War Cry. Wilbur Smith
more stupid bets at dinner tables.
The African faces opposite him that had been so gleeful a few moments ago were now downcast. Silence had fallen as they waited for the end.
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, a single voice sang out:
We are the young lions!
A few other men joined in, somewhat tentatively:
When we roar the earth shivers!
And then more voices, more strongly:
Our spears are our fangs!
And more again:
Our spears are our claws!
An exultant smile spread across both Leon and Manyoro’s faces. This was the Lion Song, passed down to all Masai boys as part of the teaching that would lead them towards manhood. Their fathers and brothers sang it, as they would one day too, when they went out to attack lesser tribes and plunder their cattle and women, or confront the mighty lion with nothing but an assegai in their hands. This song both celebrated strength and provided it. And Leon joined in with all the other Masai voices, coming together in the rich, sonorous, exultant harmonies that were one of the glories of Africa, from the velvety resonance of the basses to the highest, piping falsettos.
Fear us, O ye beasts, they sang.
Fear us, O ye strangers!
Across the field, Simel heard the voices of his people calling to him and now he was panting out the next lines along with them:
Turn your eyes away from our faces, you women!
You dare not look upon the beauty of our faces!
Simel was barely aware of the power surging back through him, as if carried through the air by the song itself, for his running now seemed effortless, his body almost weightless as though his spirit had left it somehow and was looking down from on high.
The Masai saw the effect of their singing on Simel, and their volume became still greater as they let him know that they and he were one:
We are the brothers of the lion pride!
We are the young lions!
We are the Masai!
Simel ran down the home straight, past the crowds of his people’s white masters, barely registering their presence. The music had filled him, refreshed him and driven him on.
He was unaware of all the people rushing towards him and when the first arms caught hold of him and broke the music’s enchantment he struggled and lashed out, shouting, ‘No! No! I must not stop.’
Then Simel heard Manyoro’s voice and felt the strength of his embrace as he said, ‘Be still, little warrior. Be still. The battle is over. The victory is won. Look … turn your head and look.’
Simel did as he was told and stared back down the track. He saw a body lying on the turf, and men rushing towards it as they had towards him. He realized that the body belonged to van Doorn and for a terrible moment thought that he might be dead.
‘Have I killed him?’ Simel panted, though he was gasping for air so desperately that he barely had breath enough to talk.
‘No,’ Manyoro reassured him. ‘Watch. He rises.’
Simel screwed up his eyes and, sure enough, arms were reaching down, grasping the fallen runner and slowly lifting him back to his feet.
‘Good,’ Simel gasped. ‘I am glad.’
‘You won,’ Manyoro said. ‘You ran like a true Masai, a true morani.’
Simel smiled. And then, only then, he passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Saffron was still filled with the excitement of the final minutes of the race and the elation of Simel’s win. But the sight of him fainting in Manyoro’s arms plunged her into an abyss of fear and concern for him until he came to, blinked a few times and looked around as if unsure where he was. And then all those bad feelings vanished and she was jumping up and down and cheering at the very top of her voice as Simel was hoisted onto Manyoro’s shoulders as even the white spectators joined in the riotous applause for what was so clearly such a mighty effort and a splendid triumph.
‘Make that ten cows!’ Leon called to Manyoro. ‘Simel deserves it. And, yes, ten for you too!’
The native crowd had burst past the police who had all been far too busy cheering the victory themselves to stop them and were now flooding across the polo field towards the clubhouse, dancing and jumping for joy as they went.
Amidst the pandemonium it suddenly struck Saffron that Mummy ought to be there, enjoying it all with her and Daddy.
I wonder if I should go and get her, she thought.
And then she saw Doctor Thompson pushing his way through the crowd. Of all the people all around her, whether black or white, his was the only face not alight with the sheer thrill of what they had all just witnessed. He looked sombre, and she could see him becoming cross as he had to force his way through all the people blocking his way.
The doctor was looking from side to side, clearly searching for someone. Then he spotted Saffron. He’d often treated her for colds and upset tummies and general bumps and bruises so he recognized her at once and came towards her.
‘Hello, Saffron,’ he said, not giving her his usual smile. And before she could even say hello back, he asked, ‘Where’s your father?’
‘He’s over there, by Manyoro,’ she said, pointing towards them. ‘Is something the matter?’
The doctor didn’t reply and suddenly Saffron had a terrible, frightening feeling that she knew what the matter was. She reached up and tugged on the doctor’s sleeve. ‘Is Mummy all right?’
He looked down at her, his face grave, opened his mouth, but then closed it again, as if he did not know what to say. He turned his head, looked towards her father and pushed his way through the mass of people lining up to offer their congratulations.
Saffron watched the doctor talking to Daddy. She saw the happiness drain from her father’s face, to be replaced by a look as sad and serious as the doctor’s. Then her father turned to Manyoro, and said something. Both men looked towards her and then they started moving: her father with Doctor Thompson, heading back up to the clubhouse, Manyoro towards her.
Saffron knew what that meant. Daddy was going to see Mummy, who must be really ill, or he and the doctor wouldn’t be looking so worried. Manyoro was supposed to be looking after her.
Saffron loved Manyoro. But she loved her mother more and she had to see her, no matter how ill she was. She just had to.
She thought for a second. Black people aren’t allowed in the clubhouse. Not unless they’re staff. So if I can get there before Manyoro he can’t come in after me.
She looked towards Manyoro. For a second their eyes met. Then Saffron turned and dashed away, nipping between the much bigger grown-ups all around her while Manyoro had to go slowly and steadily, asking permission of all the settlers to let him through. Saffron knew that she was being cruel, forcing a man as proud and dignified as Manyoro to lower himself to men and women who weren’t half as fine as him, simply because of the colour of his skin. But she had no choice. She had to see her mother.
Saffron kept moving, constantly expecting to feel the weight of Manyoro’s hand on her shoulder until she reached the short flight of steps leading up to the clubhouse veranda. She dashed up the steps, knowing that once she’d reached the top she was safe and only then looked around to see where Manyoro was.
The Masai wasn’t hard to spot. He was a good head taller than any of the settlers around him and he was looking at her with an expression of disappointment and something else Saffron had