The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Lawrence Anthony (speld decodable readers txt) 📖

‘Yes, I will speak,’ I replied with a bravado I certainly didn’t feel. I knew I had been cleverly framed. Convincing hundreds of angry tribesmen in a state of virtual civil war of my innocence would not be easy, even with behind-the-scenes help from Prince Gideon.

We were interrupted by a messenger sent to fetch me. I followed him into the sardine can and sat in the front row just as an induna garbed in full warrior regalia finished off an extremely animated address. Suffice it to say, the gist of his message was that their enemies had spies in this room. The crowd growled, searching around for suspects.

The speaker, a senior chief, introduced me and asked the crowd that I be accorded a fair chance to put my case. Given the explosive mood of the meeting, this was no idle request.

I took a deep breath and, holding the priest’s bottled muthi, stood and thanked the speaker whom I knew well. I could count on him if the going got rough. I then pointedly thanked the Nkosi for inviting me, as well as other councillors and headmen or anyone else I recognized, naming them one by one. In other words, I was shamelessly name-dropping. The priest translated.

I then put the muthi bottle on the floor next to my chair. There was no immediate reaction, but I could see that it certainly had got some of the crowd’s attention. Perhaps they knew what it signified, and I was glad I had decided to bring it along. I needed all the help I could get.

Despite my apprehension, my voice came out strong, following Prince Gideon’s instructions to the letter. Thisgave me some confidence and I pulled myself upright. Speaking as calmly as I could, I stressed that Zulu culture honourably entitled everyone to a fair hearing. I spoke in English as I wanted any questions to be translated, giving me precious extra moments to mull before I answered.

Just as I thought everything was going swimmingly, all hell exploded. ‘Apologize!’ screamed a loud voice, ignoring what I had just said. ‘Apologize for what you have done.’

Other agitators took up the chant, trying to provoke the crowd. ‘Apologize! Apologize!’

For a moment I was shocked, like a hare in a spotlight. Then instantly it all became clear; I knew what I had to do. Any apology would be a fatal acknowledgement of guilt and that’s exactly what the cabal wanted. If I fell into that trap, giving in to a lame plea bargain, I would be finished. So I ignored the goading and waited for the speaker to restore order, which he eventually did. When it was quiet, he nodded at me to continue.

‘I cannot apologize …’ I said, which immediately incited more jeers from one section of the crowd. My eyes shot across. They had made the mistake of sitting together and now I knew exactly who they all were.

‘I cannot apologize,’ I repeated, ‘because I have done nothing to apologize for.’

More jeers.

‘A man – if he is a man,’ I accentuated, ‘will only apologize if he has done wrong and then he must apologize. Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to lie to the Nkosi? Do you want me to lie to this meeting? Are you asking me to give up my manhood and lie like a coward just because I am being threatened?’

These arguments may sound medieval in an airconditioned First World courtroom, but in rural Zululand your integrity is central to your masculinity. That’s the way it is. You may lie to outsiders, but not to your clan.

A wiry man with a wispy moustache jumped to his feet. ‘But you are lying! You’re lying as your words come out! I myself saw you giving guns to our enemies! It was dark but I saw you with my own eyes meeting secretly with our enemies. I saw you giving them many weapons.’

I knew him. He was a layabout and a poacher, and not a good one at that. And, wow! he was their key witness. I breathed a faint sigh of relief. Their prime source against me was a well-known petty thug with no standing in the community whatsoever. I knew the Nkosi and his advisers wouldn’t miss that.

Unable to contain himself in the headiness of his newly acquired status, the impimpi – informer – had blown his cover by jumping up too soon. Now the crowd knew that the chief witness was basically unreliable.

Then the leader of the cattle cabal stood up and the hall went silent. A beefy man with a distinguished lantern jaw grizzled over by a peppercorn beard, he was a senior community member whose standing was rooted in cattle wealth. He spoke with authority, trying to undo the damage brought about by his impimpi’s premature accusation.

‘Mr Anthony, I thank you for coming here to clear up some important matters. I know you are a man who does not lie’ – he paused, clearing his throat for effect – ‘and as you do not lie, do you deny that people were living with you on Thula Thula while they attacked our people and threatened our chief?’

In effect, the cabal head was saying he had eye-witnesses that combatants had been on my land – and daring me to dispute it.

‘We all want to hear the answer to that question,’ I replied slowly. ‘That is why we are here.’ I saw the leaders on the podium lean forward. ‘But, I ask that I be allowed to finish what I have to say – everything – before anyone makes a judgement. Is this agreed?’

I needed those assurances desperately.

‘It is so,’ said a senior chief. ‘Anthony will finish.’

‘Good,’ I said, then raised my voice. ‘Then I deny that they were living with me. I deny it emphatically.’

The room erupted, so sure were they of my guilt. The cabal leaders were grinning wildly. I had been caught out. I was a liar.

It took