By now, you will have probably read articles on the assorted incidents during my two-decade working life in the Kenyan civil service from 1947. Having recently celebrated my 95th birthday, I am keen to record some remarkable events in this series for ‘The Weekly Review’. In the final instalment, I revisit how I came to own two elephant feet — and a celebrity plot twist. But first, let me tell you about a hospital fire and a lucky escape.
An incident at Marsabit in the late 1940s, when the hospital assistant nearly lost his life, is one that haunts me to this day. It was late in the evening and as usual, my friend and I were relaxing at his house listening to music and enjoying a drink.
This was the regular pattern of life in Marsabit where we usually met at each other’s house after work. We were both relaxing comfortably when all of a sudden, we heard the bugle call. This signalled danger and for a moment, we wondered what the problem was.
On heading towards the township, we noticed the Civil Hospital, which was not far from our government quarters, was ablaze and we could see the flames through the open door. Crowds had gathered and there was a lot of commotion.
As we walked through the crowd, we noticed the hospital assistant lying on the grass, obviously in great pain. In an effort to save some of the hospital stores where the fire started, he had got badly burnt. We had him moved to a safe area within the hospital now that the fire had been brought under control. We then administered first aid to the hospital assistant (I regret not being able to recall his name but remember he was from the Coast Province originally).
Much later that evening, the District Commissioner and Superintendent of Police had arrived on the scene and seeing the sorry state of the hospital assistant, decided to have him moved by air to Nairobi early the next morning. We were all amazed at the courage and bravery of the hospital assistant. He would eventually be discharged from the hospital and return briefly to Marsabit but was later posted elsewhere. In recognition of his bravery and on the DC’s recommendation, he did receive a reward.
Some of your readers may not be aware that during my time in Marsabit, there was a sizeable elephant population in the district. The elephants were causing a lot of damage to shambas and were generally a menace to the population. In an effort to contain the situation, the colonial administration would call upon the services of the Game Department who would normally spend a day or two engaged in ‘culling’. The killing of the elephants was not done as a sport or for pleasure — it was purely to reduce the elephant population along Marsabit mountain that had become a problem.
I had got word that an elephant had been shot in the boma not far from my government quarters. I sent one of our station labourers to try and get some meat for me but he returned almost immediately with this surprise announcement, “Wamemaliza nyama yote ” (they have finished all the meat).
I was very disappointed and sent him back to see if he could salvage at least one foot! To my surprise, he returned with two feet, one slightly shorter than the other. My next job was to try and scoop out all the meat and bones so I could clean the feet out thoroughly and eventually have them dried and converted into stools! This would remain a constant reminder of my days in Marsabit among people I got to love and admire. The two feet were promptly cleaned out and the meat distributed to anxious onlookers who looked so happy at this unexpected bounty!
I used a fairly large quantity of disinfectant to thoroughly clean the feet out, stuffed them firmly with loads of soil and left them out in my garden to dry out. Imagine my horror when, on waking up the next day, I found one foot missing. Thanks to the watchful eye of our worker, Arero, the missing foot was recovered but with large claw marks made by hyenas who were hoping to feast on it!
Not wanting to lose them, I arranged for the feet to be dropped in the Chalbi Desert where the scorching sun would quickly dry them out. There was no danger of my losing the feet as word had already gone around that the feet belonged to Bwana Karani (clerk) in Marsabit. Weeks went by and I finally received the two feet which had dried out beautifully and were ready for my next move. I got them stuffed with what we called ‘elephant grass’ a type of moss found around Marsabit and sent the feet down to Moyale where the cobbler I’d spoken to agreed to have them made into stools.
Many weeks later, the feet were returned to me, and I was delighted with the work my friend in Moyale had done. I must have used umpteen tins of boot polish to give them a natural shine and these feet adorned our sitting room and much later, when we moved to the United Kingdom, I had two crates made for them and shipped them out here. I had already obtained Export Permits from the Game Department, so everything was above board. The sight of these two feet in our sitting room would amaze our friends whenever they visited, but our children, as they were growing up, didn’t like to see the feet in the home!
“Dad, they belong to the wilds of Africa, not in our house,” they kept saying. In an effort to appease them, I was fortunate many years later to donate the two feet to my friend John Rendall — an Australian made famous by “Christian the Lion” — on condition that these feet would be sent back to Kenya. John and his friend Anthony “Ace” Bourke had in 1969 bought a lion cub from Harrods department store in London, kept it in their home in Chelsea but finally took it back to Kenya to be reintroduced to the wild by famous conservationist George Adamson. John told the story of the lion named Christian in a book and there were also documentaries made about this.
I am not sure whether the feet were actually returned to Kenya and I have no way of checking since John Rendall is no more. But in disposing of the feet, I felt like I had lost a close friend — such was my attachment to the elephant and to Marsabit!
