Mr Survivor: The day my hunting expeditions were brought to an abrupt end

When I was growing up in Happy Valley countryside, entertainment for us boys was a free and healthy exercise. Later, as years went by, entertainment underwent a digital migration. This had the effect of losing the fun and glamour of entertainment as we knew it. One of the forms of entertainment for boys back in the day was hunting wild animals. This is one entertainment-cum-sporting activity that every boy worth his name had to take part in.

My hunting prowess was unsurpassed in the width and breadth of the countryside, earning me the nickname ‘Master’ – a name that has refused to die in Happy Valley to this day. To be a master hunter, one had to be an owner of a dog that took its assignments with zeal, and I had just that type in Tommi. Tommi’s mastery of hunting was unrivalled among the countryside community of dogs.

One day, Tommi got into a bush and ferreted out an antelope. The other dogs joined in the hunt. My hunting boys and I followed the dogs and gave a spirited chase. As was common, the antelope was faster than the dogs. It took us several hours of running around the entire countryside trying to keep pace with our dogs.

Unknown to us, some clever boys from the ridge in which we had strayed had prepared to teach us a lesson. They had for a long time been jealous of our achievement in the hunting fields. We arrived at the scene where Tommi and company were barking to announce the capture of the antelope. There was a scuffle between the other boys’ dogs and ours over the control of the tired antelope, which Tommi would not let go of until he had seen me.

“Can you go back the way you came if you do not want to see stars,” announced their leader menacingly.

“It is our antelope because it is from our side of the forest. It is our dogs that caught it,” I said trembling.

At that point, Tommi gave a loud and painful yell, letting loose our hard-won catch. He had been cut with a panga and was pacing around me crying for protection. A part of me had been cut. Panga for a panga was a fair game. I did a war dance with my panga serving instant justice to the boy by ‘pangaring’ his hand. He dropped his and his loud shout of pain competed with that of Tommi. All hell broke loose and my boys and I ran for dear life with the boys from the other side in hot pursuit. The dogs engaged in a similar chase, turning what was a while ago a hunting field into a running and crying field. In the meantime, the antelope must have seen the hand of its god and escaped.  

We crossed over safely to our side of the ridge and the poor fellows did not dare cross over to our side. We, instead, engaged each other in a shouting match across the valley that divided our two ridges.

“You will see us in school tomorrow,” the fellows threatened.

“Come now you cowards, did you leave your hands in your school bags,” I taunted them.

We later started treating my Tommi with wild herbs and the boys from the enemy ridge must have been doing the same to the boy I had injured. We also strategised on how to defend ourselves from the enemy camp in school. That day we went home with no meat and with Tommi badly injured.

That evening, the injured boy’s mother arrived at our home to register a complaint. Unluckily for me, my old man was away at Happy Valley centre, shortening the day at the only pub then, and the responsibility of handling the case fell on my mother’s able hands. I have told you in the past that my old lady was a disciplinarian, and the boy’s mother was forced to intervene, otherwise, I would have met my maker. And the case ended there and then.

Later that evening, Tommi went missing and I never got an explanation. The pain of losing Tommi cut deep in my heart, deeper than any mess anyone could do to my ‘government meat’, Mr Finish included. With Tommy gone, and Mr Finish still the Headmaster of Aberdare Primary School, the Sunday hunting escapades ended. We were forced to graduate from being hunters of antelopes to hunters of people. That was, of course, after encountering the circumciser’s knife, but that is a juicy story for another day.

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