began to bead on my top lip and trickle down my back. Heat, humidity and the possibility of the long rains made it the low season. Low season saw fewer travelers and lower prices. We were on a limited budget. I will admit I am an average architect. My practice ticks over but never enough to meet our needs fully, mainly domestic remodeling, and an occasional small commercial project. Emma’s royalties from her children’s books provide a slim supplement to our funds. We were trying to do Africa in both luxury and on the cheap; something had to give. Low season travel was the compromise. We would take the risk on the weather, and stay in better properties. After five years of delicate financial balancing, we were well used to the art of compromise.

A late renewal of Sammie’s passport meant we didn’t have our visas in advance. We joined the queue for visa processing, weary but philosophical. It was Emma’s first introduction to African administration, and she rolled her eyes at the inefficiency. First, a queue for the paperwork, then another to reach the processing officers. You can only pay for visas in sterling or US dollars in a country hungry for foreign currency. It took forty long and steamy minutes to get through the paperwork. If the arrivals hall had ever had air conditioning, it had long stopped functioning. The deterioration of infrastructure is a malaise in Africa. Africans prefer to build anew or replace things when they are broken. The concept of routine maintenance does not come naturally.

Emma expressed curiosity as to what security checks they made on travelers before the authorities issued visas as no computers were in evidence. There was just a man with a stamp and a receipt book at the end of a long line of tired and frustrated travelers. I laughed condescendingly. I explained to her that it was not about security. It is just another levy, an additional way for Kenya to make money from tourists. African workers follow administration procedure painfully and unerringly by the book. Triplicates issued where duplicates would suffice. I had said it before: you could remove the visa process and replace it with an additional airport tax, which would be simpler and quicker. Africans don’t innovate with administration. They had no real experience or need for petty paperwork prior to the Europeans’ arrival. Kenya inherited moribund and cumbersome procedures from the English. Simple but lengthy procedures adopted from other parts of the Empire. This was the model they were taught. The African philosophy towards this system is simple; it works, they know how to do it, so why change? All it takes is time, and time is something there is an abundance of in Africa. Don’t worry, relax and go with the flow was my advice to Emma. You have to get used to the Hakuna Matata mentality. Africans get things done, but never quickly. Pointless paperwork, queuing, and waiting for approval stamps are as inherently African as safaris and hunting. After visas came the wait for passport control; a bored look and a lazy stamp were all we received before we entered the mayhem of Kenyatta International. It is a grandiose name for what is little more than a provincial airport.

We gathered our baggage and walked out into the main hall. Drivers waving signs and the ever-eager taxi drivers hawking for business assaulted us in numbers. The newly arrived tourist is the best mark in town. One eager taxi owner who wanted to show me his English-style cab proudly pulled me over to it. I judged it as probably a mid-sixties model, bravely held together with fiberglass and hope. I smiled kindly at the taxi driver. "Asante. Asante Sana. Thank you but we have a friend meeting us."

The hawkers were also hitting on Emma and Sammie for business. I cast around the hall looking for my man, shooing away the swarm of drivers, all trying to drag our luggage cart towards their vehicle. They dodged and weaved, all trying to get control of the cart. My hand stayed firmly on the handle. Our man was meeting us; I had made the arrangements in advance. Finally, I heard the voice I was waiting for call out my name. James! James over here.

I broke out in a broad smile of recognition as I saw my old friend and guide, Vincent.

Vincent bounded over with his big antelope hops covering the ground quickly. It was his trademark run. I knew he could cover vast distances across the African plains without tiring. He embraced me in welcome. Vincent was tall; lithe and painfully thin, not an ounce of fat covered his muscle. He was as black as a moonless night; the only colors you saw were the flash of his eyes and his white teeth. He was also, in my opinion, the best guide I had ever had, and I thought of him as a friend. This took Emma aback. I had kept my correspondence with Vincent private, as I wanted it to be a surprise. I saw Sammie shyly assessing Vincent, to her he must have looked an odd character; tall, black and adorned with tribal beads. Vincent was a Masai, regal looking, proud and athletic. He was one of the tribe that had forsaken traditional village life. He was a true warrior but had become quite westernized. He was the best of both worlds, a skilled warrior who could track anything, and an informative safari guide. I had first met Vincent years ago when he was still a trainee, over the years his quick mind and amiable manner had won him many return clients. Vincent now ran his own show as an independent guide. Vincent was the new face of Kenya, self-reliant and successful. Kenya is producing many of these new entrepreneurs.

Vincent swung me around without effort, holding my hand in the African way of friendship. He turned to face Emma and Sammie. Vincent looked at them, and his face lit up with a huge smile.

"Jambo. Welcome, welcome Karibu, he said. You are so welcome to Kenya. Thank you for coming."

