5
The man who now called himself Professor Charles Semambo knew that the Jamhuri Gorilla series of lectures would attract animal science experts from the ministries, and university students – but the rest was decided by the availability of rancid South African wine, wilting sandwiches and toothpick-impaled meatballs. He had learned that the renewal of future contracts was decided in this Nairobi shark pool, and that lectures were where one met and impressed the major players in the game.
The unmistakeable smell of sweat came down from the higher levels of the auditorium where members of the public sat. The bucket-like seats comically forced people’s knees up into the air – and Semambo went through the hour allocated for the lecture briskly, enjoying such minor distractions as a glimpse of red or white panties between fat feminine knees. It was his standard lecture: Gorillas 101. Habitat. Behaviour. Group Life. Endangerment.
After the lecture, he allowed the five mandatory questions from the audience. As usual, these were either of a post-doctoral nature from the front row of specialists, or idiotic juvenile comments. One man stood up and pleaded for compensation, because a gorilla from a nearby forest where he lived in Kakamega had eaten his child. He said he had voted for the Opposition because the previous government had failed to do anything about it. The people around him laughed.
Angalia huu mjinga. Hakuna gorilla Kenya. Ilikuwa baboon. There are no gorillas in Kenya, fool. That was a baboon. The man started weeping and had to be led out.
Then the last question: ‘It-is-said-that-far-in-the-mountains-of-Rwanda men-have-learnt-to-talk-to-gorillas. Do-you-think-there-is-any-truth to-such-claims?’
Semambo felt the ground shift slightly beneath him, but as hard as he tried, he could not make out the face that had asked the question. The projector light was right in his face, hiccupping because it had reached the end and caused the words on the screen to blink. Seeking New Habitat in the Face of Human Encroachment: The Mountain Gorilla in Rwanda.
‘Is that a trick question?’ he responded smoothly. The audience laughed.
‘If I say yes, I might sound unscientific, and you know what donors do with such unscientific conjecture, as the esteemed gentlemen sitting before me will attest.’ In the front row, the museum politicos chuckled from deep inside their stomachs.
‘You might have heard of Koko, the famous gorilla who was taught sign language,’ Semambo went on. ‘It is claimed that he is capable of inter-species communication. I think a lot of it is pretty inconclusive. So the answer would be no.’
The piercing voice floated again. Insistent. The face still invisible.
‘I am asking whether you’ve heard of men who can talk to gorillas, not gorillas who can talk to men. ’
The audience was bored now; a couple walked out noisily. Then he saw his questioner. He was just a kid, slight and lithe, about sixteen. Now he remembered – he had seen him a couple of times at the Animal Orphanage. (Was it possible?) Then, unbelievably, the young man took a photo of him. The angry click of the camera felt as if it was right next to his ear, and the flash lit up the whole as auditorium, including a sign that read, CAMERAS NOT ALLOWED.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. I want to allow the young gentleman the courtesy of an answer. There might be something in what he says. I also want to remind you, young man, that cameras are not allowed in the auditorium.’ There was an uneasy laughter. The herds needed their wine and pastries. Semambo hestitated.
‘But since you all have to leave I will take the young man’s question after the lecture.’ Light applause.
Baker, the museum co-ordinator in charge of the lecture series, suddenly emerged from the shadows at the back. A naturalized citizen, he had lived in Kenya since the 1960s, and worked as a functionary of one sort of the other through three regimes. He was useful because he provided a sort of international legitimacy to the thugs who ran the government. When things swung his way, he could be a power broker of sorts, a middleman between a defaulting government and donors. He slid to the front of the podium.