Charo was the only one who examined the leopard closely because he had been mauled twice by leopards and he had shown me where the charge of shot at close range had entered almost alongside the first bullet wound in the shoulder. I knew it must have as I knew the roots and the bank had deflected the other shots, but I was only happy and proud of us all and how we had been all day and happy that we would get to camp and to the shade and to cold beer.
We came into camp with the klaxon of the car going and everyone turned out and Keiti was happy and I think he was proud. We all got out of the car and Charo was the only one who stayed to look at the leopard. Keiti stayed with Charo and the skinner took charge of the leopard. We took no photographs of him. Keiti had asked me, “Piga picha?” and I said, “Piga shit.”
Ngui and Pop’s gun bearer brought the guns to the tent and laid them on Miss Mary’s bed and I carried the cameras and hung them up. I told Msembi to put the table out under the tree and bring chairs and to bring all the cold beer and Coca-Cola for Charo. I told Ngui not to bother about cleaning the guns now but to go and get Mthuka; that we would drink formal beer.
Mwindi said that I should take a bath. He would have the water in no time. I said that I would bathe in the washbasin and to please find me my clean shirt.
“You should take big bath,” he said.
“I’ll take big bath later. I’m too hot.”
“How you get all the blood? From chui?”
This was ironic but carefully concealed.
“From tree branches.”
“You wash off good with blue soap. I put on the red stuff.”
We always used Mercurochrome instead of iodine if we could get it although some Africans preferred iodine since it hurt and so was considered a stronger medicine. I washed and scrubbed the scratches open and clean and Mwindi painted them carefully.
I put on my clean clothes and I knew Mthuka, Ngui, Pop’s gun bearer and Charo were putting on their clean clothes.
“Did chui come?”
“No.”
“Why everybody make so happy then?”
“Very funny shauri. Very funny hunt all morning.”
“Why you want to be African?”
“I’m going to be Kamba.”
“Maybe,” said Mwindi.
“Fuck maybe.”
“Here come your friends.”
“Brothers.”
“Brothers maybe. Charo not your brother.”
“Charo my good friend.”
“Yes,” Mwindi said sadly, handing me a pair of slippers that he knew were a little tight and watching to see how much they hurt when I put them on. “Charo good friend. Have plenty bad luck?”
“How?”
“Every way. And is a lucky man.”
I went out to join the others, who were standing at the table with Msembi in his green robe and green skullcap standing ready with the beer in the faded green canvas bucket. The clouds were very high in the sky and the sky was the highest sky in the world and I looked back over the tent and could see the Mountain high and white above the trees.
“Gentlemen,” I said and bowed and we all sat down in the chairs of the Bwanas and Msembi poured the four tall beers and the Coca-Cola of Charo. Charo was the oldest so I ceded to him and Mwindi poured the Coca-Cola first. Charo had changed his turban to one slightly less gray and he wore a blue coat with brass buttons fastened together at the throat with a blanket pin I had given him twenty years before and a natty pair of well-repaired shorts.
When the drinks had been poured I stood up and proposed the toast, “To the Queen.” We all drank and then I said, “To Mr. Chui, gentlemen. He is Royal Game.” We drank again with propriety and protocol but with enthusiasm. Msembi refilled the glasses this time starting with me and ending with Charo. He had great respect for an elder but it was hard to respect the carbonated beverage against Tusker beer.
“A noi,” I said bowing to Ngui who had learned his Italian in the captured brothels of Addis Ababa and from the hurriedly discarded mistresses of an army in flight. I added, “Wakamba rosa e la liberta, Wakamba rosa triomfera.”
We drank it off to the bottom of the glasses and Mwindi refilled.
The next toast was a little rough but with the tendency of the times and the need to give our new religion some form of actionable program which could later be channeled toward the highest and noblest end, I proposed, “Tunaua.”
We drank this solemnly although I noticed reservations in Charo and when we sat down I said, “Na jehaad tu,” trying to win the Moslem vote. But it is a hard vote to win and we all knew he was with us only in the formal beer drinking and the brotherhood and could never be with us in the new religion or the politics.