Emma looked a little amused; she smiled and stepped boldly forward. You couldn’t daunt Emma for more than a second. At five feet two, Emma was dwarfed by Vincent’s long, lanky frame. What Emma lacked in height she compensated for in attitude. In many ways, she was the biggest person I had ever known. She thrust out her hand in greeting. Vincent brushed it aside and hugged her too; it was Vincent’s way. He was an unabashed hugger. It seemed such juxtaposition, Emma, small and fair, engulfed in the arms of this tall, dark and handsome warrior.

Emma looked at me over his shoulder and said, Well, there’s a fantasy in here somewhere.

I laughed. Emma always welcomed new experiences; throw her down in the middle of Africa, wrap a Masai around her without warning, and she could accept it without reservation.

Vincent was still chanting "Karibu, Karibu Sana. I am so pleased to meet you. You are Emma. Wife of James"

Emma nodded in agreement.

Yes. Wife of James. Emma. She echoed the rhythm of his speech instinctively.

I am Vincent, he said. To him this was explanation enough.

Vincent wasn’t his real name. Most tribal Africans adopt what they call their bogus Western name; it is easier for the tourists. Vincent had told me his real name once, but like the tourist I didn’t want to be, I had forgotten it. Vincent was easier to say and remember for my lazy Western mind. Emma smiled at me in her adorable way. She had echoed Vincent’s rhythms not in sarcasm, but in her open and endearing way. She was truly happy. Vincent advanced on Sammie. She had witnessed everything and knew what to expect. Vincent wrapped her up in his bear-like hug.

She said quickly, Hello. I’m Samantha. Daughter of James and Emma.

Vincent lapped up her teenage poise. He stepped back in mock seriousness to examine her. He rubbed his chin and made admiring eyes at Sammie. She blushed.

"You are welcome Samantha, daughter of James. Karibu Sana. Welcome to Kenya."

Emma looked to me to give her an answer for Vincent’s presence. I just laughed happily.

Vincent will be our guide. He is an old friend.

Vincent was already pushing our cart out towards the exit, all energy and excitement.

Come, come, he said and waved his arm in encouragement. Come and see Kenya with me.

We followed his trail, safe and secure. I looked at the girls; they were beaming with excitement. All in all, a good start, I thought.

It was unusual for Vincent to be in Nairobi; normally he picked me up in the Mara. Vincent was in town to train some young guides. He had stayed on to meet me, an auspicious arrangement. Vincent walked quickly even burdened with the cart. I had to stride, and Emma and Sammie almost jog to keep up. We approached our white minivan emblazoned with the driver’s logo. It had sliding doors, three rows of seats, a pop-up roof, and a small area for luggage. These vans are really better as people movers than luggage carriers, but necessity requires they do many things. Vincent was introducing me to the driver. The driver was shy and quiet. He shook my hand gingerly and set to loading the bags, cursing in Swahili at the other hovering drivers. I ignored it. He could fight his own battles. Vincent slid back the door and gestured us in, keeping up his babble.

"Welcome, Karibu Sana."

Emma got in first and took the window side of the bench seat. Sammie got in next and shyly tested the Swahili she had been trying to learn.

"Asante. Asante Sana. Thank you. Thank you very much. Vincent gave her a huge smile. Karibu, Samantha. Karibu Sana." Welcome. You’re welcome very much. I slapped Vincent on the shoulder in thanks and climbed in.

Vincent habitually locked the door as he slid it closed. Nairobi did not earn its nickname Nairobbery lightly. Thefts from cars and passengers are common. The code is simple; arms kept inside the vehicle to protect watches and jewelry, and keep the door locked. I was closest to the door; if there was any danger, this is from where it would come. It was hot, humid, and stuffy in the car, so I slid the window open for some air. The driver climbed in, and Vincent took the passenger seat. The van started, and we left the airport towards town.

Emma and Sammie looked out the window, eager for sights. Kenyatta is like any other airport, the only thing marking it as African being the inhabitants. We pulled up to the security point. Emma and Sammie got their first look at something uniquely African. The security guard had a knobkerrie stuck in his belt. It is the club of the Africans. A heavy stick, about fourteen inches long, with a smooth shaft and topped by a heavy knob, offset at an angle. The knob forms the weapon’s striking point. A good hit with a knobkerrie can fell a leopard, and Africans ubiquitously carry it in the bush. It is also a security weapon of choice. Sammie pointed and I nodded, smiling. I had told her about the knobkerrie, and now she saw one for real. Emma reached across and took my hand. I looked at her. She was smiling, happy and thrilled to be here. Africa was exciting them and delivering the experience I wanted.

We left the car park and entered the madness that passes for traffic here. The local taxi vans crammed with people and even more hanging off the side. Trucks belching black smoke that would have had our EPA on their back. Old Renaults, Peugeots, and Toyotas shipped to Africa at the end of their useful life in Europe. Mixed in with this were the bicycles, sometimes with a passenger balanced on the handlebars. We saw hand carts loaded with market wares or vegetables. Our driver ably steered his way through the madness and on towards Nairobi town center. The roads were good in town, better than the last time I had been here. Vincent brought me up to speed. The new Government was spending money more wisely. Kenya was less corrupt than in the past. Corruption is as endemic as malaria in Africa. Africa has some of the poorest economies and richest presidents. The new government was trying to redress the balance. We traveled down the highway, with the Ngong Hills appearing over the national park.

