The Year is Almost Over

The Man-Eater of Nakuru

"He said that one such as she will always help those who can't help themselves."

In December of 1933 I decided to see the wilderness of East Africa. I hadn't originally planned for my journey to stretch that far, but I had struck up a conversation with a retired army captain at the Haydarpasa Railway Station in Istanbul, who told me of the beauties of Africa and the low cost of travel and adventure. He had fought during the South African War, and after his discharge had lived in various places successively further north, until he had settled for the last number of years in Nairobi, making a living as a white hunter. I found his stories so exciting that after carefully assessing my finances I was soon making arrangements to go to the great continent.

My journey took me to Kenya, to a disused corn farm near Nakuru which had become a starting place for various forms of safari, operating at low cost to promote interest. I had purchased a Voigtlander camera with which I hoped to take pictures of exotic beasts, and managed, not without difficulty, to learn how to operate it as I travelled.

After a three day train journey I arrived at Nairobi Railway Station a week before Christmas, and met Frederick Allan-Smith, the foreman of the farm. He had the beard of a pirate and a belly that showed he adored his ale. He placed my luggage in the back of a dusty truck that had no doors, and gave a wry glance at the sight of my butterfly net. We proceeded with no further word than the initial words of recognition and introduction.

As the truck moved along the track toward the estate, I saw the occasional animal... a pair of wildebeests trotted away from the truck as it grumbled along, and a two vultures flew overhead for a few minutes. Far off in the savannah I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a giraffe... I certainly didn't see the parade of colourful animals that I had been led to believe could be seen everywhere, but I decided I needed to be patient.

Toward the farmhouse I saw a number of rough headstones gathered together, not far from the side of the track. The foreman followed my gaze.

"Yellow Fever. Two years ago. If it hadn't been for the fever, we'd still be farming. The safari business brings less income, but it's more regular, so maybe it isn't such a bad thing."

"And those two headstones over there, near the farmhouse? They look very handsome."

"William and Valerie Greenham," he replied. "They built this farm as a young couple, and ran it for over forty years. They had a hard time making it work, though - it was only in the last five years or so before the fever struck that the farm started to turn a profit."

After a few moments he turned to me with a vague smile.

"You see, the thing about William was that he was rather an oaf.... a good-natured chap, but trouble and bad luck seemed to follow him everywhere he went. Bad investments, unlucky gambling, and the like. At least he married a fine woman in Valerie, and she kept him out of too much hot water. One story goes that he got himself into a brawl one night in a pub... as things were beginning to get ugly, Val jumped from the shadows and beaned the other fellow with a croquet mallet, then dragged William from the place before the police arrived!"

The truck had reached the front of the farmhouse, and as it stopped, a couple of native servants emerged to take the luggage.

"They were good people to work for, and fair," he said. "In June of '31 the yellow fever struck, and many of the servants and labourers took ill, and some died. William was the first to catch the fever, and succumbed quickly. I suppose his resistance was lowered from the stress of running the place for so many years."

We climbed from the truck, and he just stood there for a moment or two. Then, his voice seemed to soften, as if he were talking to himself.

"In William's last hours, they talked about the things they'd done, how they were proud of their children, about all the years of their life together... But the last thing he said to her was thank you. He thanked her for supporting him, helping him, protecting him, he thanked her again and again. I think maybe he wanted to say thank you more than I love you. But she said to him that she needed somebody to help, and watch over, and protect. She told him he didn't owe her anything. He was a lucky fellow in some ways. If he'd married someone else he'd have probably died young, or gone mad, or gone to jail. You know, since then I've often wondered if helping people is an underrated thing."