I said to Emma as I pointed them out, "Those are the Ngong Hills. Karen Blixen. Out of Africa."

Emma had watched that movie so many times and was determined to visit Karen Blixen’s house. Vincent turned in his seat to face us and told us the legend of how the Ngong Hills were formed. I was never sure whether his stories were true or invented color. He framed them in a way that you couldn’t disprove. He began with a qualification.

Some of the local people used to believe, though I can’t say if it’s true or not.

I laughed; try pinning that down in a court of law!

They say that the Ngong hills were formed because their God got angry with them. He didn’t like what they were doing and so he struck the earth with his fist as a warning. That is why the hills look as if they are in the shape of a fist. Do you see God’s fist?

Emma and Sammie looked intently. I had heard the story before and watched their faces for reaction. Sammie held her fist up to compare it to the profile of the hills.

I see it. Look, Mum. They are in the shape of a fist.

Vincent beamed that big smile of his. Emma had to say what was on her mind. She always did without any censorship. I had often jokingly accused her of having Tourette’s Syndrome.

We will see Karen Blixen’s house, won’t we Vincent?

Vincent reassured her. Yes, this very afternoon. Sure. Sure.

Vincent reached over and squeezed my hand. It is the way of friendship in Africa. He was happy to see me and wanted me to know it. I got a strange look from Sammie, who was not used to this. I squeezed Vincent’s hand back, then freed mine and patted his shoulder.

It is good to see you, too, Vincent. How have things been for you?

Sammie interrupted us with a cry. Look, look, SD!

SD was her abbreviation for step-dad. She had worked that one out herself early on. Daddy was reserved for her father, and she felt uncomfortable calling me James. She thought Step Daddy sounded weird, so SD it became. Vincent’s quickly spun to face what Sammie was pointing at so excitedly. Vincent was eagle-eyed and saw it before I had even focused.

Ah yes. That is a dik-dik. He might be small but he is very fast.

Right next to the road behind the high fence that guards the park was a very small antelope, no taller than twelve inches high. A dik-dik, small, fast, and agile, and a favorite snack for the carnivore that is quick enough to catch it. The dik-dik grazed contently, impervious to the traffic racing a few feet away. Samantha had her first animal sighting. Nairobi is unusual in that it has a national park abutting the city where wild animals roam free. Lion, leopard and antelope live right next to the city. Poaching for food or illegal shootings takes some, but they remain there, as they would have before they built the city. Emma reached for the camera but we were well past it now.

Don’t worry, honey, I said, we’ll get lots of pictures in the bush.

She nodded her agreement. Vincent told them about the park in an answer to Emma’s question.

Yes, a lot of animals in there. Lions, leopards but no elephant. We have no elephant in this park.

Emma asked about whether there were any problems with the animals being so close to the city. Vincent laughed in his infectious way.

Sure, sure, sometimes. Not long ago a leopard wandered out of the park. It killed a few dogs and terrified the local people. The wildlife service came and tried to capture it. They couldn’t, so they had to shoot it. It was a shame but the local people were concerned about their cattle. You can take no chance with a leopard. The leopard is fast and dangerous. Remember that.

As if on cue, a small Masai boy and a herd of cows appeared in view. The cattle grazed on the grass next to the road. They were the Braham cows of Africa, with humped withers and floppy folds of skin around the neck. Sammie smiled at the sight. This is modern Africa, cows, goats, man and cars, all competing for the same space. Rural and city life, traditional and new, all colliding and fitting around each other.

I asked Vincent to confirm our schedule. I needed to make sure we had all the necessary vouchers we would need for the trip. Everything in Africa works on the voucher system. You pay up front, and the voucher confirms accommodations and trips with the relevant operator. I had learned a hard lesson a while ago: no voucher—no accommodation. It is the African obsession with procedure. Vincent handed me back the package of materials. I opened it, and we ran through the schedule to make sure I had all the right paperwork. In Africa, you check and recheck everything. There is a saying, AWA, Africa Wins Again. It is a catchall to explain screw-ups. In Africa what shouldn’t go wrong surely will. AWA. Vincent ran through the trip, and I checked the corresponding vouchers.

We have today and tomorrow in Nairobi. You stay at the Norfolk Hotel. We will see Karen’s Blixen’s house today and the animal orphanage tomorrow.

Emma nodded with reassurance on the Blixen visit.

I was following him and mentally checking off the vouchers as I went through them. Vincent had done his job well, and all the vouchers were present.

"We have four nights at the lodge in the Mara, then back to Nairobi for